Dear Dipa

Hello Ms Karmakar! Congratulations on performing extraordinarily at the Rio Olympics. You've made us so so proud. India as a country is indebted to you forever, for you put us on the map in the gymnastics section. You have been persuasive and very brave in following your dreams. In its pursuit, you have also generously let us tag along and take credit for being your fellow citizens, so thank you.

I learnt from one of your videos that you want people in India to stop looking at gymnastics like its circus. To be very honest with you, my knowledge of gymnastics prior Rio 2016 was very limited too. I had only seen a few gymnastic presentations in school and in some reality TV shows for entertainment. I am sorry I was blind and ignorant for so long. But seeing Simon Biles' mid air layouts (link) and watching you do the 'Produnova' (link) over and over again on YouTube, I have a new found respect for this sport. I have seen this video of yours at least fifty times and every single time when you lift off the vault and somersault in the air, it makes the hair on my skin stand. I don't know a thing about gymnastic routines but I can say yours requires a ton of strength, concentration and lots of (probably years of) dedicated practice. One obviously does not just wake up and Master the vault of death.

You are very popular now in India, your 'golden girl' posts are spamming everyone's Facebook, Twitter and Instagram homepages. People are applauding your Herculean efforts in reaching the Olympics being on par with the world's greatest talents and for your outstanding performance in the Finals. You are literally the hero this country was looking for in Rio. Cold shivers run down my spine thinking about the amount of pressure you must have felt when you performed. I used to think gymnasts were only very flexible and fast. Now I also know they are strong. Physically, to carry out these strenuous routines flipping yourself in air and landing like a boss on your feet like it was no big deal and pretending as though you weren't Superman there for a minute. Mentally, to be able to withstand all the duress and to push your body further and further each day. To add to it, I heard how the Sports Ministry did pretty much nothing for you (athletes), let alone try and make things easier. You went there with all these burdens weighing you down and still nailed the Produnova. I'm sorry I keep talking about it, I cannot seem to get over the fact that the fifth woman in the world to land the vault of death was an Indian. I am so thrilled for you.

It was very disheartening to know that you had to perform this very risky and life endangering vault to make sure you secured a high score. The facilities and infrastructure you had when you trained did not allow you to train to your full capacity thus taking away your chances at doing something stunning like what the other girls did with ease. It is a shame you had to resort to performing the most dangerous vault in the gymnast's book in order to be able to win a medal. I am truly sorry for that. If I were loaded with money I'd give you and all the deserving sportsmen and women of our country, all the support and sponsorship you deserve. If with only commitment and determination you could jump across, no strike that, vault and flip graciously across all the hurdles that world-class-sports seem to throw at you I can only imagine what mountains you will move with the right assistance and support, you are a true warrior.

I had a lengthy list of fictional superheroes that I am absolutely crazy about, now I also have a list of real life ones with your name on it. Year after year great people like you are dragging this country forward despite every challenge lined up in your way. You are our torch bearers, thanks for never giving up.

Love and respect,
Gaythri Madhavann.

When he breaks your heart, thank him.

It is very very rare (in fact, so rare that it happens only in Gautam Menon movies) that you find “the right guy” at first shot, chase after him, marry him and live happily ever after. There is always one guy in between (read girl if appropriate) who screws it up for us. He will first sweep you off your feet and then leave you hanging while he remembers how in fact, you are not his type. *eye-roll* That bastard! Worse if he said it over the phone or text. What a load of emotions crap your brain for the first few months making you miserable and pathetic! My own wretched, post break-up days were no different. I had consistently puffy eyes, my kajal was always smeared over my face, the innumerous coffees I used to have, to clear my head, all tasted like slush, my friends were always trying to tell me how I deserved better, my ex stopped picking up my calls and he probably even blocked me on Whatsapp. Well shit happens.

But it’s alright, because it was all quite uphill after that. Once I was tired of mourning over my buried relationship, I went into the phase where you dissect every damn thing and try to figure what went wrong. I ran and re-ran our every conversation through my head at least a gazillion times and it only became more obvious every time I did that because I finally pinned down why we didn’t work out. He had certain expectations as to how his girlfriend should be and day after day I toiled hard to fit into that image. But every now and then I slipped, and did something that he didn’t approve of. Somehow deep down, he never really forgave me for those lapses. (Even though I abundantly apologized to him every time and took care to never repeat it.) To him, if I could do it once, I could do it again. And incompatibility is something I couldn’t change even in an eternity together.

