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The other day I read an article on guilt. Apparently, it’s the new love. Makes the world go round. Apparently, it’s what the Great Indian Family Bond is based on. A large dose of sentiment, in the right, quavering tone, with a tiny reminder on duty thrown in on the side, is all it takes, assures this well informed journalist. We the people are consumed by our desire to be holier than thou. We even marry people we’ve never met, sacrificing far more interesting partners we may or may not have fallen in love with. Children are forced to eat because there is no middle ground between discipline and domination. Our parents never did it, and instead, Immaculate Conception, or its desi, purer equivalent, is firmly believed in till at ripe old 15, Bollywood or Playboy, whichever arrives first, make things impossible. Sex Ed is off the internet or music videos that work just as well. The article also talked of the sexual stigma that defines our blurred sexual identities later on. Deepak Chopra’s illustrated Kamasutra at Crossword is opened guiltily by a young woman. In fact, come to think of it, the Erotica section is the least visited corner in any bookstore. Same sex partners and AIDS are clubbed together and both accepted as a strange westernized phenomenon that affects “other people”. All this while we evolve from mithai on Diwali to Rocher, champagne and eBay.

Initially, when I read the article, I rubbished it. There are far too many of us who like finger pointing because it makes for intellectual hoo ha. And I know plenty of nice families that have set up new Indian ideals where it doesn’t really matter what the norm is, and if you want to do something, you’re free to do it after or despite discussion. Grudgingly or otherwise, many Indian parents today balance freedom well with authority. This writer kept saying how proud she was of being of Indian origin, which was quite ridiculous given that she seemed to think that as a nation, we symbolize one huge guilt trip.

But I’ll give her this much. The guilt that she spoke of is something we do without even realizing it. I have strong women friends defined by guilt. They’re vibrant and independent and full of pride, but at some grass root level, they’re feeling guilty. Of being independent in a family where women don’t need to work and a job is viewed of as an impediment to the natural duty of child rearing and husband feeding. Of never being able to explain why freedom is important. Of never being able to escape the shame of having felt claustrophobia. Our television feeds complete garbage into the minds of its viewers. The representation of Indian men and women is something I’m fiercely ashamed of. Rae’s post last week was a funny read but has a far deeper truth that despite endless debating, fails to really outrage our accepting sensibilities.
Generation Now is evolving into funny, interesting people that screw up relationships occasionally, find jobs and partners they love deeply, or in the least can live with and suffer stress, smoking and bad cinema. Couples have children after having spent enough time enjoying each other’s company. Marriage has stopped becoming a spiritual goal.

But guilt is still a big deal. I have my own. Every now and then I tend to mumble my way through family weddings where explaining my unconventional career and life is fearful. Suddenly my intense love for what I do, is guilty. I’ve watched my amazing dad try to explain my decisions and cringed. A friend is slowly trying to work his way through a mess of having been the obedient son for too long. Having sacrificed what he’s wanted for a really long time, extracting oneself from well meaning, but suffocating families where duty and sacrifice are synonymous with family honor is a task. Another friend cant get out of a marriage that lasted as long as the wedding because she’s afraid of the literal heart attack back home. A third will complete the mandatory education in the chosen field for 7 years before going on to get a job she doesn’t want. The thing is, we’re still not free. There are very many of us who are stuck in pools of inexplicable guilt that defy logic. Fashion becomes something to be ashamed of in a country where choices are judged in a matter of minutes.

I know I sound a little confused in this post. Its because I am, on the subject. There's a lot to understand where brass tacks are concerned.

I honestly don’t know if it’s more specific to us, owing to our heritages, or a widespread feeling that better masked elsewhere. Whatever it is, it’s too much baggage to grow with.

Something I intended to post but forgot last time.
A couple of days ago I was asked to decide the dramatic potential of some professional institutions. The festival was organized by Bangalore’s best and India’s second best management college. Undoubtedly aware of their prestige, they snagged a very hefty sum from sponsors and managed to invite the celebrity cream among musicians and quite a bit of corporate glitz. However, as far as managing the event went, the future of corporate India seems quite bleak. They treated us very sweetly but seemed quite helpless and uninformed most of the time. Things were heavily delayed, no one seemed to have the required control and the few that looked informed were far more interested in barking into their warlike talkies.

What made up for the lack of structure was the quality of theatre that came out on top. I would’ve paid more than I usually do to watch those plays at our auditoriums that frequently grace badly rehearsed, fundamentally unsound scripts.

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The myth of The Standing Ovation has finally shattered for me. It’s rare that an entire audience actually gets up together, in genuine tribute to the witnessed performance.
What I’ve long suspected and recently confirmed is that, as in most shows, there will always be the few that truly believe that the performance in question deserves nothing less than a prompt clambering to one’s feet. And this select lot is, evidently, infectious. People sandwiched between them rise, half in confusion, half obligatorily. A few rows hurriedly follow suit, perhaps in their desire to be good members of the theatre. Several more follow, in a messy Mexican Wave manner. Finally, the remaining few who wish to not hurt the troupe’s sensitive emotions, or disbalance the sensibilities of the discerning crowd, rise. And what you have is The Semi-Standing Ovation.
Of course, there are instances when the phantom of the theatre erases such scarce grit and compels even the yawner/ grinner/ indifferent onlooker to stand in shared social grace.
And then there are the real ones. These are so far and few in between that it’s hard to predict their arrivals. But they’re pretty amazing. A whole hall full of faces that you instinctively know have loved every moment can be a real turn on. Even being a part of The Real Standing Ovation is a kick in itself.
One thing though, in a city like Bombay for instance, sometimes the desire to encourage fresh talent or surprisingly good work that seems sporadic, instills a commendable spirit of appreciation in lovers of the theatre. Enough to make them rise in true support.

There is an actor that I admire greatly. And it so happened that my time and purpose in Bombay allowed me to gaze worshipfully around him every day. I finally did manage to muster up enough coherence to go and gush to him about his work. Without making most of the intellectual points or questions I had debated for so long. It was still, A Moment. Sigh.

Hunger, I have discovered, is an ideology. One that I will have to live with and appreciate all my life. I’ve discovered the best way to combat my sweet jaw. Just give in to craving and its complete slavery. Not literally, as that would spontaneously combust all monetary incomes. But in spirit. There’s a certain sadistic pleasure in staring at a cheesecake or a jalebi, or chocolate and wanting it, yet not willing yourself to not want it. You cant have it, but lust, I’ve discovered, comes a close second to actual realization.

Well-wishers are only allowed to buy me flowers and books. Nothing edible, with cinnamon, apples or any such provocations. Gelato is fantastic.

What does one do with a friend that can’t see? How scared he is. And how running away doesn’t help. And what do I do with my idiot self that won’t give up or allow peace when I see too much. Why can’t I just let it be? Things would be easier for him.

Superstar has become an adorable alcoholic. Scotch bottles line his conscience.