To say that my heart is in a million little pieces would be an absolute understatement. I lost my second companion of the past decade, but I remember bringing him home as if it was yesterday.
A year on after Joey’s passing, we wanted a friend for Tim.
The vet directed us to a lady with a German Shepherd puppy who was the runt of the litter, and every other puppy had been adopted.
My darling little man was a quiet, yet restless little boy who didn’t even trust anyone picking him up. We quickly nicknamed him Squirmy, for the sheer amount he wriggled.
After Joey left us, Timothy was alone for a year – and so we had decided to bring on a dog as a companion. Although he was always friendly, we were unsure how he’d take to a new puppy intruding on his territory. But in Timmy, Dusky would find a mentor. He’d fight with him, but when Dad or Mum or someone else disciplined Dusky, Timmy would stand in between. The two became firm friends and Dusky was perhaps just as bereft as us when Timothy left us in 2014.
Only one person could walk him without trouble. Raju Kamble uncle, who was also the only person allowed to bathe him.
I named him Dusky after a special influence in my life and somehow, it suited him. A wriggly, wormy little puppy with his still-floppy ears, he didn’t have to grow into that lupine name.
Somehow, it just fit.
Chasing pigeons was somehow a LOT of fun. Chasing people even more so. Ripping the seat off someone’s jeans was amusing (to everyone except the poor man it happened to).
Dusky, doosk, triscuit. They all became nicknames that rolled off the tongue.
Bacha, dumdum (we’re not Bengali, no!) also worked.
Ferocious outside, you were always a little baby in the end. Curled up on my lap until you were nine years old. 
That warm body fast asleep and snoring (and occasionally farting) on my lap, your dog-breath just before you licked my face. Every memory comes flooding back in fits and bursts.
Suddenly, I’ll wake up or think of how a ‘Dusky – see SHOO!’ would make you run to the gate wondering what it was. It was always nothing but a joke.
I will forever miss the tenderness with which you’d grab mutton and chicken bones from my hands, and the roughness with which you’d grab chapatis.
Your inability to catch was always funny, and so was how you threw Parle-G right back to me when I was feeding you.
Kicking fallen coconuts in the garden around, pretending I was David Beckham and you, you were Gigi Buffon, goalkeeper extraordinaire, and somehow you knew exactly how to keep.
But it wasn’t just the games. It was the fact that we grew up together. 16 to 25 is a long time, sweetheart, just not long enough. It was how much you saw me through, you and Tim together. All the hurt, all the gallons of tears, tears that won’t stop anymore as I write this.
Both of us, the slightest sound outside the door or from the road waking us out of our stupors. Right now, perhaps I don’t want to think of, or remember, going to my balcony and shouting “sssh…. Dusky!” and waiting for you to look up and smile from the porch. Or shouting “sweetheart, who’s that” and you running to the gate to see, because you thought you had to protect me.
Even the smell of your flatulence became familiar, my darling. A quick ‘surprise’ when we were sitting at the computer, or reading, or playing some guitar. Speaking of music, you were always a lovely harmonizer, singing along with the piano, the harmonica, all of it.
There was always, always nothing but love in those sweet dark hazel brown eyes of yours, my love, even when you wanted to grab my towel, momma’s hanky, Appa’s shorts, anything, really.
Hearing you whine when we left the house, or when I left the city, the country, that, that was the most heartbreaking sound. Your sadness. Your pain.  It never got easier to leave you, my darling, and now that you’re gone it never will.
That yellow marble porch is empty, now, your warm body and its memories mere ghosts there, still in the air.
One month ago
You were not ‘fine’. Age had begun to show, but illness was nonexistent. You were sprightly, just not as before. Chasing me around the garden. Running up the stairs when you heard your name.
That leap of happiness when I saw you, and you me, when I was in the car on the way from the airport. Ma told me your energy levels seemed to have multiplied since. Dog drool is the best bath I could have asked for, sweetheart. And cradling you was the best ever feeling.
It hurt every time I went to the store and you thought I was leaving. Your cries will never, ever leave my head. And actually leaving hurt me mortally.
Did I know that was the last time I would see you, sweetheart? I did not. I told you as I left (and hid my suitcase), that I would come back and see you again very quickly.
The apologies I want to send out for not being there for the last two weeks, when it got bad for you, my sweetheart, I wish you could read them but I know there’s no way to say any of this to you. I wish I had been there when it got painful, when it became hard for you to do all the things you were doing just fine a month ago.
Home, home will be painful. There’s nobody to frighten the pigeons with anymore. No pitter patter of claws on brick and marble. No little munchkin crawling onto me and licking my face anymore.
No sound anymore when I shout DUNKIN! Nothing to come running to the gate every. single. time.
Maybe it has been the third time since I lost a pet. Whoever said one gets used to it, or it gets easier, lied. Completely. It never really does, and every single time, it’s like a little piece of your heart is taken away somewhere. A little scar, as it were, a scar you carry your entire life.
Your passing, my dear darling, has closed a chapter of sorts in our lives. The three of us, I think, will struggle to regroup.
But I will still hear your paws running to the gate, feel them on my skin, remember the smell of your fur, your wet nose in my ear. Those, and you, will never fade away, my dearest Dusky. I love you.

Of butchered tolerance and gau raksha

A cow sit at a roadside, at sector 22 in Noida on Oct 5th 2015. Express photo by Ravi Kanojia.


Beef. Politics. Politics. Religion. Beef.

I have beef. Beef to pick with you. The movers of corpses.

Cows, lying on the streets. Rotting carcasses. Carted away by those we, as a society, have all but cast away.

Then, as they lift that skin, they are castigated. Beaten. Bleeding, rotting hides, like the dead flesh they moved not moments ago.

Gau-rakshaks, the beaters call themselves. Cow-protectors. Gau-mata ka rakshak. Upholders of the cow mother, upholders of an arcane belief system, upholders of ‘Hindutva’, of Hindiusm, of their own brand of what a culture should be.

A culture that values, that has always valued, human life incredibly selectively – on the basis of religion, of caste and creed, of profession and money, of colour.

A culture that values certain animals’ lives as more valuable.

