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Read this excerpt about mental illness

Perhaps the most stigmatized aspect of mental illness is talking about suicide. This is why spreading awareness about mental health is even more important today than ever. Even with a large amount of information and resources like counseling constantly at our disposal, there are small steps we can all take towards unlearning myths about mental illness. This is where stories like that of Aparna Piramal Raje step in.

On this World Suicide Prevention Day, we’re sharing an excerpt from her memoir Chemical Khichdi where she candidly talks about suicidal ideation.

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Chemical Khichdi
Chemical Khichdi||Aparna Piramal Raje

Turning Point

There are no headlines today
No cocktail launch parties, or awards ceremonies
No business-class seats and frequent-flier miles

There is the private knowledge,
That today was a day
Where nothing was written
Which would later be regretted.

That today was a day
Where it didn’t occur to me
How easy it would be to jump off a building.
Today, I didn’t have to dismiss the thought.

Today, there’s a London bus made out of a cardboard box.
There is camping under a blanket
Strung between two wooden dining chairs, in the living room.

Today, there are
No moments of despair
No delusions of grandeur

Instead, an attitude of gratitude
Moments of simplicity and spontaneity
And the promise of purpose.

One of my favourite poems, I wrote Turning Point to mark a personal milestone: after several weeks of struggling with depression, and waking up every day to a sense of hopelessness, I finally managed to rid myself of suicidal thoughts. Of course, I sat at the edge of my bed and cried, but I also felt much better after writing it. It felt like a private milestone.

I have never actually harmed myself or made any attempt to do so, but there was a distinct period of my life, for a large part of 2013, in which I was confronted by a large, bleak void, every morning. Life seemed just – empty.

Given that my manic episode at the ashram was one of my most lethal, it was little surprise that I had to contend with depression for as long as I did. I knew I could get onto additional medication to elevate my spirits – and there were several sleepless nights when I nearly called Dr. Sharma and asked him to do so – but Amit and I were committed to finding a solution without additional medication, and we did.

I didn’t lie around on the sofa, or in my bedroom – my days were fairly busy with work and family commitments. There were interviews to be conducted and copy to be filed. My colleagues were friendly and stimulating.

Home life was also a pillar. Our apartment in Mahim had a rare view of the Arabian sea and of one of Mumbai’s nicest public parks, a hidden gem called Dhote Udyan. The rhythm of the waves and the canopy of greenery outside my windows were enough to lift any melancholy spirits. But I felt unhappy and vacant. I couldn’t find joy or happiness in anything around me.

And in a city full of skyscrapers, jumping off one of them seemed more preferable than wrestling with this inner black hole every day. I remember, at one point, mentally comparing the available building options to see which one seemed the most viable, my parents’ home or mine. I even once made it to my building’s terrace before turning back, scowling at myself for even having come this far. I rejected the option every time it crossed my mind, because I knew I didn’t want to be defeated by my illness.

Any well-intentioned onlooker would have urged to me to consider my obligations to my family, and to desist from this line of thought. It is not that I was ready to abandon my family. It was just that my self-esteem was so low, during those months, that I honestly didn’t think it would make a big difference to anyone in the long run, if I wasn’t around anymore. I really felt they wouldn’t notice my absence, or it wouldn’t matter – when the truth is, of course, that they would be devastated. Depressed and despairing, my duties to my family were not motivating factors at all. Perhaps I am not alone in making this admission.

In fact, it was the other way around – it was my family who helped me to overcome my black hole, even though they may not have gauged its true depths. I think I was quite good at concealing it. As I will explain in more detail a little bit later, they helped to see the daily joys of simple family life.

But it took several months before I could rid myself fully of semi-suicidal notions, as can be seen from the timing of the poem. Luckily, they haven’t returned; a fact I know my family and friends will be most relieved to hear.

Slowly, over the course of a few months, I left the black hole behind. And then one day in November, I found myself writing this poem, to celebrate the fact that I had, actually, much to celebrate in life, and even more to look forward to. As the first paragraph suggests, I was also finally ready to shed my preoccupation with all the markers of a successful business life – the seemingly glittery lifestyle, the award ceremonies and the hoopla. Something just as meaningful, if not more, was waiting to be discovered.

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Get your copy of Chemical Khichdi from your nearest bookstore or visit Amazon to order.

Nation’s most loved romance novel – #WhenIAmWithYou by Durjoy Datta

Dhiren is completely absorbed by how animatedly she is laying out her theory. Not just with her words, but also her eyes, her hands, her body, like she’s doing a puppet show with characters, voices, songs. She becomes a sabre-toothed tiger by flashing her canines and a giant sloth by lumbering on the table menacingly. When she mentions wars, she swings her hand around and grunts as if she’s a medieval warrior, and looks around scared when she’s on the Silk Route.

