Byronic Heroines, and Other un-Victorian Thoughts

Let's start with another bank story. I've spent the last couple of days trying to get everything ready for my trip back home (countdown in another post) and needed a statement of accounts from the bank. I walked in, they directed me to someone. As I watched, he typed the details into a pre-filled form; then, at one point, came to a blank, where he asked, "Are you married?". Confused, I said no. He muttered, "Ok, " 'Miss', then." Luckily, he typed in Ms. (instead of Miss) so I didn't have to explicitly request it of him. I opened my mouth to speak, then bit my lip to keep from saying what was in my head: "So, I'm either Miss or Mrs., am I? This is 2010, for heck's sake! Even if you need to use a designation, the question is not 'Are you married?', and nor is it 'Miss or Mrs.?'; the question you should ask is, 'What title/designation do you want to use?' " I wish I could tell him that his question was a slur on this age, on people of my gender and - worse still - showed ignorance of basic modern-day etiquette.

Can't wait for another year to pass ... then (if all goes as planned), if I'm asked "Miss or Mrs.?" I can say "Neither. It's Dr."

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Most of us have had something to do with Byronic heroes. Maybe you read a book in which a character can be described that way, maybe you watched a movie, or, if you're fortunate (or otherwise, depending on how you look at it), you actually know someone colorful enough to answer to the description of a Byronic hero. A few "traditional" examples in literature: Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, Erik in The Phantom of the Opera, Edward Rochester in Jane Eyre; of course, we have modern examples too. What do you think of Francisco d'Anconia in Atlas Shrugged, or - better still, Leo in We, The Living?

I know the traditional 'Byronic hero' is a Victorian concept, and, from the little I've read, his female counterpart, the "Byronic heroine" was defined very differently. She is still perceived with respect to the male protagonist, she is still his object, even if the story is more about her than him. Now that we're in a more 'modern age', and (presumably) more people are writing about "true" heroines today, I think we can say that we've entered an age where the "true" Byronic heroine can exist as the exact female counterpart of the Byronic hero. I was trying to think of a few "true" Byronic heroines in 'real' literature but I'm blanking out. It doesn't help that I read a lot more Victorian and pre-Victorian works than modern works. I did consider Dagny Taggart (obvious, if I've already mentioned d'Anconia), or Dominique Francon in The Fountainhead; but I'm not sure Ayn Rand ever intended them to truly stand in their own rights as women. From her concept of "man-worship", it seems as though she always intended to objectify them (at least to some extent) to suit their male counterparts. What a pity.

Well, I'll give it some more time, I'm sure I know more than a few, I just need to dig them out from the dark recesses of memory and imagination. In any case, if art imitates life, there are a lot many more "real" Byronic heroines in the world today than are talked about ... yet.

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Talking of Byronic heroes, I received such a surprise when I recently saw BBC's 2006 version of Jane Eyre. I expected to criticise it all the way through, but I was forced to concede that it is well-made. There are a few deviations from the story, of course, and some of the dialogue in the book is (regrettably) sacrificed for lack of time, leading to minor defects in continuity, but the actors themselves were very well-selected, and have done a great job! Just so I wasn't biased (unlikely but not impossible, it's called the Toby Stephens effect and it features, along with the rest of the package, his magical voice and diction), I also saw a couple of other versions (the 1983 TV series and the 1996 movie). The little I saw of those adaptations seemed more correct in terms of dialogue and adhesion to the story, but I found the main character insipid and very Victorian (not good, if you consider that Charlotte Bronte wasn't entirely Victorian in thought), and the heroes emoting with words, not their senses; I actually found my mind wandering - and in adaptations of a Victorian novel!