A culture that sees a young boy, all of 16, run into the street with his gang of vigilantes, guns and crowbars at the ready to beat up a poor man carrying off a cow carcass. That 16-year-old wields all his weapons at a boy likely his age, perhaps an elderly man his father’s.

Beats up a person moving the animal while he takes off his leather belt, using it to flog the helpless on the street relentlessly. Crack. Whip. Cracked skin. Crack. Whip. A cut.

Crack again.

Blood. A little at first, then a lot.

The stench fills the air. Of propaganda. Of a creeping monster attacking from within. Of easily swayed masses that take societal protection upon themselves. Or at the very least an incredibly loosely interpreted version of it.

That propaganda creeps slowly into our system. It may start with what many consider ‘uneducated’ – which is not the case. It is there among our ‘intelligentsia’. Our so-called intellectuals. Politicians. Everyday members of society.

Your classmate. Your cousin. Your aunt or your coworker.

And sadly, that is not where it ends. It goes down family trees and takes root in the worst of places – in the minds of children.

Impressionable young sponges, with the world before them to discover, and understand, and learn from as they form their own opinions, they are stopped in their tracks. A form of Arrested Development, if you will, in building their own opinions and making sense of the world.

That world now becomes what mummy and daddy – however bigoted they may be, decide what it is.

That world leads to a young boy being threatened by a classmate in school because the classmate ‘thought’ he ate beef.

Families lynched in villages for ‘suspected’ beef. For being ‘suspected’ of making a free dietary choice.

And here, at a plush school in the capital, a nine-year-old threatened down that same path for just the same reason. Trickle-down economics may not have been successful – but trickle-down bigotry certainly, and sadly, seems to be.

Who then is the upholder of society in times that are looking to get darker than ever? As countries look to move to the future, become inclusive and open, our country is stuck in a time of arguing for religiously-oriented food choices. Of restrictions on diet. On love.

Much was bandied about on development – but tragically, it seems we are going in entirely the opposite direction.

Marital rape has no provision in our legal system, but states looking to form ‘cow protection committees’ are finding the all-clear.

In the end, does this bovine militia, this self-appointed cabal of security guards, really care about cows? Bones poking through weathered hide, weeping sores, legs tied together as they struggle to cross crowded roads in city streets, some visibly in pain, none quite fed.

The real concern is for propaganda.

Or is it society that needs to take a proper gander at itself?

Hello darkness, my old friend.

You Say Goodbye: A tribute to George Martin


The years have come and gone, as have two of the Beatles. They brought us beautiful music, music that will be left behind for years to come. My mother began my lifelong love affair with the Beatles, the most fruitful of my life.

It led to me making a pilgrimage to Liverpool when I lived in England, spending three days on what can only be described as a pilgrimage, after years of having devoured every bit of Beatles literature that I could lay my hands on, that friends sent me, that relatives sent.

Cassette tapes lay around the house, in the cabinet behind the push-in bed in my parents’ room. They lay in the car, the car my mother drove me around in every day. Two of my favourite things – listening to the music my mother had playing around the house, and her driving me around. The only two things that could really calm baby me.

The music, those beautiful string arrangements. They appealed to my mother, in her thirties, they appealed to me in the single digits. My mother had listened to them as a child, my uncle had grown up with them. They were loved. They are loved.

Their faces, John, Paul, Ringo, and George. The four lads from Liverpool. We’ve all read the stories of the Cavern Club. Of Germany, of their debauchery in and out of European borders, and we’ve enjoyed them.

But before all of that, they were a struggling, albeit immensely talented set of lads whom nobody wanted to sign. Rejected, spurned, like an amorous lover who kissed like a fiery Italian but was tossed by the wayside regardless.

Until George Martin. The Beatles were being managed by the talented and tragic Brian Epstein, who has also been called the Fifth Beatle for his pivotal role in their careers. And there was this trained musician, this civil engineer with movie star looks, who would be their saviour.

But they had been repeatedly rejected, turned down by Decca Records. He didn’t think they were ‘that great’, but loved the Lennon-McCartney sound, as one does.

It was Epstein, the legend says, whose eager nature was the final step in convincing Martin, at Abbey Road Studios, to give the Beatles – who did not yet have a Ringo among their ranks, an audition.

And it was George, George Harrison, who joked around with Mr. Martin and sealed the deal.

He was behind the scenes on some of their biggest, earliest hits. Love Me Do, From Me to You, all of which started that brilliant enduring craze otherwise known as Beatlemania.

The first album I ever heard, strangely, was Yellow Submarine – brilliantly arranged and orchestrated itself, and my mother, whose favourite album is A Hard Day’s Night, played that again, and again, and again, and we’d sing along together on the paisley carpet in her bedroom, both of us sitting cross-legged and rewinding the cassette.

Later, when I was older, we got a 3-in-1 CD change player with a radio antenna and cassette deck. The greatest! We’d sit there and change CDs and arrange them on our CD rack.

That album is special and beyond. My mother had a flat tyre one evening as we were driving back after dinner, and we went at all of 10pm to have that flat repaired. I was humming And I Love Her, one of my favourite songs, and my mother, who doesn’t sing or play music herself, finished the line for me and we had a good chuckle at it and sang on the way back home. It’s a memory even she may not remember, but one I cherish.

The Beatles were famously known for not all being trained musicians – but Martin, a musical prodigy who played piano, oboe, guitar and a number of other instruments – and was properly musically trained – filled that gap for them.

They were like a tapestry – a beautiful tapestry, albeit one with holes in it, holes that needed to be patched, darned, to Come Together. And that thread, that tailor, that magician was named George Martin.

Many who listened, and listen to the Beatles may not know the little things – that it was Martin who had to wheedle McCartney into accepting a string quartet on Yesterday, when Macca wanted only an acoustic rock sound. The result is evident, and when the song hit No.1, maybe Martin felt vindicated.

He arranged their most beautiful work. Penny Lane (the second Beatles song I ever heard) and that lovely little trumpet that I remember dancing to on that same old carpet.