She can go on the entire night and he will be right here, listening, bewitched by this gorgeous storytelling gypsy who knows everything.

‘You’re suggesting genocide. But if that’s so obvious, why didn’t it happen till now?’

‘Men are clever. They realised their need would be limited in the future. So, the ancient ones—kings, nobles, religious men, traders—all the powerful men came together, worried, scared, and in a moment of brilliance, they invented the rules of monogamy. One man, one woman. Suddenly, all men were needed. Every single man was important. Legends of love were told, romantic books were written, movies were made, Hallmark cards were printed, weddings were celebrated, pregnancies were made important, and women were told that they should want these things—love, wedding, romance, families. But it’s the men who need these. If you’re genetically ungifted, the only way to survive is romance. Without romance, only the strong, the disease-resistant, the tall will survive.’

Her storytelling is wizardry. She can move her large pupils around and put a man into a hypnotic trance. Dhiren hangs on to every word of hers. He feels he has to agree with what she’s saying. How can her eyes lie? Dhiren wonders if this is how a religion comes into being—a ravishing person with a great story.

‘Romance is a conspiracy?’ asks Dhiren.

‘Romance, once strictly optional, was now mandatory. Romantic love didn’t make women whole, it saved men from oblivion and extinction. Children were now meant to be god’s gift, brought into the world after the blissful union of a man and a woman. But it’s all a lie concocted by ancient rishis, priests and prophets—all men! Think about it, why not get children off the assembly line? Why not make sure they get the best of genes from a man and mix them up with a little bit of the woman who carries them and raises them as truly their own?’

‘I mean . . .’ Dhiren can’t finish the sentence.

She continues. ‘Think climate-wise too. We waste precious food in sustaining bigger bodies of men, with higher metabolism rates for the same contribution to society. How much can we save by not having so many men? We already do that with cattle, thirty cows to one bull. We only keep the best bull.’ The three whistles and two minutes on low flame are up.

‘Wow,’ mumbles Dhiren.

She breaks out of her own train of thought. ‘Sorry, I’m talking too much, no?’

‘I mean . . . you did call me a bull and most men useless cattle, worthy of slaughter, and keeping the good ones in a cage.’

Aishwarya giggles. Dhiren unlocks the pressure cooker. He serves them on two plates with raita and pickle. They move to the sofa.

‘When did you make the raita?’ asks Aishwarya.

‘You were talking at length. I had time.’

Aishwarya lifts the plate to her nose, takes in a deep breath like a coke addict and asks, ‘Do you want a review?’

‘I’m sure it’s great, MasterChef Aishwarya.’

Aishwarya takes a bite and closes her eyes. ‘Your overconfidence is not misplaced. It’s like my tongue’s wrapped in flavours. It’s amazing. Let’s be quiet and eat this.

 

Will Dhiren and Aishwarya, recognise the love for each other. Get your copy of When I Am With You by Durjoy Datta today!

 

Read an excerpt about a monk who flew to America

The widespread popularity of Krishna Consciousness can be traced back to the very man himself. While a memoir about an Indian guru is commonplace today, Hindol Sengupta’s Sing, Dance and Pray creates a narrative framework that is at once meta-cultural and biographical. This is in part made up of the diverse lives that Srila Prabhupada encountered—and embraced—during his unique lifetime.

The following is an excerpt from the chapter titled ‘Downtown Monk’, marking the American chapter of Srila Prabhupada and the Hare Krishna Movement.

Sing Dance and Pray||Hindol Sengupta

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The conflict in Vietnam had already dragged on for about a decade since the mid-1950s by the time Bhaktivedanta arrived at Boston Harbour. In the early 1960s, American President John F. Kennedy pushed more resources into battle in Vietnam, and the failure of a breakthrough victory only meant greater angst and protest at home. With the failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961 and the Cuban Missile Crisis, chances of a third world war or at least conflict using nuclear weapons between the United States and the Soviet Union had become a real possibility. ‘The risks to world peace seemed so significant at this time, that an extensive peace movement developed throughout the 1960s, particularly through the intervention of young people and students. Young people wanted autonomy and self-determination. They did not want to live in a world involved in major armed conflict.’

Within America, the response to this war-addicted climate was the rise of subcultures which would experiment with everything from Eastern mysticism to psychedelic drugs, poetry, music and—importantly—massive protest rallies for peace, and against war.

