American Born Desi

Hi Kalidasa,

Of course you are more than welcome here! And I am sure that you will find as you start writing, that you didn't really need to stress about the whole thing :-) You will read it everywhere, but it is really true. When you start writing, your characters start moving in directions you never thought of before and your novel will appear to have a life of its own! At least, that is what is happening with me too.

Hope you have a great time writing, and good luck with the word count!

I also live in the US and I'm going to try this out for the first time this year. I'm sure my novel will be full of multi-cultural stuff too but from a different perspective since I've grown up here. I'd love to read an excerpt from your book.

Thanks for your interest in my work. My Nanowrimo novella was published on www.4indainwomen.com
However I am sending the first installment pasted below. Any serious feedback will be appreciated.
Dikshita’s Secrets

“There is story in the life of every human being and if it’s a story, it is a story worth telling.”

Now that blogs are the latest craze on the Net. Let me pour my heart out. It will not be exactly Chic lit. Can it be called more Hen lit? It is a blog of a retired cop’s wife…
In the evening of my life I have finally managed to learn and use the computer to my advantage.
Yes I have always scribbled in my diary hoping it would become famous as ‘Anne Frank’s diary did. Was Desiree my role model? But I had no Napoleon to hang my tales on. And I don’t claim to live through such exciting times as they did. But they are chronicle of our times. One has to die young and beautiful to attain fame? Like Marilyn Munroe or Lady Di? Or one can be tenacious and hope to get one’s due. Doris Lessing has always been one of my favourite writers. Now with her winning the Nobel Prize it has proved that one does not have to be young and beautiful to be famous.

The Month of November
Nov 1st

Last night I dreamt of ‘Mudaipur DIG’s bangla’. The garden was in full bloom with giant sized chrysanthemums, dahlias, roses and bright red poppies. The house was overflowing with guests and people were complimenting me on my beautiful garden. Why did my heart do a summersault? I was choking with unshed tears. I got up and drank a glass of water, in the dim night light the clock showed 2:30. As I became aware of the pain subsiding as I realized that November 1 was the farewell, retirement party for my husband Purujit had triggered off the dream. He was born on 31 October, hence after a stint of 35 years as a cop he bid farewell to the force.
Can one day make such a difference in your thinking? He had been a Policeman all his adult life. In fact all of us and that includes his extended family had become infected by the spoils of his high office. The red light beaming white ambassador car, the guards, smart salutes and fawning public. Yes who wouldn’t feel the loss? So it is not the officer alone who retires but his family as well. And that includes his kith and kin in the village too. Maybe that explains the feeling of seeing your prize slip out of your grasp helplessly.
I would never ever again live in those huge colonial bungalows with large gardens. Never have a fleet of serfs serving me uncomplainingly despite my temper tantrums and meeting my most ridiculous demands. Never again will cars and drivers be waiting to take me to the club for a round of Housie and gossip. Or to the market to buy most inane things I fancied. In short I would have to live like an ordinary citizen. Ugh! At this old age?
Can one stop being a cop? No, never. Once a cop always a cop. Even in your dreams one remains a cop. Your skills honed over the years makes your reactions swift and analytical. How can you stop policing? I remember how Puru would get up and walk in his sleep, talking barking commands. This occurred particularly during times of riots and VIP duties. Once I found him sitting up throwing the pillow up in the air with glee and shouting “She’s gone! Finally gone!” I was a little jealous and worried about the ‘She’ till I realized that the Prime Minister’s visit had gone off with out a hitch. Which included rounding up authentic looking tribals to have lunch with her at the last minute. That Puru managed by choosing the ugliest and sturdiest amongst the men and women who had been rounded up from the villages to listen to her speech.
She went away impressed and the newspapers and the TV went wild showing her eating those large grey coloured rotis with the tribals. Those days TV had just made a foray into our lives and we watched the coverage with eager anticipation.
We still have the photos of the PM being greeted by the officialdom. There is a black and white close up of Puru looking stiff and attentive to her.
* * *
I think extending the same logic the cop’s wife always remains that. Even when he retires? Our reflexes perfected over the years are difficult to change. We expect to be waited on by dozens of servile creatures. But wisdom dictates that with this new phase of my life, what is important is that I should not feel the loss of the many years of privileges. Work in the kitchen, drive the battered old car myself and not get hysterical if the part time maid fails to arrive. Tall order for a woman who has queened it all her life!