In my ears and in my eyes

Now, back to A Hard Day’s Night. It was one of the albums we had lying around the house, and possibly my mum’s favourite one. The film was re-released in Indian movie theatres, and my mother simply HAD to go. I went with her.

I had only ever heard the songs, never actually watched the film. I did. I fell in love, too.

It’s one of my favourite limited edition DVDs, one I ended up buying in my late teens many years after the incident, but I’ve watched the film a million times.

That bit when Ringo goes off by himself, falls in a puddle, down a well? Those funny little bits of music behind him, behind Paul’s grandfather? That was all George Martin, who also composed in secret.

Also perhaps my favourite Bond film of all time, as a massive fan of Paul McCartney (obviously) and Roger Moore (whom I still have a crush on!), Live and Let Die, was scored by Martin as well.

He was like a second father figure, said Paul McCartney, in a touching tribute to the man who, only 15 years his senior, had guided and held his hand through a dog-eat-dog world, and truly, it may be said, got their talent to hit the stratosphere (and go to outer space, quite literally).

Every time I pick up my guitar, or play my piano, I think of my love for music that started when I was a toddler. When my fingers glide across ivory or strings, and when that first bar of Here Comes the Sun comes to life, that spirit, that love, that was the Georges at work.

Their mentor in both music and life, Martin outlived half the band he had nurtured and seen grow. Remastered their music, which was truly also his.

The Cute Beatle famously said “If anyone deserved the fifth Beatle tag, it was George (Martin). Martin played that off, saying it was Neil Aspinall (their longtime roadie) who deserved that title, but it was always George.

Help, we need somebody.

Help, not just anybody.

Help, you know we need someone, they cried out.

That someone was George Martin, and now he’s left home, with that lovely music in our ears and in our eyes.

Thank you for everything.

I’m just a-mad about Saffron|I stand with JNU

NEW DELHI, INDIA - FEBRUARY 14: JNU (Jawaharlal Nehru University) students and others demonstrate outside the office of Akhil Bharat Hindu Mahasabha against their Valentine's Day diktat, on February 14, 2015 in New Delhi, India. Over 500 people arrived in the area to demonstrate against Mahasabha's diktat, to marry any unmarried couples found outside on Valentine's Day. Police said about 225 people were detained for now, and were to be let off by evening. (Photo by Sushil Kumar/Hindustan Times via Getty Images)

JNU. Jawaharlal Nehru University. One of the oldest, most prestigious, highly-regarded universities in the country. If you mentioned the name today, at this moment in time, you’d be referring likely exclusively to the obsessively politicised issue that has seen reams and reams of newsprint and hours of airtime dedicated to it – and not necessarily productively.

The Telegraph ran a poignant cover a few days ago, but all photography and pithy headlines aside, the true worrying fact that we are ruled, and sadly, surrounded by jingoistic ‘nationalists’ persists.

That persistent rhetoric – of ‘nationalism’, ‘patriotism’ and ‘country-love’ is one best served only in the history books, which have shown us exactly how this has turned out in the past. Badly for those who stand against it.

And yet, for a country that would like to describe itself as having ‘arrived on the world stage,’ with big-money mining projects, invisible Foreign Direct Investments that our leaders are bringing in, projects that are yet to entirely materialize but come guaranteed to adversely affect the environment.

To those who are not as yet completely abreast of the situation at JNU, a group of students held a demonstration allegedly condemning the hanging of Afzal Gru, who in 2013 was hanged for the 2001 attacks on the Indian Parliament.

That case is itself shrouded in mystery, and whether one agrees or disagrees is a new can of worms entirely, and its own separate debate, one that will not be alluded to here.

This, and alleged ‘slogans’ that were chanted at the college, were described as ‘anti-national’ by politicians who have opinions on every issue that goes on in the country – barring those that actually matter and are truly consequential.

These ‘anti-national’ statements led to police action. Delhi Police, who I presume are a bit short on work considering how women are incredibly safe in the capital and need no police assistance whatsoever, that there is no gun (or other violence) in the capital, you know, the things it has become notorious for worldwide, picked up on this and promptly took a student leader into judicial custody, in the sort of speedy action perpetrators ofsome seriously heinous crimes seldom receive.

And therein lies the first problem. Whether or not one agrees with their statements, personal opinion of no kind should be able to have you imprisoned.

Being contrarian, and now labelled controversial instead has had student leader Kanhaiya Kumar arrested. The same political figures who are shockingly mute when issues need to be addressed have, in the past few days, done various things, each of them vocally.

They have cried themselves hoarse reiterating the same nationalistic, jingoistic rhetoric that had them elected in the first instance. The irony being that these very same parties, back when India was still under colonial rule – as was the case not too long ago on a historical timeline – did nothing for the freedom struggle, for the actual nation.

These parties, and the members thereof, were the ones who insisted on wanting to remain under the Raj. It is then a bit odd that they have somehow successfully (at least to their worryingly unthinking target demographic) marketed an ideal of being the one true upholder of freedom ( a concept they have completely misinterpreted, incidentally) and nationalism (a concept that really should not exist.)

Would those who fought for our nation’s freedom in the many years gone by have condoned the fact that those very freedoms, freedoms the Raj tried to quash – the ability to express oneself without the fear of legal retribution, without worrying about arrest, bodily harm and with true freedom – of expression and speech, none of which have been given to protesters.

Upholders of the law (at least on paper), in their black robes, have reduced themselves to what the bulk of our political parties have all always been – a bunch of weapon-wielding, non-cerebral goons who want to impart vigilante justice with no real understanding of the issues, but carry out what those who are playing them so conveniently mention.

In the day since student leader Kanhaiya Kumar was arrested, he has been called ‘seditious’, a traitor, words politicians in India have used for anybody who disagrees with their views. Contrarian? Seditious. Anti-establishment? Traitor. The responses roll off forked snake-tongues like oil off a duck’s back.

(For more, see Arundhati Roy, Aseem Trivedi)

Our ministers have, in joining with the goondas, nay, being them in full force, failed us entirely in upholding what our country – and really, any democracy – should really be about.