If you distil the messages of the movement that came to be known through many varying names over the years from ‘Beat’ to ‘hippie’, a few are immediately apparent. There is the desire for a different way of life, a different way of thinking, of freedom from the oppression of society and government and even the economic system. There is the determined refusal to authorize state-sanctioned violence (though ironically some of the protesters clashed with the police and became quite violent), there is the attempt to create building blocks of a ‘non-commercial world’ in everything from the focus on handmade things, like tie-and-dye clothing (another element borrowed from India), vegetarianism and natural birth, the focus on meditation and non-Abrahamic forms of spirituality, and importantly, music.

When you look at all these elements carefully, you understand something that is rarely ever said about A.C. Bhaktivedanta, that like Vivekananda, he was in many ways the right person, at the right place, at the right time. Vivekananda gained from the flowering of interest in Eastern philosophies led by scholars like Max Mueller and others in the late nineteenth century, and therefore his message found a certain influential, academically elite, audience that helped it spread across the English-speaking world. His key early benefactors were the educated wealthy, including a Harvard professor who introduced him to the Parliament of Religions. In A.C. Bhaktivedanta’s case, his earliest followers were unemployed hippies attracted to the sonorous sannyasi to find a refuge from the tumult all around them, and in their head.

Bhaktivedanta’s early life in the United States is usually described in terms of the difficulties he had in finding appropriate shelter, often having to share space with people who did not quite understand his calling or his message. But the way to really think about the story is that he appeared to give the right message to the right people at the right time.

His first days were spent with Gopal Aggarwal and his wife Sally, an American, at Butler County, Pennsylvania, where the famous four-wheel drive, the Jeep, had been invented in 1940 as a vehicle for tough-haul jobs of the US Army. It was a time when A.C. Bhaktivedanta was under the impression that he would remain in America maybe, at most, for about a month. Even though he was clear about his mission in the West—propagating the good word of Krishna—several of his early hosts imagined that he had merely come to raise funds for his publishing and would soon return.

But it is here, at Butler, Pennsylvania, that A.C. Bhaktivedanta found his first audience. It is here that one of the most written-about spiritual figures in modern times, first appeared in the American local press. The Indian ‘swami’ who had come to America to preach ‘bhakti yoga’, said the Butler Eagle. Even in that very first article, there were clear signs of why A.C. Bhaktivedanta would start to attract followers in America.

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Sing, Dance and Pray is available at your nearest bookstore. You can also order a copy from Amazon.

Build a growth mindset and become unstopppable!

Do you know what a growth mindset is?

What if we tell you that it’s one of the keys to help you achieve any goal you set your mind to?

Manthan Shah’s Unstoppable, a book full of interviews and analysis of young achievers of India, explores the growth mindset and also tells us how we can help build one too! Here is an excerpt from the book showcasing some of the incredible information on the same:

A growth mindset is basically about believing that your abilities can be developed.
It is not simply about being open-minded and flexible in accepting your mistakes. It is about being dedicated to growing your talents. It is not just about efforts but also about trying new strategies (and discarding the ones that are not working).

You can build a growth mindset by following these self-directed exercises as adapted from the interview with Stefanie Faye, an award-winning neuroscience specialist and educator.
This exercise entails four steps – goal setting, learning about neuroplasticity, celebrating mistakes, and exposing yourself to micro experiences, while highlighting micro progress. This will lower your fear of failure and increase your willingness to go out of your comfort zone and grow as a person.

1. Have an other-ish goal. In his landmark book Give and Take, Adam Grant uses the term otherish as a person who is a giver, you will also see this in our Giving Back chapter.


In terms of goals, these are the opposite of selfish goals, and a bit different than the selfless goals, other-ish goals are the ones where you have your own interests in mind, while having a high concern for others too. As defined in the chapter on grit, you must have a higher-order goal. This goal should be motivated by your personal benefits and by a desire to help the world around you.

For example, at the time of writing this book, my personal long-term goal is to become an expert in the field of  sustainable finance and help India achieve its net-zero carbon emission targets by 2070. This goal is at the intersection of my interests and qualifications in finance, and my desire to do something for my country.

 

2. Talk about neuroplasticity. Learn it, understand it and
reflect on how it plays a role in your life.

3. Celebrate mistakes.

4. Expose yourself to micro experiences and highlight micro progress.

Unstoppable by Manthan Shah
Unstoppable || Manthan Shah

 

 

To learn more about these last three steps of efficiently building a ‘growth mindset’, get your copy of Manthan Shah’s Unstoppable. Out now!