In some way, I was also surprised at myself. I'm usually the faithful 'stickler' to storylines in movie (or TV) adaptations. Fi hates going for adapted movies with me, because I ruin all his enjoyment in it with my "Hey, this isn't in the book!" I know that they need to keep some stuff out for lack of time, but I generally hate it when they introduce elements that 'aren't there'. This time it was different. For some reason, I was able to understand the director's point of view better, and understand her need to express herself that way. It's not just because her viewpoint coincided on the important aspects with my own; I think it is also due to my own increasing tolerance for another viewpoint. Seeing her viewpoint did not negate or efface my previous standpoint on the book; rather, it helped me to gain another perspective that I was not necessarily aware of. I learnt something different, and that's always good. For example, the art direction uses red to symbolize the feelings of both Jane and her antithesis: the red sash around Jane's neck (a symbol of passionate bondage? a noose around her neck? a symbol of her desire?) versus the red cloth at the window (unfurled, simply present, or absent - the state of mind of the captive wife upstairs?) at different times in the series speak of the different comparative "points" chalked up by the 'rivals' in love. The red sash appears around Jane's neck the morning after she "rescues" her master from the fire (the first moment of passion), and disappears when Jane leaves Thornfield the night after her almost-wedding. As she departs, she sees the red cloth flying triumphantly at the window of Mrs. Rochester. What a telling moment!

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Now, back to the real world. *Sigh*.

Dadi

My grandmother, my Dadi, is no more.

She was my last living grandparent, she outlived the first of them to go by a good fifteen years. She was ninety, a frail woman at the end (although if you knew her the way I remember her, you wouldn't believe it), almost entirely skin and bone, but she spun out the last five years of her life from the pure strands of will power, aided and abetted by all the love and care my family could give her. I know it would be true to say that she lived a full life (and it is something I'm likely to hear from a lot of people in the following days), but, with a grand-daughter's heart, I cannot help missing her. I cannot help but grieve even as my mind tells me she's 'in a better place' now. I know this sounds distinctly unscientific and superstitious, but I console myself by thinking that she was probably paged by my grand-dad from the 'other world'. After five years without her, and probably not finding anyone else he could sustain a mock-argument with, he'd started to miss her repartees, and miss her. Ok, Dada, your need is probably greater.

Now, with the 'race of grandparents' extinct, I realize how fortunate I am to have had four grandparents. Four fond, loving, living grandparents; each giving rise to a trove of memories for me and Piglett. Take Dadi herself. I'm sure it was an open secret that Piglett and I raided her cupboard (we knew where to find the keys) and stole the little white mints all the time, and the churan bottle every once in a while. We waited for her 'kitty party' days when my mother would come into her element and cook a delicious vegetarian meal that all of Dadi's friends enjoyed immensely. They would follow up the feast with the traditional round of Bingo (Housie/Lottery Tickets, whatever you call it) and, when the announcer said, "Two fat ladies, Eighty-eight", it never failed to bring a grin to our faces. True, we didn't like her "black-and-white vegetable" as much, but I've yet to taste mango pickle that was as good as the one she made. And the mumra laddoos, preceded by the sweet smell of slightly burning guud from the kitchen. And, of course, the kela paak made from old soft bananas, one of my all-time favorite sweets!

Coming from a generation that was not yet "modern", she was enterprising in other ways too. I remember, every once in a while, the room filled with chemicals, and, in a corner, a smoking tub in which she made soap. Yes, soap. I think she stopped doing it soon after we started to run around the house, mostly because of the danger factor having chemicals around us children, partly because washing soap became easier to purchase as we grew older. She was an admirer of Gandhi and played her own small role in the freedom struggle; as a child learning my little bit of modern Indian history, I still remember in awe her recollections of those days and her stories of using a charkha. For the longest time as a child I thought Gandhiji's favorite song ("Vaishnavajan") was a part of the Koran, because she sang it so effortlessly, like it was a part of her life all along***. In many ways, she was a lot more secular than others of her generation, although probably just as traditional. I still remember receiving an earful ("You do not call anyone that! Do you know what it means?") when I, influenced by others of my generation, unthinkingly called a friend "yaar" in her presence. And I shall never ever forget the day she tried to convince us that pigs were unholy, and that we "shouldn't even take the name of that animal". My cousin, W, a few years older than Piglett and myself, was in the conversation too. He casually asked "Which animal, Dadi?" "Pigs, what else?" I still cannot believe she fell into that trap. I think she ran to take a shower (to wash off the taint) while the three of us hooted with laughter.