So when a BJP MLA says he was ‘upholding his duty’, an MLA who happens to be a lawyer, that duty he refers to is not justice – it’s goondagiri and hooliganism.

Perhaps a step back would be in order for the same netas who are so proud of our nation and all things saffron (which incidentally, Iran is the world’s biggest producer of). In aggressively marketing their own brand of nationalism – waving what is simply a gigantic orange dick at the general public, some of which holds on tightly to it, they have failed the ideals we fought colonial rule in the first place for.

Of the ability to think, to speak, to exist for oneself and not as an instrument, an extension of the powers that be.

We have been told how to love, whom to love, what to eat and why, how we must behave and dress (to prevent rape, of course! If we women dress ‘provocatively’, we’re asking for it because those poor men can’t control themselves!).

We are now being told what to say, and what we cannot, and shown exactly what the consequences will be if we do.

The terrifying thing here is that it is not just political hardliners (but considering our powers, everyone is a political hardliner, now) but even our home minister and ministers of state, people who should in fact distance themselves from this, the most vocal of all against the students at JNU.

When even those who protest against this manhandling, this throttling of our freedoms are routinely beaten by police, it is more than worrying – it is the proverbial Grim Reaper come to visit, telling us to bid our liberties goodbye.

Instead of an unhappy public expressing dissent with the government, it is now the government that has expressed that dissent. In ways that should not be legal and have no place in a democratic society.

And therein, dear politicians, ministers, and those who do not stand with the students, lies the real terrorism. It is when the police see the student who was attacked identify his attacker and let the man walk out scot-free.

Not in a political rally at a college where students are encouraged to think critically – a skill it appears you will never possess.

That word, nationalism? I don’t think it means what you think it means.

David Bowie’s Space Oddity: Cover

As obviously evinced from the many, many posts dedicated to him on my blog, I absolutely adore David Bowie, and his life, music and death have all, in turn, had a profound impact on my life.

[More on that here.]

Today, I covered his iconic hit, Space Oddity.

Have a listen here:

Godspeed, David Bowie


Today, a normal Monday. Many of us woke up, went to work, listening to the man on our commute.

Two days ago, Blackstar. A seminal album for the ages, just as every single one of his others had been. Like many others, I enjoyed it, replayed it, enjoyed it again.

Two days ago, I was in a tattooist’s chair, having Aladdin Sane permanently etched into my clavicle in ink.


Sat down at work and got onto my laptop, got through some work, and logged on to Facebook.

Like all of us who are now utterly shattered, I read that David Bowie was no more.

I immediately called up a close friend who loves the man as much as I do. I spoke to him. “It’s not true.”

Both voices shaking. Neither wanting to believe.

Later, confirmation. From his son. That the great man was gone. No more. Just like that, snuffed out in an instant.

It wasn’t in an instant for him, or for Duncan, or Iman, or his daughter.

18 months is a long, hard fight, and in a sense it’s better that it was not longer.

But this was a loss the world was not, has not been, would never have been ready for. How can the immortal Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, the Thin White Duke, just leave?

My brush with Bowie began in my teens, when I first heard Life on Mars. It blew my mind in ways that I still remember today. Every bit revelatory, every bar of music, every single word of the lyrics touched my soul in a way that is truly indescribable and still, even using every word in existence, every emotion we know of, is somehow not enough.

It was the freakiest show.

Like a starved man who had tasted his first morsel of food, I, in my Teenage Wildlife, devoured his music. Lapped it up. Every single piece of it.

Each album brought out nuances, subtleties in music that one may have never believed existed. Themes and motifs all the writers of the world may not have been able to come up with even put together.

Every album behind a mask, behind a character  – or perhaps, written by it. The young, hollowed out Aladdin Sane wrote of himself, of Ladies Grinning Soul, with pianos that sounded like flamenco guitar.

The lyrics inspired even the least creative of minds to conjure up images they may never have seen. Lady Grinning Soul. A tall woman by a piano in a bar, perhaps, her body shrouded in mystery and feathers, her eyes afire as she held a microphone.

Who knows if that is the image he intended. But it was always the one it brought to my mind. It’s one that is vivid, as if it were in front of my eyes just now.

Drive In Saturday made me want to fall in love. Hard. And hold someone close, and kiss them harder. And not let go.

And know what it was like to hold them as we both fell away, tired, sated and still at peace.

It’s absolutely one of my favourite songs to this day, and I’m playing it as I write this just now.

A song, an album that opens parts of you you didn’t know existed.

To anyone who is reading this, please, just go, turn out the lights, and play Aladdin Sane. An album for the ages if there ever was one.

He covered Pink Floyd, The Beatles, his own friends – the Stones. He did the Kinks and did them beautifully.

But his sheer capacity for songwriting – across genre, subject, lyric, music, instrument, absolutely anything – cannot even be described as monumental. Bigger than the ever-expanding universe, even. For a slow, flamenco-meets-piano Lady Grinning Soul, there was a Starman.

For a Starman, there was an Ashes to Ashes.

For every poignant song that could evoke tears at a moment’s notice, there was a Kooks, written for his son, about going to school and being a normal father. No, scratch that, not a normal father, a wonderful one.

It made me want to be able to come home to my own dad and laugh with him as I ran home from school, and in a sense, as I grew older, I did sometimes have my mother to be able to sit after school with as we watched TV together, and I’ll cherish those memories forever.

Before Aladdin Sane came The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Written from the point of view of an earth-visiting Alien. AKA David Bowie himself. A truly otherworldly being. Not human, not religiously divine.

Just a mortal with the potential of a superman.

In my darkest, most suicidal days, I overplayed Quicksand over and over again. And the Bewlay Brothers, as I imagined my life gladly slipping away from me, wanting to end whatever pain I was going through. And even then, in that darkness, those songs were things of sheer and utter beauty and nothing else.

The album was also special to me in that the first song I ever performed in public, for an actual audience, was a little ditty named Moonage Daydream. I’ll be a rock and rollin’ bitch for you, David.

The memory of walking into that dim light as my friend Laura set up a stool and microphone for me, announced me in and allayed my jittery nerves, that memory is so vivid.Adjusting a microphone for me, and a microphone for my guitar as the low screeech of the feedback echoed.