 

Scars of partition on Dr. Manmohan Singh

The India-Pakistan partition resulted in a sea of emotions in those who witnessed it. The pangs of separation of family members echo to date. Rajeev Shukla, in Scars of 1947, pens down the stories of people and families who faced the consequences of the partition firsthand. One such story is of the Prime Minister of India, Dr. Manmohan Singh, who hailed from the Jhelum district (part of present-day Pakistan). Let’s read an excerpt from the book to find out how partition hit Manmohan Singh and his family.

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Scars of 1947
Scars of 1947 || Rajeev Shukla

The year 1947 was Manmohan’s final year in school. The matriculation exam took place in the month of March. The communal tension during this time was getting worse every day because of the impending partition of the country. He sat for his exams in an environment filled with harrowing sights of violence; the results were never announced for the exams as Peshawar went on to become a part of Pakistan.

In 1947, the Hindu–Muslim clashes had begun, and they became more and more violent with each passing day. At [Manmohan Singh’s] village, Muslims outnumbered all others and as a result, the village had two masjids and one gurudwara. One day, when the tension between the communities was at its peak, it was decided by the elders of the village that they would sit with each other and try to diffuse the tension with discussions. The elders of the village, who were Hindu, Sikhs and Muslims, were called. However, the youngsters of the dominant Muslim community planned a massacre and killed all the Hindu and Sikh elders, among whom was Manmohan Singh’s grandfather who had brought up young Manmohan and of whom Manmohan was very fond. When his grandfather was killed, Manmohan was living with his father in Peshawar. One of his uncles who lived in Chakwal sent an unfortunate four-word telegram to his brother (Manmohan’s father) in Peshawar that read, ‘Mother Safe, Father Killed’. Manmohan was about fifteen years old at the time and says that he still remembers that dreadful telegram message. He says that on the one hand, this group of young Muslim men tricked and killed his grandfather and on the other hand, in that very neighbourhood, there was a Muslim family who hid his grandmother and protected her from the bloodthirsty mob.

These incidents from his childhood were so deeply etched in his memory that while working for the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development in the United States of America, when he was invited by his friend to Pakistan, he could not resist visiting. His friend Mahbub-ul-Haq had studied with him at Cambridge University in the United Kingdom. He later served as the finance minister of Pakistan. Mahbub used to stay in Rawalpindi, Pakistan, in those days. It was in 1968 that Manmohan Singh visited Pakistan. After the Indo-Pak War of 1965, the relations between the two countries were at its lowest, but Manmohan could not say no to the invitation extended by his very dear friend and visited Rawalpindi, a place he used to visit often in his schooldays. There, he used to visit a particular bookshop and during this trip, it was in the same shop that he found himself gripped by all the nostalgia from his childhood.

After that, he visited Gurudwara Panja Sahib situated in Hassan Abdal (Attock in Punjab, Pakistan) where his naming ceremony had taken place. When he was asked why he did not visit his birthplace, Gah village, which was nearby, his answer expressed the sadness that he had been carrying in his heart for years. He said that he did not visit his village because he did not want to inflict on himself the same emotional trauma by going to the place where his grandfather had been massacred brutally.

During the peak of the violence that had erupted there a the time of Partition, all the houses were burned to the ground; so Manmohan was unsure if there even was anything left to see. His uncle who used to live in Chakwal till 1947 had visited Gah village with a police contingent and had taken the remaining Sikh and Hindu women safely to Chakwal, where they were accommodated in a refugee camp. Manmohan said that not all the women could be saved from the horrendous riots, his own aunt and her mother chose self-immolation to save themselves from being violated by the mobs.

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To read in-depth about the incidents that followed, get a copy of Scars of 1947 from your nearest bookstore or order online.

Who was Neem Karoli Baba?

Whether or not one believes in miracles, some legacies are nothing short of magic on earth. One such life is that of Neem Karoli Baba and his teachings which were carried on by Sri Siddhi Ma.

The following excerpt from Sri Siddhi Ma entails the stories and anecdotes which make up the folkloric profile of Neem Karoli Baba. 

Sri Siddhi Ma||Jaya Prasada

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Dressed in a simple white dhoti, with a blanket or a cotton sheet for a wrap-around, Maharaj ji shunned any insignia which would set him apart as a saint or a sadhu. Many a time, as he reclined on his takhat, visitors would walk up to him and ask where they could meet Neem Karoli Baba. His simple reply used to be, “Main koi Baba ko nahi janta. Hanuman ji ke mandir me unse prarthna karo.” I do not know any Baba! Go to the Hanuman temple and pray to him. On other occasions, he would loudly proclaim, “Main kuch nahi janta. Main toh prasad vala Baba hoon.” I do not know anything. I am the Baba who gives prasad!