Community was a large part of my grandmother's life. I realize now that it was that factor that kept her alive and alert right through the last five years. Through her dimming eyes and tired limbs, she was still able to talk and listen perfectly, two faculties elevated to a single art form over the years. I still remember a young man who dialed us on the phone by mistake, heard my grandmother's voice (she must have been seventy-five then) and asked her out, thinking she was a sweet-voiced young woman. We had the best laugh that day! Dadi also maintained a fairly strong streak of humor - I think April Fool's Day was as important to her as, say, Ramzan Id. She'd try as hard as she could to take in as many folks as possible. She could take it a bit far, though - I remember her once frightening a young servant maid into hysterics when she chopped off the end of a large beetroot and stuck the root protruding out of a cabinet. The poor girl saw the 'tail' and thought there was a mouse in the house! Piglett and I, of course, had a good deal of experience with this sort of thing, and with all the naughtiness of childhood, we devised our own payback. We took a little left-over atta, fashioned a fairly convincing lizard out of the dough and strategically placed it on a counter in the kitchen. Then, screaming, "Dadi, chipkali!!" we gave a convincing impression of fear and impatience. Have I mentioned Dadi's strong will before? Well, she was a strong woman - and unafraid of such little things as insects and reptiles. She tip-toed closer to the large lizard ... and pounced! Words fail me when I try to describe the next minute. Her face changed from "Aha! Gotcha!" to "Why is this creature turning into pulp in my hands?" to "Ewww!!" as we children rolled on the floor in helpless laughter, clutching our stomachs. I think a good many people thanked us that day, and, to her credit, Dadi enjoyed the joke too.

Not everything was a song and dance routine. She could be stubborn, she was certainly imperious, and the generation gap played its role too. In the years that I've moved away from home, I've learned to accept these differences better, and to understand her and Dada. Things grew harder when she lost the use of her limbs. Once so active and full of energy, it was hard for her - and us - to accept the change in her situation. The last weeks have been painful ones, physically for her and emotionally for us. When I spoke to her two days ago, I sensed that she was trying to say goodbye without actually saying it. I think I've been grieving ever since, but now that she's gone, I cannot seem to remember the last few days, or even years. I remember her as she was, as I'd like to remember her always. And, in some ways, I shall remember my grandparents - and the things we did - as characters and incidents in a child's story-book, so I can talk to my children (and Piglett's) about the elders I was privileged to know.


P.S. As we were swapping remembrances, Piglett just informed me that she'd cheated (successfully) on chaar kola nu daan, a board game (like Ludo) that we used to play with our grandparents. I'm sure Dada is proud of her!


*** As a child brought up in a truly multi-cultural, multi-religious, multi-lingual environment, I have had many experiences of this sort, where I couldn't tell what culture I was experiencing, in that moment. I consider myself fortunate, and lucky to have a family that encouraged a multi-everything, truly secular, upbringing, and I know I owe that to my parents and grandparents.

A Home of My Own

Source of the Image: Pretty much everywhere on the WWW.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Some pictures are worth millions. And so, the worth of a picture article consisting of those pictures is, well, incalculable. Enter this cnn.com article that was sitting in my email inbox today.

I looked at the title and mentally went, Oh, here we go again! Another ridiculous article talking about the spirit of Mumbai in the face of adversity, or something of that sort. I should have known better, considering it had been recommended to me by my very adventurous and sensible uncle, Plum. The article takes you on a rich sensory cruise (or, as they say, Mumbai-darshan) of "non-touristy" things that locals in Bombay experience (or can choose to experience) all the time. It suddenly took me back to eight years (and more) ago, sweeping right from the imposing and now slightly worn-out grandeur of the VT station to an unassuming vada-pav from the little corner shop with the strange (although not uncommon in Bombay) olfactory combination of somewhat stale oil and spices.

