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At the stroke of the midnight hour...
Aug. 15th, 2007 12:00 am"At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India shall awake to life and freedom..."
Sixty years of independence. I worry that it's only sixty years, that it means that when I was born, India had been independent for only forty years, just half a lifetime, not even two generations. I worry that it's been too long, sixty years, why aren't we stronger, better, why haven't we done more?
My mum and I are sending my grandmother some flowers this week. She was born on August 19th, 1947 - four days into the life of free India. When my parents were born, India had been free for just eight years. And there is so much left to do, still - so much poverty and ignorance, so much oppression and corruption, so much to do.
A handful more links:
The cult of the sex goddess, from G2. About India's women - the chain-smoking women for whom feminism is a superficial gloss, about the so-traditional-it's-hip women my sister is going to grow up to be, the conniving, bejewelled women on the serials my mum watches, the women who have been fighting for their rights their entire lives, and the youngest women, the ones like me.
The best and worst of times, also from G2. This article rings true for me in a number of different ways. A few minutes before I read it, I was talking to Mum about the flowers we're going to send - she'd been on the florist's website, she said, what did I think of a bouquet of lilies for Rs. 6000?
Oh, I said, that's not much - and there is a family of twelve in the article who live off Rs. 3000 a month. And it makes me twitch with guilt and privilege, and guilt, and guilt.
Another family scrimp to send their daughter to what the article calls "Delhi's elite private school, the Modern School." The Modern School is near CP. It's the school I would have gone to.
"CP", incidentally, stands for "Connaught Place" - and it's always worried me that Delhi, a Hindi-speaking city, has that name for one of its most important districts. The article reminds us that, of course, "New Delhi" was what the British called the city. Calcutta, Bombay and Madras have all reverted to their real named of Kolkata, Mumbai and Chennai, but strangely, Delhi hasn't. (And I was watching Heroes the other day and getting annoyed at the use of "Madras" as the name of the city, because apparently people don't learn.)
Memories of partition, from the BBC. I like this piece - it's a cross-section of views, and it's a period of history I really think comes through best with personal anecdotes.
Azsad Bharat ke saat sal, from the BBC. It's much quicker, and requires many less dictionaries, for me to read the English, but I felt labouring through the first paragraph was worth the effort. Azaad - freedom.
I wonder... I may have been subconsciously thinking about this in the last few weeks. I knew it was coming, of course, along with Janmasthami, and that might have been why I've been talking about India, culture and religion lately. Just a thought. Happy independence day.
Sixty years of independence. I worry that it's only sixty years, that it means that when I was born, India had been independent for only forty years, just half a lifetime, not even two generations. I worry that it's been too long, sixty years, why aren't we stronger, better, why haven't we done more?
My mum and I are sending my grandmother some flowers this week. She was born on August 19th, 1947 - four days into the life of free India. When my parents were born, India had been free for just eight years. And there is so much left to do, still - so much poverty and ignorance, so much oppression and corruption, so much to do.
A handful more links:
The cult of the sex goddess, from G2. About India's women - the chain-smoking women for whom feminism is a superficial gloss, about the so-traditional-it's-hip women my sister is going to grow up to be, the conniving, bejewelled women on the serials my mum watches, the women who have been fighting for their rights their entire lives, and the youngest women, the ones like me.
The best and worst of times, also from G2. This article rings true for me in a number of different ways. A few minutes before I read it, I was talking to Mum about the flowers we're going to send - she'd been on the florist's website, she said, what did I think of a bouquet of lilies for Rs. 6000?
Oh, I said, that's not much - and there is a family of twelve in the article who live off Rs. 3000 a month. And it makes me twitch with guilt and privilege, and guilt, and guilt.
Another family scrimp to send their daughter to what the article calls "Delhi's elite private school, the Modern School." The Modern School is near CP. It's the school I would have gone to.
"CP", incidentally, stands for "Connaught Place" - and it's always worried me that Delhi, a Hindi-speaking city, has that name for one of its most important districts. The article reminds us that, of course, "New Delhi" was what the British called the city. Calcutta, Bombay and Madras have all reverted to their real named of Kolkata, Mumbai and Chennai, but strangely, Delhi hasn't. (And I was watching Heroes the other day and getting annoyed at the use of "Madras" as the name of the city, because apparently people don't learn.)
Memories of partition, from the BBC. I like this piece - it's a cross-section of views, and it's a period of history I really think comes through best with personal anecdotes.
Azsad Bharat ke saat sal, from the BBC. It's much quicker, and requires many less dictionaries, for me to read the English, but I felt labouring through the first paragraph was worth the effort. Azaad - freedom.
I wonder... I may have been subconsciously thinking about this in the last few weeks. I knew it was coming, of course, along with Janmasthami, and that might have been why I've been talking about India, culture and religion lately. Just a thought. Happy independence day.