Baba Neem Karoli, also known as Baba Neeb Karauri, was perhaps the most elusive embodiment of divinity in human form. Accepted and revered as the incarnation of Sri Hanuman, the son of “Pawan” – the god of wind – Maharaj ji too had the attributes of the wind. Sometimes he could be a gentle soothing whiff; at other moments, a hurricane, a whirlwind. But always the bestower of life-giving breath. Nothing could bind him, no one could define him. As we devotees believe, he had no beginning, he has no end. “There can be no biography of him,” wrote his renowned disciple Dr Richard Alpert, later known as the devotee Ram Dass, in his book Miracle of Love. “Facts are few, stories many. He seems to have been known by different names in many parts of India, appearing and disappearing through the years.”

Named Lakshmi Narayan at birth, in the early 1900s, Maharaj ji left his native village of Akbarpur in Uttar Pradesh as a wandering sadhu, when he was only eleven years old. As he travelled to various parts of India, he came to be known by different names. For instance, he was known as Tallaia-wale Baba in Gujarat. This was because in Babania he was seen performing spiritual sadhana under the waters of a small lake, where his temple now stands. The women of the village, with brass pitchers on their heads and veils drawn over their faces, would go to the lake to draw water and would often spot a young mendicant on the shore. On seeing them, Baba would dive into the water and remain submerged for prolonged periods.

Also known as Tikonia-wale Baba and Handi-wale Baba over the years, Maharaj ji then returned home to lead a householder’s life for a few years, after which he left home again. Later, he was known as Baba Lachman Dass in the remote areas of western Uttar Pradesh. Eventually, after his stay in the village of Neem Karoli, he came to be known as Neem Karoli Baba. No one can tell which way the wind blew – but it appears that in the 1940s, from the plains of Uttar Pradesh, Maharaj ji proceeded to the mountains of Kumaon. And with his arrival, the hills began to soon be dotted with Hanuman temples.

An oft-asked question is: who was Neem Karoli Baba? Was he a mystic, an ascetic who aspired for and achieved the highest powers, the siddhis? Was he one of those miracle-sadhus so abundant in India?  Or just a grandfather-figure in the homes he visited, fondly called “Hanuman buju” by the children? These varied questions perhaps have varied answers, for Maharaj ji excelled in the art of deluding aspirants the moment they got a glimpse of even a tiny ray of his infinite spiritual depth. 

If put to me, this question would have a simple answer: Maharaj ji was divine love incarnate.

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Get your copy of Sri Siddhi Ma from the nearest bookstore or head to Amazon to order. 

Where the Sun Never Sets: About a day in the lockdown

Many things in life come unexpected, as did the COVID-19 pandemic. The highs of life suddenly turn into lows and everyday events seem to become hard to deal with. During such phases, the present time slows down and one goes back to thinking about their past. As clichéd as it may sound, one eventually finds the light at the end of the tunnel.

During a similar time, Stuti Changle’s protagonist in Where the Sun Never Sets, comes to terms with her past that she has been running away from. Read an excerpt from the book to get a glimpse of Changle’s protagonist’s thoughts penned down in her diary.

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Where the Sun Never Sets
Where the Sun Never Sets || Stuti Changle

Today felt just like every day is going to feel in my lockdown life.

Once upon a time, it rained for hours, just like it rained today, heavily, unendingly, unstoppably. Rain might wash the physical world, but with it, washed-out memories resurface. Rains deepen the colours of your surroundings as if you’ve unknowingly switched to 4K HD mode. It also deepens the colours in your mind, unlocking the deepest of desires.

Rain is powerful indeed. And what does rain remind you of? The rain reminded me of the onion fritters Mom would deep fry until they were golden and crisp. The mere thought lit up my face, filling my mouth with water. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining the crisp fritters between my teeth, chewing them with a crunch. Nishit, my ex-boyfriend, would often give me company. He would also tell me that peacocks teach you to dance your sorrows away in the rain.

The rain also reminded me of masala chai, the kind my landlady prepares in Gurgaon, with ginger, lemongrass and basil leaves added in generous amounts. She is the kind of bitch who calls you up to catch up and when you do so, she gives you a list of things you need to get repaired at your own expense.

She keeps reminding me that I am an orphan and it’s her responsibility to bully me to make me stronger. She believes that my parents would have done the same. She also feels that my elder sister is a bitch to have abandoned me. When I am engaged in bitter conversations with her, masala tea is my guru who preaches finding goodness in everything.