The smell of beer, good and bad, the low hum of what was perhaps a semi-interested audience that cheered me on  as I sang and played on, and then it never stopped.

Memories of some of the best times of my life have become inextricably tied to David Bowie, to his music, to his legacy. The first time I ever tried to smoke a cigarette, I was listening to Life on Mars, and to this day it is reminiscent of that breeze, that smell, that burning ash.

I then introduced one of my young, closest friends to it, and she fell in love with it too.

Letter to Hermione, a wonderful gem off Space Oddity, holds a special place in my heart. On a date with a man I had fallen deeply for as a young woman years ago, he held my hand and sang it to me on a beach in the heat of mid-day and my young, impressionable mind that had never known love, opened up and soared, and melted into his arms.

I spoke to that man this morning as I cried, and he did not want to believe it either.

Even teenage me, wanting to die, holding a swiss knife to my wrist, listened to Quicksand over and over again, with no belief in or love for myself, and still somehow was able to enjoy the music with every fibre of my being, sink into the lyrics that spoke so deeply to my soul I felt like the man, the musician knew me, knew my fight, as I struggled to deal with being unloved, alone, bullied and hurt.

As I finally took to fiction, each story a cathartic experience, those were inspired by Bowie too. A homeless young girl (with the mousy hair). A Major Tom, who lost his mind.

Wanting truly to know the happiness that came from love, I listened to Kooks. Of a father who just wanted to put his son in the car and drive him around when homework got too much. A simple melody was Kooks, and still inspired so much happiness.

Lady Stardust. A transvestite. Playing into Bowie’s beautifully fluid gender idols. Androgyny. The male. The female. All one, and one with each other. And it didn’t matter if you were gay, straight, male or female. You were attracted to him, in love completely with a man, a being, walking music himself.

And he reinvented himself, year after year after year. After year.The Thin White Duke. Throwing darts in lovers’ eyes.

The Next Day was a new Bowie. The talent of and genius of old. The music of now. And his old personae came out to play.

Ever the consummate actor, Bowie was not just prolific in film as the iconic Nikola Tesla, whom he portrayed in The Prestige – perhaps his most well-known film role to date, but as the Man Who Fell to Earth (a must watch, if you have not already). Of Jareth the Goblin King, with a beautiful voice and a just-as-beautiful bulge.

An innovator in music, in writing in film, in truly every sense of the word was David Bowie.

And if you’ve ever watched his interviews, he was devastatingly funny (and handsome), disarmingly charming, honest, baldly open, just himself. And you couldn’t help but fall completely in love.

Only three days ago, Blackstar came out. His video, his song. Lazarus. The biblical character whom Jesus resurrected.

The musical character, the man, the  enigma, the riddle, the genius. Not a mortal at all, but resurrected in death to live for all eternity, just as that final video.

In a way, it is just as well that 18 months of hard-fought suffering have come to an end, but it is the sheer loss that we, as fans, as lovers in our heads, find it hard to come to terms with.

I guess we all just thought he was immortal. And in so many ways, he is, and he will be.

Now one with space and time and the energy of the universe, there really is a Starman out there somewhere.

Ashes to Ashes, funk to funky.

Sport, Lad Culture and what I’m learning as a journalist on the internet


Yesterday, Chris ‘Lad of the Lads’ Gayle played a strong knock at the Big Bash League.

Of course, this prompted journalist Mel McLaughlin to ask him about his performance and what he “looked forward to.”

“Looking forward to looking at your ass later” somehow seemed to Gayle an appropriate response.

He then proceeded to ask her out for a drink, telling her “not to blush.”

Despite her insistence that she was not, in fact, blushing, he continued. Of course, this made its way to the internet – as everything does now.

Unfortunately, it also saw Gayle’s behaviour repeatedly defended by ‘lads’ who saw his behaviour as a bit of ‘banter’ (I’m going to go crazy with the quotes because it appears to the only way to truly convey both sarcasm and utter disgust.)

I went onto the internet and attempted to address the issue by commenting on a BBC Sport article with my public profile. I expected abuse and backlash. I may not have been able to predict the sheer volume, though.

A couple of shining examples:


Not pictured are the ~50 more comments I got later, telling me I “don’t need to worry about needless sexualisation you c*nt, have you seen your own face? You don’t need to worry about any sexualisation” and “bitch, F1? Do you even know who Kimi is?”

Yes, because any F1 journalist worth their salt is completely unaware.

Internet abuse and trolls have been around since the inception of the internet. It’s easy, fun (for them), a quick way to attack someone and pass your day without having to worry about the consequences to someone on the other side of the screen.

What bothered me was not only how dismissive Gayle was of McLaughlin’s questions, but also how quick most people were to defend that behaviour. Among the various excuses I read: “he’s Jamaican,” “he was just flirting,” “it was innocent.”

Sadly, it’s not innocent when you’re trying to do your job and someone, like I said to my lovely internet trolls up there, neglects that entirely, instead choosing to focus on your sex, sexuality, and all things unrelated.

As an F1 and tennis editor (and obsessive enthusiast), I’ve had seemingly innocuous tweets directed at me that say things to the effect of “oh, you’re a chick who does motorsport? That’s really cool. Sorry if I sound sexist.”

I’m not sure the man was sorry at all.

(Here, I’d mention Jennie Gow, whom I look up to for Formula One – and a lot of my information.)

There seems to be a very pervasive attitude that what is between your legs dictates what is between your ears, what you enjoy, your skill.

Unfortunately, that seems not to have stopped the men who implied I went to the gargantuan effort of paying a man to ghostwrite for me so I would seem like a ‘cool chick’, which speaks more to me about the shallowness of the idiot who took time out of his day to send me that letter.

Flirting may be fun, and it’s human. Like everything else, it also has a time and place, neither of which is ‘on national television when you’re being interviewed.’

Still, the constant (and still continuing) comments that seem to suggest I am ‘frustrated because I’m not getting any’ anger and upset me in equal measure, and not for the reasons these men likely expect.

