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FAIR & LOVELY

FAIR AND LOVELY

 My hair stylist, once known as a lowly barber, was not watching his scissors, snipping away my locks. Instead, he was studying my face with one of those commercial looks I have learnt to recognize. I waited for the pitch – head massage, body massage, face massage, hair dye. Usually, it’s the hair dye that will turn my hair, not black, but a muddy orange.

Finally, he announced for all in the salon to hear: ‘You are dark, sir. I have a good whitener, 100 percent you will become very fair.’ My aunt, now long gone, always made a similar remark, without the ‘good whitener’. After a long winter in New York, where the sun barely shone and the cold cut one’s face, my aunt’s first remark when I visited her was ‘you’ve gone dark’.

            I saw what my hair stylist saw. A brown face. It was the same brown I had been born with, and had never bothered about. It was part of my package like legs, arms, a head, a pair of eyes and black hair, thinning fast, on my head. I’ve had my hair cut all over the world, and the hair stylists have never remarked on my colour. At least, not to my face. He cut my hair, I paid and walked out.  Maybe he commented to a colleague later ‘that fellow had a brown face’.

Driving home, I stopped for a red light, a rare occurrence in the city, causing chaos behind me. Cars with red lights never do.  A scooter pulled up beside me, driven by a woman, She wore a long sleeved, winter jacket, zipped up, and grubby white gloves. She wore a helmet too, which was remarkable enough. It was 40 degrees in the city but the sun would never dare stain her delicate skin.

            During the IPL tournament there was a commercial of a man running along the beach, having a shower (half naked muscled torso which made me tuck in my tummy) and then rubbing some stuff on his face. I thought it was an after shave. But when he brandished a dip stick showing the varying degrees of lightness, I realized it was a commercial for a skin whitener.

            Of course, we have known for a long time that we Indian are the most racially conscious people on this planet. The Australians are amateurs compared to our discerning eyes which can pick the slightest variations in brown.  We’re obsessed with colour – the matrimonial columns in our newspapers are filled with ‘fair’ complexioned brides and grooms searching for the perfect colour match. The Indians we see now in our countless commercials are no longer even a lighter shade of brown. They are as white as any Anglo-Saxon could ever get. They are so white on my screen that my eyes hurt. Europeans are actually pink, not the ghostly white of our commercial models.  Thankfully, they still have black hair but, if the whitener sellers could pull it off, they would be blondes or redheads, selling us scooters, cell phones and soaps.

            What brought us to this? History? In the earliest days the divide would have been Aryan/ Dravidian. The colour contrast between the nomads of central Asia and the indigenous natives of the sub-continent. This colour colonialism had to have continued through the many invasions – the Afghans, the Mughals and, finally, the whiter than white, though they did turn puce in our Indian sun, the British. Subconsciously, we equate superiority with colour. White is better than brown, brown better than black. And as the internet and television invades our lives, we’re constantly bombarded with images of the white superiority. Those who leach and bleach their skin, all those super white models in our television commercials, are embarrassed at their own colour. They yearn for the white that will equate them with the European. While the Europeans spend billions of dollars on sun tan lotions, sun beds and lying on hot beaches, so as to look brown as Indians.

            The human race is never happy with that it’s got, naturally.

ENTER QUEEN LEAR , written by me,starred Jenny Runacre in the production which ran for 3 weeks at the Drayton Arms Theatre, London, from September 13th to October 2nd 2016.

An ageing, glamorous film star falls in love with a younger man, a refugee. Now, past her cast-by-date, she accepts to play Lear as a woman just to act again. Throughout rehearsals, she is confronted by the men in her life – two ex-husbands, two sons and the younger lover. Her only real constant is her relationship with her long time female dresser.
Jenny Runacre said: “I do really think it is a fascinating play, with so many levels in it. It is not very often that an actress is given a role that has so much meat in it.”