I requested Shyamala Aunty to prepare masala tea and fritters in the morning. I gave her very specific instructions. These days of lockdown have to be the perfect time for me to finish the movie script.

But where to start? Why can’t you talk, my diary?

I entered my attic-style bedroom to start writing the script. I had asked Shyamala Aunty to set up my desk in front of the huge window that overlooks the beautiful Mussoorie hills. It’s going to be a long lockdown after all.

I watched some YouTube videos by Tibetan Zen masters. They say that one must prepare well before a new project. Some changes are necessary while some are not as important. But the room where you engage in creative work has to be organized.

Considering the lockdown situation, all I can say is that it is one of the most unpredictable times. Of course, things will change sooner or later. They must. That’s the hope, and we hang on to it.

But I don’t know how much peace organizing my room will bring me when the world is in chaos.

‘Relax. Focus. Concentrate. Yes. Harder,’ I told myself. ‘Write a few words at a time. Bricks build

castles. And castles stand for ages and inspire people for many years to come,’ I murmured.

I sat at my desk wondering if all the days were going to be the same here. You watch the sunrise. The sunset. Sunrise. Sunset. Yet you feel you’re stationary. ‘The sunrise. The sunset,’ I murmured as I had still not written a single word. I put my pen aside.

‘Time never really moves here. That’s the beauty of time in small towns,’ Shyamala Aunty said, breaking my reverie. I hadn’t realized she had entered the room. She sneaks in whenever she likes, and I have hated it since my teenage years.

She continued to mop the floor with a magic mop, even as its engineering was beyond her comprehension. It reminded me of my arguments with Dad, who often said, ‘It is important for everyone to understand mathematics to be able to lead a good life.’

I would always tell him, ‘It is not important to understand an airplane’s engineering to be able to travel in it. You could be a layman and still live a happy life.’

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To know what happens next, get a copy of Where the Sun Never Sets from your nearest bookstores or online.

The second first crush of his life

Many people would understand the nostalgia of a first crush. For filmmaker Onir, this rush of pure emotions happened twice. 
Throughout I Am Onir and I Am Gay, the author seamlessly entwines his sexual identity with his life, especially his childhood days of moving around and being boundless. 

The following excerpt is the first chapter in its entirety. 

I Am Onir & I Am Gay||Onir with Irene Dhar Malik

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First Crush

I met him in 1984, when I came to Calcutta (now Kolkata) for my higher secondary studies. There’s a lot about those two years that I try to forget—the disillusionment of the young boy coming from a Himalayan small town to a big city, whose excitement had quickly transformed to disappointment and anxiety—but I will always remember him. In this city that I used to visit every year during the winter vacation and that had seemed full of welcoming relatives, I now desperately searched for accommodation and ended up in many scary or awkward living arrangements.

We didn’t even have television in Bhutan at the time a fifteen-year-old me moved to Calcutta. The protectionist policies of the Bhutanese government ensured that it was the last country in the world to allow television, which was as late as 1999. Calcutta was overwhelming and, in many ways, I was the proverbial smalltown boy experiencing big-city blues. I quickly realized that I wasn’t going to get admission in any of the well-known schools as my ICSE marks were abysmally low by Calcutta standards. Anything above 60 per cent was considered first division and therefore something to celebrate back home in Thimphu, but my marks were woefully inadequate here. Those were not yet the days when students scored 99.9 per cent, but a 90 per cent didn’t hurt anybody, as we found out the following year when my brother easily secured admission into La Martinière for Boys. As for me, I finally got admitted to St Augustine’s in the rather dingy Ripon Street neighbourhood of Calcutta. It was a tiny and somewhat cramped school at the time. The stairs were grimy, the classrooms small and windowless.

I think we were about ten or twelve students. Though they must have, like me, not been academically brilliant, my classmates were all very kind and generous, and that made all the difference. Of the teachers I don’t have many memories, except that I was so enamoured by my biology teacher Miss Mukherjee that biology quickly became my favourite subject. I still haven’t forgotten her gentle voice and kind smile.

I also remember my Bangla teacher, even though his name escapes me. I remember him because I was terrified of him. My Bangla was atrocious, having started learning the alphabet only when I was in Class 9, and it was by some miracle that I passed my ICSE Bangla paper. At St. Augustine’s, I used to hate my Bangla teacher and his classes. After I cleared my Class 12 Bangla paper, the man I had been so terrified of wore a broad grin as he patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘I never thought a gadha (donkey) like you would pass, I’m so relieved.’ I realized that he was perhaps actually fond of me and had been so severe with me only because he hadn’t wanted me to fail.