As I read the article, I found myself thinking of all those experiences I'd had, remembering the streets and locations they talk about - each associated with a memory, reminiscing about the life I'd led prior to this one. I evoked a particularly strong response to the Parsi Dairy Farm kulfi (I thought about it just a few weeks ago), a regular summer treat for us children. Mummy used to get the vendor to cut one circle into mini-pieces especially for us babies (me and the Piglett). Trying to keep our appetite (or ardor) in check, Mummy had told us she'd heard that they put blotting-paper in the kulfi. I used to wonder how they did that so you never felt it, but it never interfered with my enjoyment of that rich, sweet, milky, cold (mmmmm) ice-cream. I'm old enough to worry more actively about my health now than I used to twenty years ago, but I still would eat that kulfi in a Bombay minute, blotting-paper (and saturated fat) present or not!

Years have passed since I've "lived" at home and, in those years, I've acquired the (profoundly embarassing and somewhat depressing) distinction of being an "American", a "tourist" that falls ill as soon as she touches Bombay soil, has acquired a mosquito-allergy and a severe intolerance to heat, and needs to be kept in a glass bubble for the duration of her three-week stay in her hometown. I'd love to chuck precaution and do what I always did earlier, but in the interest of not taking sick leave immediately after my vacations home, I've allowed myself to live in the bubble, only stepping out occasionally when the 'risk' is 'small'. In doing that, I now realize that I have, unfortunately, alienated my city somewhat.

In the last few years since the big move to the US, I (and a lot of others in my category) have tried to look for a 'home' in this country. We reason that we need a place to go to, a place that affords us shelter and emotional stability, a place where we feel comfortable even under duress. I've moved twice: once to Maryland, and then to Chicago. Through Fi, I've seen several proxy-moves in the last few years too: his move from Maryland to NYC for the MBA, and then, recently, to Boston. Between the two of us, we've also seen many changes in the last few years - most of them positive. We've earned an MBA, published a paper in a leading journal, worked for two Fortune 100 companies, given a wonderfully well-received talk at the largest international conference in the field of radiology, published several peer-reviewed conference publications, met 'the parents' and received their approval, accomplished a major geographical move in the East Coast and an equally large emotional one in the Midwest, and fulfilled one 'final' academic ambition (with the other finally seen as a glimmer on the horizon). Through all these changes, we've looked for a place we can call 'home', a place we feel at home. Partly in quest of that, we've vacationed at places we're interested in, trying to feel a connection. Southern California? No. Vegas? Never! Hawaii? Not unless we plan to change careers and switch to art or creative writing. Florida? Hmmmm, well... let's not dismiss it yet. And so on.

Then, today, it hit me. I've been looking for a Bombay in the US. No city - I am going to pre-empt you and say, no, not even NYC, despite what you hear from most Bombayites in the US - will ever come close to being Home here. Not right now anyhow. Because it isn't about the 'city' or the 'culture' or the 'traffic at 3:00 am' or the 'all-night restaurants' or Prithvi Theater or anything else that you can see or do. It is about the mind, and the comfort factor. It is about feeling physically safe (reluctantly set aside Baltimore/DC although I loved it there), emotionally connected (throw Chicago out instantly), and 'encompassed' like a warm shawl on a September morning (dump NYC, its too big). And these judgments are subjective.

The good part is, I realize now that I'm not looking for a place where I can get the equivalent of a cutting chai at a dingy little corner shop near a train station at 4:00 am in the morning. The hard part is, nowhere but Bombay will I find not the chai but all that a chai-at-dawn adventure represents to someone whose roots go deep into Bombay soil.

So, where is home now, and what does it mean to me? Will I find it anywhere else but Bombay, and how will I know? What sort of emotional shift does that involve, and am I capable of it? Will I always have my career in one city and my heart in another? Last, and most important, what percentage of this entire ramble is really based on the article I mentioned and what percentage is based on the Jhumpa Lahiri book I was skimming last evening??