The behaviour implies somehow that my self-worth, and that of every other woman, is tied into the opposite (or same) sex finding us sexually attractive. It’s a malaise that has plagued society a long enough time that many women have grown up believing this to actually be true, with several self-esteem issues tied into various forms of perceived attractiveness.

I say this as someone who spent a majority of their youth being bullied and called exactly that – ugly – in addition to qualifying for another very undesirable label – the ‘nerd’.

Live television, and during someone’s work, is not an appropriate situation in any way to bring up wanting a ‘coffee’, a date, or being boastful of admiring someone’s posterior (not something to be proud of in any event).

Neither is shirking what the person (man, woman or otherwise) in front of you is asking you. Address the question, move on as every sportsperson does, as does everyone who has been on the news. There is humour and there is inappropriate creeping.

As anyone who has had to deal with unwanted advances has definitely experienced, all you want to do in that moment is extricate yourself from the situation entirely, which, given the nature of McLaughlin’s job, she was unable to do. It is to be admired that she continued to stand there and powered through Gayle’s continuously disgusting behaviour even as he asked her “not to blush”  – something she did not even do.

To those who bring unrelated factors into Gayle’s advances – unwanted attention can come from any source whatsoever. If it is unwanted, it is unwanted. Mutual consent is really not that hard to understand, as is taking someone else and their job seriously.

Here, sadly, because McLaughlin is a woman, those factors somehow have culminated into it being ‘okay’ and ‘cool’ for Gayle to behave the way he did. As a person doing her job, I’m sure she simply wanted to be able to finish it effectively. Which, considering the circumstances, she did with aplomb.

I may not be at McLaughlin’s scale of reporting – but as a journalist who focuses on what people sadly consider a ‘male’ sport – Formula One – I have men emailing me saying I “don’t know”, “am pretending,” or quite simply am shit.

This is just to recount the experience of the many, many trolls who have tried (unsuccessfully) to break me down with expletives, implying my knowledge is somehow lacking because I am a woman, that I do not know my sport, that I am somehow lying about enjoying watching someone bat.

Considering the way the internet and attitudes are, to expect trolls to understand truly that their spite, their awful profanity, is actually reaching someone on the other end of a screen, is likely a big ask. [It still doesn’t mean you stop trying.]

Until then, we all need to Lean In and end yet another disgusting disease – that in 2015, there are still people who believe there are things women ‘can’t do.’

To the man who messaged me saying “goddamn feminist,” yes I am.

And darn proud of it.



Dr. Anorexia: Or how I learned to stop worrying and love my body

One of those things is still integral to my life. The other has not been for nearly two years now, which is an extremely positive change.

Writing about my experience is an extremely difficult thing, and reconciling my own beliefs with the way I behaved was even more difficult. How does someone who strongly believes nobody should be defined by others by any metrics, and especially the metrics society chooses to define us by – which are often external – judge themselves by them?

I grew up being called ‘ugly’, ‘hideous’, ‘unattractive’, especially to boys at an age when that was somehow all-important, an essential part of being a true girl, woman, whatever it was. It taught me several things. First, as I was becoming a teenager, and then a young woman, I believed strongly that I was ugly, and at the time, it mattered.

It mattered that nobody looked at me a certain way, or at least I thought it did. At 13, it began to consume my life, and I was told I was also too ‘nerdy’, and with that came the F-word that would go on to haunt me a good decade afterwards.


Looking back, I don’t think I was ever fat, just a regular kid with an inherited chubby face that I hated. It was a face I would grow to hate more and more in coming years, to the point that I would put an extra towel over my bathroom mirror.

Even if I were ‘fat’, according to whatever definition of that word suited people to use, that should not have been reason for me to hate myself. But I did.

Words have a far stronger effect than the people who say them ever seem to realise, and that effect is seriously amplified with time. The nickname my bullies gave me, although neither insulting nor complimentary in and of itself (it was in fact from a chunk of my name), came from them with the connotation of being fat. Unlike its namesake, however, I felt anything but jolly and cheerful.

“Oh, he wouldn’t like you,” said one person. “Oh, that weirdo,” said a boy my 13-year-old self, who had just discovered feelings for the other sex beyond Shah Rukh Khan and Chandler Bing on the TV, had a crush on. It devastated me, and it should not have.

In looking for that body type, I, and several others, begin in search of a quest. A quest for some form of belonging to something we crave. It is the beginning of a search of acceptance, a desire to not be the outcast.

For whatever other combination of metrics, I was always the ‘weird’ one. I was what I believed, to paraphrase Steve Jobs, to be a very round peg in a too-small hole.

The lessons begin quite early, and in this case they did for me. It starts with one person telling you why you’re not ‘good enough’, and another, and another. Even if it has ‘stopped’ by then, you have begun skiing down the slippery slope of self-loathing and are headed dangerously off-piste.

I missed out, as so many others who have grown up this way do, on formative years of discovering myself, which were accelerated later and learned eventually, but missed nevertheless. Instead of being outside playing, I spent my time away from books crying. The time that was not spent drowned in mystery novels and science fiction was spent wondering why I was not ‘like the others’, why ‘he’ thought I was ‘yucky’, and other things teenagers will do.

At the halfway mark: What I looked like, and what I felt like.

At the halfway mark: What I looked like, and what I felt like.

Food began being watched, and not for anything related to my health. Lunches would be brought back home, given to the poor kid and his mother round the lane, fed to the dog, flushed down the toilet, any way to not have as much food pass my lips.

The behaviour began with not being ‘good enough’; this ‘not good enough’ applied within the home and at school. It reflected in all of those young teens in the throes of puerile adolescent romance that I seemed to want and could never have, that unattainable, unachievable ideal that eluded my grasp because of the way I ‘was’, the way I ‘looked’, who I am.

This entire attitude was then predicated on the ideal that who I was, or how much I was ‘worth’ in the world, was either defined or circumscribed by whether somebody cared for me, and how much. That that meaning, that value, lay in somebody’s desire to hold my hand, to laugh with and kiss me, and as I grew older, to have sex with.

In light of my avowed feminism, which I continue to feel strongly about to this day, how was I allowing myself to define my value, or in this case, the lack thereof, by the men I had loved not feeling anything in return?