It was during those years that I had what I can call my first crush. He was tall and dusky, with thoughtful eyes and sensuous lips, and he had somehow decided to take me under his protective wing. He not only made sure no one bullied me, but also helped me cross roads and board buses. I couldn’t manage to cross the busy Calcutta streets on my own, nor board the crowded buses or trams before and after school. Very often, I used to walk long distances just to avoid getting into a crowded bus.

So yes, he was the one who would hold my hand or navigate me through the streets of Calcutta, his arm around my shoulder. I had no idea then what being gay meant. But unlike my Bhutan schooldays, I did not fall in love with any girl in my Calcutta school. There was an element of physical attraction with one of my classmates, but there was no emotional involvement at all with that boy. Stolen moments of touching and kissing in cinema halls, classrooms, deserted parks. There was no shame or sense of wrong in me, just the acknowledgement that sex was supposed to be something hush-hush; and we were discreet, like most boys and girls were those days.

I was aware that what I felt for my tall and dusky friend was different, but I didn’t give much thought to that difference. Life went on, and we sat for our ISC exams. We knew that we would soon go our diverse ways, our paths dictated by education and career choices.

One afternoon, it was just the two of us in his flat. We sat on the floor in his room, next to each other, our backs resting against the bed, talking about many, many things, as teenagers tend to do during languid Calcutta afternoons. I don’t really recall the exact flow of events, but I remember his white vest and the lungi he wore, and I can still remember his smell. At some point he put his arms around me, drawing me close to him, and asked me if I would like to touch him. This was not my first sexual experience, but I was nervous that afternoon, maybe because I had felt that unspoken and as yet unexplored feeling of love. This wasn’t the first time I had kissed someone, but whenever the reference to the ‘first kiss’ happens, it’s him that I think of. Of that sweaty afternoon and my limbs intertwined with his long limbs. When I walked back home that evening, everything had seemed pleasantly hazy. Yes, I know it sounds like a clich., but maybe that one time in my life, I did experience that cliché of being blissfully in love.

Much like in the falling-in-love sequences of the Hindi films that I’d grown up watching, his image was omnipresent for the rest of the day, superimposed over all details of my mundane existence.

At 7 a.m. the next morning, there was a knock on my door. When I opened the door, I was surprised to see him standing there. He didn’t want to come in but asked me to step out so that we could talk for five minutes.

Standing in the narrow lane outside the tiny Calcutta flat I then shared with my siblings, surrounded by the din of morning chores being executed in the surrounding middle-class households, I heard what he had to say. ‘Look, I thought about it, and whatever happened yesterday shouldn’t have happened. It was wrong, and what we did is a sin. I want you to erase that memory and so will I. And since that alone is not enough, I think it’s best that we don’t meet for the next ten years.’

He walked away. I was so numb that I didn’t utter a word as I watched him turn around and leave. No parting hug, not even a wave . . . he just walked away.

It was not then, but a couple of days later, when I was walking near Dhakuria Lake, that the truth suddenly hit me, and I could not stop the tears. The year was 1986, and I was seventeen. I realized for the first time that my love was not acceptable to the world I lived in and that something that was priceless to me was considered sinful by others. I didn’t understand why, but I was filled with a sense of emptiness, a great sadness, because I knew that this was not fair.

A couple of years later, I happened to pass by the building where he lived. Perhaps it was by design, but I don’t think so. After a lot of hesitation, I went up to the building watchman and asked about him. The entire family had emigrated to the US.

We never met again.

*

I Am Onir and I Am Gay is available for pre-order. 

What makes organizations successful? Here’s Piyush Pandey’s take

What makes organizations successful in the long run? 

Is it money, projects, or growth? 

According to Piyush Pandey, the advertising legend of India, emphasizes the importance of building an organization where every single member is aligned to the same extraordinary goal of creativity. Community building, an integrated audience, and an environment that fosters and promotes individual creativity without compromising on the essence and ideals of the company is crucial for success in the long run. Read this excerpt from Open House with Piyush Pandey to know more! 

Open House Book Cover
Open House||Piyush Pandey

“I must say that while Apple, indeed, is extraordinary, there are many other companies that have done reasonably well in building a company, products, brands and communities. Off the top of my head, I could name Nike, Coke, Burger King, Mondelez and, closer home, Pidilite and Asian Paints. Perhaps Google would be another. 

In each of these instances, the principles are the same.  

Apple’s employees, anecdotally, love going to the office. They seem free to express themselves, and seem unhampered by rules and structures. 