Once I received that enlightenment, I wore my forbidden clothes and went into the tandoori-chicken-for-the-soul phase where I did whatever I could to make myself feel better and get out of that black hole I put myself in. I went dancing; I ate every damn thing put on a plate in front of me and I drank till the lights went out. I called all my guy best friends (I previously wasn’t allowed to you see, because my ex strongly believed that only skanks talk to other boys!); I sang carnatic music loudly at night and stopped worrying about my weight. I literally did whatever the hell pleased me and didn’t care who it upset. During this sacred ritual of self-pampering I learned some things that actually changed my life. I even discovered so many silly things. I didn’t know until then that I wanted to be with someone who watched Hollywood movies and sitcoms like I did so that he’ll pick up all the references I made. I wanted someone who spoke English fluently because I express myself best in l’anglais and my ex who wasn’t that fluent, never got me most of the time. I found out I liked wearing shorts better than full pants. I found out I wanted someone who could make me laugh and that my maaaarvelous sense of humor (Oh, I am pretty hilarious alright) is sometimes just not enough to keep it going for two people. I learned that I could never be happy being a girly girl and that my tomboyishness is not a phase I’d grow out of. Most important of all I learned that only love isn’t enough to hold a relationship together because even though love is the most important thing in the world, it is kind of inadequate on its own. We think that patient persistent love will solve all the world’s problems, and that it will change how our boyfriends treat us or make them choose us over the India-Srilanka ODI. Eh, No. Regrettably love is only ‘one’ of the 3 things that make a relationship work (the other 2? trust and compatibility yo). Love definitely makes the whole thing better but none of these 3 can compensate for the other. The failure to understand this is what leads to successful-in-love-but-suck-at-marriage divorces. We have got to stop thinking that the recipe to a good tasty relationsoup is 2 cups of love + 1 cup of trust + 1 cup of compatibility some more love (because love is obviously way cheaper). ‘Cause it aint.

There can be a little give and take in the relationship but don’t agree to compromise on the basics, because no matter how small and insignificant we think they are, there are some things about ourselves that we just cannot (in fact we shouldn’t) change.

As of me, I promise that in all the youthful years I am about to spend with my sparkly new compatible boyfriend, I shall take time every now and then in between dancing (to second hand jawaani) and watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S (for the 45732nd time) to thank my ex for letting me go. Amma kasam.

15 Mar 2015

No artificial preservatives added.

It was calm outside for a change. We had finally escaped the South West monsoons that had turned the Arabian sea into an agitated rough waters and entered the sheltered Persian Gulf where the sea was so calm one might mistake it for a giant still pond. I had just taken a nice long shower and gone down to the mess room. The North Indian dinner menu didn't look appetizing for some reason. I was suddenly hungry and homesick. How long had it been since I called home? 10-12 days? I should call and say hi, I made a mental note. My steward was looking at me as if to ask "Are you eating or what?" so I hurriedly took some rice and dal. Annoyed with my limited choices I requested for my precious pickle bottle that was stored away in one of those mess room cupboards. I picked the "Onion Thokku" (bought from Grand Sweets, of course). Mom had sent it from home in a fancy parcel along with gongura, mango pachadi, coriander thokku and my pretty birthday dress. I took a generous serving of the thokku and hungrily tried to eat more pickle with little rice than a normal person would. The thokku was so so good. In the middle of all the banter that surrounded me, about which SUV was the best (Men will be men!), I quietly transported to another world.

It is practically impossible for someone in South India to not have a friend, relative or a cousin who has gone abroad for higher education, and all NRIs as we know take home made pickles with them. I never understood why they did that though, not as if anyone was gonna miss eating pickles and stupid chutneys when they can eat pizzas, burgers and pasta all they want. But they carried them anyway, religiously every time and always talked about missing silly things like keerai kootu (spinach & dal) and arusi aplam (fryums) every time they called. I never got these people, not until I became one myself and went so far from home that the closest thing I have to home food is my onion thokku. The warm fuzzy feeling it brings inside when you take the first bite. Adadada...