Month of November is that time of the year when winter is whispering to be let in.
The sun’s rays have lost their scorching powers and the mornings are pleasantly cool. You can keep your windows open to the bright morning sun. Normally from March till October we rush to draw the curtains and put thick ‘chiks’ to prevent the sun from turning our homes into ovens. This is the month long round of festivities beginning with Dusshera going on to Diwali and a mad rush of marriages.
Then the tourists begin arriving by the droves. So our house would overflow with friends, friends’ friends and the usual suspects: colleagues from different parts of the country all wanting to soak in the sands and palaces of Rajasthan. There would be last minute requests to accommodate a few more in our tightly crammed Police Mess.
Yes and one learnt to keep the kitchen well stocked and a welcoming smile 24x7.
After all we were a state renowned for its hospitality.
November is also a month of festivals. Well it begins in October much like the NaNoWriMo. Fifteen days of ‘shraddh’ when one remembers the ancient forefathers and pray for their souls’ well being. I have often wondered why they fix only fifteen days in the year for it. Aren’t we supposed to pray for them always? Maybe they made it mandatory knowing that most of us forget our dearest departed ones in the hurry of daily living. These days are considered ‘inauspicious’ for any major buying or selling or marriages. So most shops put up ‘Sale’ signs and we find people shopping as if there was no tomorrow. In one such sale I saw a little girl fast asleep on a heap of clothes, guarding them that her mother had selected and was still busy in other stalls foraging for bed-sheets and quilts like a wild and hungry animal. Yes people still do not have marriages organized and avoid buying gold and white goods- cars, fridges etc.
Then the festivities begin with Navratra sthapna. Nine days of unending carnival.
For some celebrate it by fasting and praying to Maa Durga and dancing the ‘Garba’ at night. Some turn complete vegetarians not even partaking of food cooked with onion or garlic. Why ban these innocent vegetables? Garlic is supposed to shoo away vampires apart from other healthy values.
On the other hand there are some who really celebrate by worshipping the ‘Devi’ by eating on special festival foods and drinking. There are cultural shows and competitive events organized to keep everyone entertained. So we get to see a lot of dance drama based on Tagore’s plays- Chitrangada being an all time favourite. These Puja pandals often have interesting Bengali books and music that would have been hard to come by otherwise. Yes when it ends there is a sense of loss an ache for the good times coming to an end.
By the time one takes stock, Sharad Purnima is there. The full moon night we celebrate by worshipping Maa Laxmi. She showers us with wealth and all the worldly comforts. Yes who will not pray to her? Our greed is never ending. Local legend has it that if one eats the kheer left out in the moon-lit night; attains magical healing property. One will be protected from the colds and other viruses going around.
Yes I have always delighted in painting ‘alpana’ on the floor and painting the tiny feet of the goddess showing her imprint in my home. Others make colourful ‘rangoli’ with powdered colours or flower petals in stunning designs turning each home into a temple.
Even the mud huts get a fresh coat of paste made of cow dung and mud and beautiful designs are painted in white colour over them.
Then follows the fasts. One is ‘karva chauth’ when one prays for the well-being and long life of your husband. Most women fast till they sight the moon and they see their husband’s face through a sieve (meant for sieving the atta). I have often wondered why they have to see the husband’s face through a sieve. One gets to see a blurred impression of the face.
After having dressed up in all their bridal finery, heavy red sarees, lehengas with palms decorated with mehendi they listen to a story meant to frighten them unless they are done as they are told. The tale filled with dire consequences tells of a misguided princess who was foolish enough to believe that the reflection of the sun was the moon as told by her brother (who was trying to assuage her hunger pangs. He couldn’t bear to see her discomfort. The princess discovered her folly and discovered that the eating done in gullibility had caused her husband’s death! So the moral of the tale is that once you are a married woman, never trust your brother. Always do as mom-in-law tells you.

Nowadays the papers are full of showing it as great husband-wife devotion fast but the truth is it done to preserve the patriarchal hierarchy. Often women have to give elaborate gifts to their mother-in-law. One advertisement for a diamond jeweler had captions that read ‘diamonds are forever unlike men they linger’. So gift her diamonds to show your appreciation of her fasts and prayers in this transitory world. The local edition of the papers carried many women stating that their husbands always gave them a ‘surprise gift’ on that day. ‘Surprise’ gift, when you are expecting it all the time?
Over the years even such simple fasts have become a money spinner for beauty parlours and saree shops, mehendi wallas and breaking the fast that was a solemn occasion has been commercialized.
The other difficult but must do fast is called ‘Hoi astami’ kept for the long life and well being of your sons. Think of the daughters, no one keeps a fast for them; not even their mother. Such a strongly patriarchal society was bound to have female foeticides.
Think of the women who only have daughters how much of a failure she must be made to feel. In today’s nuclear families probably such women can protect themselves from the barbs of society; but in joint families the sense of inadequacy and loss must have been enormous. In families with both daughters and sons it is driven home that the girl-child is unwanted.
The fast is broken after one sight the star. Normally it is cloudy and the sky is a mysterious unbroken dark canvas on that that particular night. When you get to see a glittering flash, there is a cry of joy- yes now you can pour water to the star and ask for your son/sons’ life to be as long as the star’s. What if it is a shooting star one has espied? The tale associated with it tells of a woman who accidentally kills a cub while digging for some soil. She discovers all her seven sons dead. So to atone for her sin she prays to Hoi Mata.
Why did they have to invent such tales? Did they think that women are so foolish? Or is it a question of ‘if you don’t follow the rules there will be dire consequences?’
Glossary
1. DIG… Deputy Inspector General of Police
2. PM… Prime Minister
3. NaNoWriMo….National Novel Writing Month
4. kheer… rice pudding
5. Mehendi… henna