And yet there is a system; it’s not that it’s free for all. They have created an environment of creativity seemingly freed from constraints to express oneself. In most companies, for example in network agencies and other communication companies, rules and procedures are created to prevent chaos or the unpredictable. Apple, from the time they began with the 1984 release of the Mac to the second journey under Steve Jobs, was unsatisfied with the normal or the staid – they wanted extraordinary products and took extraordinary punts in the quest for the extraordinary products.  

The success with the iPod gave them the courage to invest more in experiments and risks and the products that followed ensured that success. 

Companies such as Apple spend an extraordinary amount of time – and money – in creating the culture that fosters out-of-the-box thinking. We admire the company because of the successive successes that they’ve had. And we will continue to admire them till they continue to succeed. 

The product basket, thanks to the near monopoly market that they enjoy in the early stages, sees them enjoying high margins – which in turn allows them to invest in the next big idea. 

Such companies are almost like close-knit families. The rules exist but are unwritten and unsaid. However, the ‘ecosystem’, the family, is, as a collective, aware of problems and unhappiness and challenges that particular members of the family might be experiencing.  

A critical party of the ecosystem is the partners of the business; they’re also family and need to be treated as such. The role that Lee Clow and TBWA Chiat Day played in the success of Apple has been described many times by Jobs himself. Apple has worked with Lee’s team literally since inception.  

These are unusual, but visionaries like Jobs chase their dreams and not bow to the pressures of the stock market. That allows them to take a long-term view of their product portfolio and their brand – something very few have the courage to do. 

I’ve had the pleasure of working with some brands for over 20, 30, 40 years. The ones that easily come to mind are Fevicol, Asian Paints, Cadbury Dairy Milk, many HUL brands. Other companies who have invested in their partners becoming long-term ‘family members’ include Amul. 

The performance of these brands is there for all to see.  

Can another Apple be born? Only if we see another Steve Jobs. Is Tim Cook the new Steve Jobs? That answer will help us understand if there is indeed an ecosystem that can win every time, or whether it was the vision of Steve Jobs. Apple’s performance post the passing of Steve Jobs suggests that there is, indeed, an ecosystem that works.” 

Intrigued? 

Get your hands on this honest, irreverent and informative read now! 

We’re only human: But what does it imply?

As living, breathing, and thriving humans, we often believe a common pretense: we are the most superior form of life. Sometimes people refer to organisms, especially humans, as ‘perfectly designed’, but our aquatic ancestors had to twist and stretch and rework what they already had. You can’t get to the perfect solution for being a human from that fishy starting point! 

Read this humbling excerpt from Prosanta Chakrabarty’s latest release, Explaining Life Through Evolution to know more about the human origin!

Explaining Life Through Evolution Book Cover
Explaining Life Through Evolution||Prosanta Chakrabarty

“Your body is a disaster. I don’t care if you look like Padma Lakshmi or Michael Jordan. We are all hunks of water-logged flesh, hanging off of sticks of collagen and calcium, made up of teeming pockets of bacteria that are held together by strings of blood all covered in an oily skin bag. We are frail naked apes with giant lollipop heads with exposed and vulnerable dangly bits that are so ill-equipped for life that we get tired after standing up still for ten minutes.  

Why? Again, we are literally fish out of water. 

We are taught to think we humans are perfect: no less than the pinnacle of evolution. Hogwash. The only thing we got going for us are our big brains, and we use those brains just enough to think we are better than everything else and to build things to make us feel important but that will also destroy the planet and ultimately ourselves—time for some humility. 

It isn’t all bad. We do have the advantage of getting more oxygen directly from the air than from water (which has a lot less oxygen), but gas exchange is more difficult through lungs than with gills. But we mess that up too by using the same tubing for breathing as for feeding, and we have just a little piece of flappy tissue (the epiglottis) to keep food from going down the wrong pipe. And that never fails— (choke, choke) right.  I’d rather have the body of a crappie (the fish) than our crappy bodies. 

We can see in our bodies the evolutionary connections we have with more recent ancestors too. We still have the remnants of a tail (which is just an extension of the spine) as the coccyx; and we get goosebumps to raise non-existent fur on our bodies (which we lost in becoming ‘naked’ apes). Yes, we had hairy ancestors with tails, but no, not from monkeys. Unlike a common popular myth, we did not evolve from monkeys. We share a common ancestor with monkeys that led to both tailed monkeys and to the tail-less great apes (of which we are one).” 

Evolution isn’t as linear as we think it to be. If you’re keen to know about the complex history of evolution, and how we came to be, get your copy of Explaining Life Through Evolution now! 

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