And it may not have been all of the answer, but a big part of it lay in the desire to control, a key word for anybody who has struggled with any form of addiction, which eating disorders are. In controlling what went into my mouth, I could control the way I looked, I could control what others thought of me, how they perceived me, and be found ‘attractive’, which I had never been.

Fitness had never been a problem – long walks and jogs with the parents and being a trained swimmer had helped with that, and helped immensely. But it wasn’t enough to be fit, because looking fit mattered far, far more. The thighs and calves I had earned running were too manly, too masculine, the strong arms from benching and lifting too big and broad, the muscled shoulders too thick.

But in the end, it is control that takes over. In this case, it was control over what I looked like. If I could control what went into my mouth, I could control what I looked like. If I could control what I looked like, I would not be thought of as ‘ugly’, and this would somehow enrich my life. Hindsight is always 20/20, but when you’re in the midst of a situation like that, everything seems right.

Far too many hours were spent in front of a mirror, plucking and pinching and slapping things that were ‘too big’. Far too much time was spent hurting myself over something ‘too round’, ‘not flat enough’, ‘too big’. In the quest for an unattainable, unfair, self-imagined ideal of ‘perfection’, you whittle yourself down to something you believe can be ‘loved’, or is in fact worthy of being so. In the end of the entire exercise, this quest of wanting ‘love’, ‘acceptance’, from oneself or outside, ironically makes you realise you hate yourself, and magnifies that hatred a hundredfold.

A teenage brain thought it was a good idea to eat that ‘one less paratha’ and smoke 3 cigarettes instead, because putting a nicotine stick in my mouth to suppress my appetite made more sense than cabbage and flour.

As I’ve grown older, stronger and become a more vocal feminist, I’ve come to realise how flawed it was, the very premise that the attention I may or may not have got from controlling obsessively what I ate, exercising 4 hours a day to the point where I felt lightheaded if I even stood up, was positive, was an indicator I was doing something right somehow.

That the clothes my teenage self wanted to wear but couldn’t because her breasts were ‘too big’ looked great now. That the male attention my younger self thought she wanted came with my younger self looking like she was about to snap in half as she ate two carrots and a cube of cheese for lunch because she was too afraid to eat any more.

I saw my bullies’ faces, heard their voices in the back of my head as I reached for food, laughing at me for even considering to be around them, because how dare my nerdy, lumpen self do that? How dare I think I was worthy of their male friends, or any male, really, giving me the time of day? And it mattered then, when it should not have.

Thankfully, I had a wonderful discussion with a friend last night, where he (correctly) argued that even insinuating male attention should be construed by women as flattering was ridiculous – the woman in question being a professional tennis player who was sledged on court in absentia.


                               Still not as thin as I wanted to be

In the years after I had spent most of my days forcefully tickling my throat and tasting bile as I downed Listerine to get rid of the repulsive aftertaste, I had begun to restrict. In the days after that, I saw change, and quickly. Lying down, I could feel my tailbone poking into me. I could feel and see my pelvis in the mirror and terrifyingly, I felt immensely proud. I could run my fingers over my ribs in the mirror, and those awful breasts had finally shrunk.

51kg. 47kg. 42kg. And finally I got down to 37, and then I thought I was happy.

It had felt then like a triumph, a victory over all the ‘ugly’ jibes, a victory over all of the rejection over the years, a victory over my own demons, when in reality it was only the beginning of a long and arduous battle, one helped only by the presence of my closest friends who had nothing but patience for me as I grated on them, breaking myself apart in the process.

Free of eating disorders or disordered behaviour for the most part, I am now nearly two years ‘clean’. Do thoughts still creep into my head, the guilt of that ‘one extra chocolate bar’? Of course they do. There are hours years later where you will look into the mirror and still see a ‘tubby’ stomach, too-big boobs, ‘man-thighs’, stretch marks and scars, and think of being that person again. Let those feelings pass.

They’re all part of your journey, a journey you need to let happen on its own.

Through nearly 5 years of disordered behaviour, the biggest lessons you take away are that the acceptance and love you need to give yourself are the most important things you will ever have in your life. Do not let anyone change who you are, and who you want to be. You don’t need to be ‘beautiful on the outside’, because that is not a way you should define either yourself or anyone else.

The next time that chocolate bar presents itself, it’s okay to eat it and not cry about it the rest of the day, or worry how much you’ve eaten. For those in recovery, your appetite will definitely shrink in the days after your recovery, and I find that a couple of years on I still cannot eat as much as I used to. But you’ll get there.

A human being is not a share on the stock market – you are not suddenly worth more if more people want you, or less if nobody does. What is most important is mattering to yourself. You can make little changes in your life that are good for it, but controlling it is impossible to do because that is just how life is. You are worth far more than the bits of your body you see.

Meanwhile, if loving yourself seems like an impossibility for now, begin with a deep, slow, gradual acceptance. Of how your body looks, how it feels, of the world around you. The most important relationship of any you will ever have in your lifetime is the one with yourself, and in the words of James Hetfield, nothing else matters.

On missing


Miss. It was such a strange word, and it meant so much.

I miss what she looked like – the silver-grey-blue eyes, the eyes nobody else had, the eyes she prayed so hard I wouldn’t get. The eyes she told Ma were ‘strange’, the eyes she celebrated me not having as I screamed bloody murder in her arms.

I miss the way they twinkled every time she smiled, like a tiny little star glistened inside each of them, more than the diamonds in her ears ever could, as the corners creased and crinkled ever so slightly.

The same eyes that spewed forth tears and tears of laughter as we were doubled over on the sofa laughing at something all too inconsequential every single day.

Her constant laughter around her house as she imitated everyone we knew, down to their most subtle tics and quirks.

Peering over the balcony full of the plants she loved so much as we watched people go by on the streets below and she imitated them too.

Her neologisms and nicknames for everyone and everything, something I can’t resist doing now that I’m an ‘adult’ just like she was, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

I miss the extra puli in everything, just because I loved it like that, though nobody else could stand it. That little tongue smack we both did when the zing hit.