If you want to listen to the play, I adapted it for the radio and you can hear it by clicking on the link below.

http://www.wirelesstheatrecompany.co.uk/product/enter-queen-lear/

 

 

   

Doctrate on my writing

There is now a doctorate published on my writings. A bright young man from a university in Pune, now has a Ph.D after reading my novels and non-fiction works. You can check this out on this web link:

http://shodhganga.inflibnet.ac.in/handle/10603/95798

THE AXXISS TRILOGY

THE AXXISS TRILOGY. (Scholastic)
Murari leaves his readers with almost a Sudoku, which until solved, the reader cannot put the books down. Thus, shifting the power to the reader, Murari manages like an astute dramatist to pull his reader into his plot, involving him, engaging him or her, till he has found the answer. He must now join the famous six teenagers searching the meaning of those numbers, put singly, or in a combination, or whatever. - GOODREADS

 

Emperor Ashoka

We forget the wisdom from our own past.

Emperor Ashoka 304-232 BCE.

Rock Edict XII.

'Restraint in speech'.

 

That is not praising one's own religion or condemning the religion of others without good cause...whoever praises his own religion, due to excessive devotion, and condemns others with the thought 'Let me glorify my own religion' only harms his own religion. Therefore, contact between religions is good. One should listen to and respect the doctrines professed by others. Beloved of the gods, King Piyadassi (Ashoka), desires that all should be learned in the good doctrines of other religions.

PEN Charlie Hebdo

I've not read Charlie Hebdo. My French is inadequate for satire. I've not seen their cartoons either. Last week in Paris, I asked my French publisher, Marie-Pierre, for her opinion. She was fiercely dismissive, calling the magazine crude. She was angry too. Twelve people were killed in January. One, a friend, was visiting the magazine that fatal day. He died too. For what? She asked. A cartoon of Mohammed. The magazine was irresponsible in taunting Muslims.

            Last month, American PEN, awarded Charlie Hebdo its “freedom of expression courage award”. It split writers. Rushdie and others supported PEN's choice. Rushdie wrote: "It is quite right that PEN should honour [Charlie Hebdo’s] sacrifice and condemn their murder without these disgusting ‘buts." Peter Carey, Teju Cole, and others, condemned it for 'cultural intolerance and Islamophobia.'  PEN responded, praising “their (Charlie Hebdo) dauntless fortitude patrolling the outer precincts of free speech.”

            I agree with PEN. What distinguishes a democracy from a totalitarian state is the freedom of speech.  The freedom to think imaginatively and to give expression to these thoughts. Freedom of speech cannot be neatly hedged by 'ifs' or 'buts'. It either exists or it does not.  Unfortunately, irresponsibility comes with the package. Charlie Hebdo insulted many aspects of French life, including attacking the extreme right wing Le Pen political party. The party did not respond with machine guns. Islamist extremists did.

            People can be as insulted by mocking their political beliefs, sexual preferences, social positions, history, race. Name it, there's an insult to someone out there. As the world opens up, the minds close. People are frightened by the swift changes. And to new thinking.  If we all picked up guns, it would not be a revolution but bloody mayhem. Guns are for those who lack the intelligence to counter the insult or even make a comment with their own words.  A few days ago, ISIL executed 30 Yazidis. I wondered how they had insulted the Prophet.

            Annually, fifty to sixty journalists, writers or artists are killed because of their work.  Many more imprisoned.  I admired their courage to express their thoughts in mostly these despotic nations. They were aware of the dangers. Sometimes, even a Tweet was their death sentence. Words and drawings frighten the State, as they do extremists of any kind.

            India teeters between democracy and despotism. Recently, leaning more to the latter. The State has banned books, the list grows longer daily. Publishers retract; they cannot afford long court cases. The writer abandoned. Two Tamil writers were driven from their homes by extremists. Tragically, one stopped writing. Art is dangerous. Films are tripped up by State appointed censors. If the film passes (with cuts), others lie in wait to attack it.  Or storm the theatres, forcing it off the screen.

            Anyone can rush to court and take out an injunction against a book, a writer, an artist if his or her "feelings are hurt". There are 1.2 billion possible feelings to hurt.  Every writer and artist faces this minefield daily. Some self-censor their thoughts. The State did nothing to defend or protect our most famous artist, M.F. Hussein. He died in exile. The writer, Shobha Dey, mocked the Maharastrha government's edict on Marathi Films. She was summoned to the legislature.

            At times, India is beyond satire. Charlie Hebdo would have a field day here. For a day or two at least, before our home bred extremists burned it down.