As a kid, summer vacations meant a few regular features - unlimited mango milkshake and buttermilk alongside big fat watermelons (for my sister Jan who never let them last more than a day) stored in the fridge; lots of playing in the sun, afternoon naps and board games with mom. There were also the mandatory trips to both grandmas' houses when our uncontrollable, undying energy along with constant questioning about irrelevant things became too much for mom and dad to handle alone. These trips were all about meeting relatives whom we met only during summers. But these trips mainly meant mom getting endlessly pampered with 'palagaarams' (traditional home made snacks and savouries), 'aplams', 'podis' (instant powders that make everyday cooking easy) and lots of pickles from both grandmas. Mom always kept these pickles very (read VERY) carefully. She got protective of them much like her possessiveness over the "candy crush" app on her phone in recent days. These oorgas (or "achaar" - as they're called in the rest of the country), she always insisted on serving them herself every time you wanted to have a piece just so she can be absolutely sure you didn't slip the used spoon back into the jar, God forbid. I loved them so much even as a kid. I had to have a piece of avakkai (mango) or nellikai (gooseberry) every day at lunch. Curd rice with pickle is still my first answer to "Which food item would you pick if the world came to an end and you could eat only that for the rest of your life?".

Of all the things I left behind in my past, I can say I miss my childhood the most. All the lazy summers cycling around town with Jan, the Diwali celebrations which started at least one week in advance with 3 new sets of clothes and went on for even a few days after, the many many boxes of crackers that dad used to bring home, which we carefully smuggled on the train to grandma's house under all our clothes, the no early morning bath curfew, the cursive handwriting practice books, the hot pakoras and bajjis at 4pm with coffee and the late night story sessions with everyone lying down in the same room facing the glow stickers on the ceiling, telling funny stories about their own childhood summers.

Who would've thought the small pickle bottle would have managed to 'preserve' so many memories too?

- 22nd June 2016

His name was Zammil Khadim and he was not a terrorist.

Before I go into my anecdote, let me give you a little bit of an idea about how merchant ships work. Considering that my family - even after me being a seafarer for 5 years - doesn't understand half the things I say, you might need the background study.

I am a deck officer on a tanker that transports oil. We are currently chartered (hired) by Hindustan Petroleum Corporation Limited to bring crude oil from middle east Arab countries (particularly the United Arab Emirates, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Iraq) to the HPCL refineries in India. This crude oil is processed to produce petrol, diesel, naphtha and other such expensive jewels. (Next time you go into a HP petrol pump to fuel your bike or car, you could think of me with gratitude and maybe send me gift cards for being so vital to your everyday life. Yes, I also accept cash gifts.)

When we come into the port for loading or unloading crude oil, an experienced Captain from the port comes onboard our ship and guides us in bringing the vessel (ship) safely inside since they know the local waters and it's dangers quite better than we do. This designated person is called a harbour pilot and my story is about one such harbour pilot I met in Iraq.

11.01.16 was just another Monday to me, until I came on watch (duty) at 1500h (3pm). We were supposed to bring the ship inside the port of Al Basrah for loading crude oil. As you might have already guessed, one strict looking Muslim pilot with a unibrow came onboard. Tall, clean shaven face, no beard, no mustache, holding a tasbih (prayer beads) tightly in his hand. Throughout the pilotage he kept to himself, only occasionally talking into his walkie talkie in Arabic and instructing our steering man now and then to turn the vessel in a particular direction. He didn't talk to me directly and I assumed it was because I'm a girl. You see, I'm used to being kept distances from. A lot of seafarers around the world are still adjusting to the idea of having women onboard. I stopped taking offence for it a long time go and decided to let them grow up.