Talking to her over endless glasses of Cad-B as she cracked the silliest jokes, the funniest jokes, and sometimes the most scatological ones I’ve ever heard. Dirty jokes are even funnier when they’re from your grandmother’s youth, I’ve learned. And dick jokes never get old, they’re just flayed away.

The sound of the big steel drums as the lids clattered everywhere, as mixture and murukku and everything from paati’s last Grand Sweets haul came tumbling out of packets hidden away just for me.

The child who lay in her lap recounting absolutely irrelevant information became an adult who did much the same. Curls knotted from swimming, gentle hands pressed oil into my scalp and patiently detangled every last bit as stand-up comedians did their bit on Star Vijay.

I often find myself thinking of a stupid joke she would have loved, or that macroeconomics theory she would have explained to me had she been around. My grandmother, the economics genius who would likely have explained the Grexit, Tsipras and everything in between to me in the span of a few minutes was also the woman who watched what seemed like a ridiculous Tamil version of Grey’s Anatomy as we ate in silence.

I miss the situationally inappropriate giggling, the laughter that never needed a reason to be, but just was. The knowledge and security of those two arms, so similar to my own, enveloping me as I felt the things I needed to feel without saying the words I could have.

As hurt, seeing the tears fall from her eyes instead of my own.

Of the parcels that came every month for that little girl when her grandmother lived quite far away, of the dozens of pattu pavadai that always arrived in brown paper bags, of sweaters that smelled of naphtha but were cherished for years like a dear friend.

I miss hearing “paati, Anu wants to speak to you!” in the background as you scrambled to the phone.

Of the crinkly silk sarees you loved so much and the best toilet humour I will ever hear. As the strictly vegetarian you watched me eat my very non-vegetarian KFC and made that ridiculous breast joke weeks before you left for good. That time Joey paraded your bra through every floor of the house and then dropped it on the porch as we cried with laughter.

Of the smell of love, now encapsulated in sambar and mothballs, of the coconut barfi that has remained a memory since you left.

To the warm, living being with two legs who is now a picture on my wall with those same twinkling eyes, consumed by the sizzle at the crematorium that fateful January morning.

Jenner-ally Speaking


Today, Caitlyn Jenner came out to the world, happy and finally free to live her life as herself, and be true to her own identity. She debuted some beautiful pictures on the cover of Vanity Fair, and they were deservedly lauded.

As a cis*-woman myself, I have never and will never know the struggles of being trans. However, the cover got me thinking about gender binaries. Is femininity, merely the idea of being a woman, so closely associated with an external, physical ideal of beauty? Why must being female necessarily mean fitting some external ideal of ‘beauty’, whatever it is?

It is one thing to applaud Jenner’s admittedly gargantuan courage in taking the step publicly – it will doubtless provide some inspiration and courage to those who could not, for whatever reason, come out as trans. However, it seems as though it is the ‘prettiness’ that is being publicly lauded, with plenty of online commenters comparing Caitlyn to her ex-wife, Kris, pitting the women against each other.

And that brings me to a more pertinent question – is the gender binary so pronounced that dressing in lingerie, hair styled, posing and makeup are construed as a true portrayal of femininity? Is that all there is to being or identifying as a woman?

Humanity begins the binary at youth. Dresses versus shorts. Pink versus blue. Barbie vs G.I Joe. (This brings to mind an old episode of Friends, where Ross was correctly called out by his ex-wife’s wife, after constantly trying to replace his son’s Barbie doll with an action figure.) Short hair versus long.

Left to their own devices, children have been seen to play with whatever toy is nearest them, or whatever catches their fancy. The gendering of those toys, if they are humanoid, does not matter. Unfortunately, people gender the most inanimate, genderless things – like Lego or Meccano toys, which contribute to children’s analytical and cognitive development – and they somehow take on the label of being ‘for boys’.

As adults who could know better, these same children, as all of us once were, are trapped in a cycle that we do not know how to get out of. The cycle of fitting, or being made to fit into boxes and compartments that as fluid beings, mentally, sexually or otherwise, we do not need to belong in. And thus femininity comes to be associated with dresses. With lingerie and red lipstick and roughly tousled hair that looks as if a woman is in the throes of amorous passion but still immaculately made up. That is our ideal of ‘sexy’, of ‘feminine’, when those words cannot either be defined or boxed in. As many women adhere to conventional standards of ‘fashion’ as do not. Does that make the latter group any less feminine?There are women who are fond of heels, high, low, anything in between. There are also as many women who would rather wear slippers or trainers. It does not make either group any more or less feminine either.

But Caitlyn’s cover, and so many Vanity Fair covers before hers, seem to ideate female beauty as being just that – a dressed up, made up, posing, pouting being on legs.

There is often an interview that accompanies the glossy, high-end pictures of a Vanity Fair spread, but the interview tends to be secondary to the photographs. Every bit of publicised coverage about Caitlyn mentions that Annie Leibovitz is the photographer, but there is no mention of the writer assigned to the job – his/her job is a secondary, cursory thing. The interview may focus on Caitlyn’s struggles, her transition and what came with it – but the piece at large focuses on her new physical attributes, which while I am sure are important to her, unfortunately seem to connote that that physicality is the essence of femininity. There are several other things popular media seems to label as decidedly feminine, in the absence of which women are ‘less woman’ somehow – however, those are not relevant to a discussion of Caitlyn and her journey and will be discussed separately.

Is Jenner an icon for inspiring many young transwomen to be able to come out? Yes. We must remember that transwomen and transmen are not all from the same circumstances – they may not have access to medical facilities, counselling, healthcare and the other things Caitlyn has had access to. Will Caitlyn’s courage still inspire them to be able to be able to publicly embrace their identities? One hopes so – but we should not denigrate, belittle and compartmentalise women and box ‘femininity’ whilst we try to publicize and bring attention to what it means to be trans, and help the public understand it.

One should not be at the cost of the other.

Either way, I wish Caitlyn every single happiness, and I am sure she will have more of it now that she is able to freely embrace her life in all its glorious entirety.

*cis implies that your gender identity matches the sex you were assigned at birth

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