Later that evening, after the ship was brought in safely, we had about 2 hours before the pilot had to leave. In those 2 hours, he shyly requested that I take his pictures inside the Bridge (the glamorous control room from where we steer the ship). It is a very unusual thing to ask for a Pilot/Captain of his age (52? maybe 53), I mean he should have been on at least a hundred ships. I agreed anyway and we went on with the task. He wore his Rayban and held still with the walkie talkie in his hand, and I clicked a picture as if he was caught candid on camera in mid conversation. He posed holding the steering wheel, he posed holding the sound powered telephone. He even posed as if he was looking out melancholy into the sea (a favourite among us mariners, we being suckers for drama). Once he was satisfied with his photographs, he put back his Arabic-Keypad-wala-Samsung-Duos into his pocket and smiled at me. With the ice now broken, we eased into conversation. I guiltily realized he was not rude at all, in fact he was very friendly. Like every other conversation between two strangers, ours too started with complaining about the weather and ridiculing our Governments. I was telling him how the lowest temperature we may experience in Chennai is about 20 deg and how I am so unaccustomed to the cold. In return he told me about his early cadetship (trainee) days when they had to wake up at 5am for P.T and take a shower in the open with cold water. He said he prefers the cold over the sun any day and has come to like cold water showers so much that he braves them even when it is freezing outside. He spoke so fondly about his youth, his family and showed me pictures of his children. He talked about the Iraqi wars and how badly they have come to affect their economy, their everyday lives. He oh-so-painfully narrated how Iraq went to war with Iran and fought for 8 years until everything was completely destroyed on either side. He told me how the jihadist militant groups (like the ISIS aka Daesh) have made their lives hell by laying out rules in the name of Islam and Allah. He cringed when he told me about a young man who cut the head off of his own mother because she tried to stop him from becoming a terrorist. They have no hard limits he said, they wanted to dictate how Iraqi men and women led their lives and brought up their children. They think they are God-appointed guardians of Islam but all the things they do are exactly the opposite of what God wants from us. These so called guardian organizations are so intolerant to the various religious minorities in their country and do everything they can to destroy them and have Iraq for themselves. But that wasn't God's plan now, was it? He would've created only Muslims in Iraq if he didn't want anyone else living there but he created Christians, Yarzans and others too.

He spoke with pride and grief about his country, about how Allah has blessed them with so much beauty and resources. He said Iraq has a lot of natural oil fields. Enough to make them extremely rich. And all this oil is at a very superficial depth beneath the earth's surface. He said if one were to drive around Basrah city, one could see tanker lorries filling up oil at these fields. But no one wants to trade with them. Even their neighbors aren't willing to involve themselves with Iraq in fear of sending out the wrong message to the world. They're also mostly scared of getting looted and bombed by Iraq itself.

He fondly remembered a time from when he was younger. He said whenever they went ashore in European countries, in America and exchanged their money, 1 Iraqi Dinar used to fetch them 3.2 US dollars. But today after the economic downfall his country has faced due to the countless wars and the terrorism that is eating them up from within like termites, the equivalent of 1 USD is 1200 Iraqi Dinars. He asked me how the INR was doing against the USD, I said we are quite okay compared to them at 67 rupees and he seemed genuinely happy for us. I asked him to tell me more about his family. He said he has two wives and was visibly excited when he showed me pictures of them. He said his second wife is a Christian and still prays to 'her God'. He doesn't see why it has to be any other way, they are praying for the same things aren't they? I was overwhelmed by his simplicity and realized how ignorant I had been. You see, I had assumed every Iraqi is either a meathead terrorist or a conservative who lives the way he lives because he believes in organized religion and jihad. For that sake, I could've very well been the most ignorant girl in the whole of Iraq at that moment. Well, I was wrong.

He showed me pictures of Fatima and Mohammed, 2 of his 5 kids. Fatima looked so adorable in a cute lil' angel frock with silver shoes and a tiara, holding up her red lipstick pout. He told me she never stops dressing herself up and is always asking for more make-up goodies every time they went to a mall. She couldn't have been more than 5 and I wished I could've met her. He laughed when he mentioned the funny things he ends up doing because he has two wives, like buying two similar looking phones or buying two similar looking hijabs so that neither feels jealous, spending the same amount of time with either of them, appreciating their cooking skills in the same manner and sometimes even kissing them exactly the same number of times. Hahaha!

It was getting slightly chilly outside while we were still talking about his upcoming work trip. He was so excited about it and I stood there listening, with a new window of realization opened out in my judgemental brain. Sometimes strict looking Muslim guys who say Inshallah way too often and decline your offer to eat onboard, too are simple Iraqi men with families and beautiful kids. They too spend their lives working hard for their daily bread and dream about going to Istanbul one day. They too are scared and disgusted by terrorism just as much as we are. They too, are people like us.

At sun down, he broke his fast with 2 glasses of our Amul Taaza milk and a silent prayer. He left soon after, promising me a parcel of Iraqi dates, the next time I showed up at Basrah Terminal.