Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, not Mindy Kaling, drew me to watch the new teen Netflix series. And Maitreyi Ramakrishnan's charm, not Mindy Kaling's star, kept me glued to it. I am delighted that a seemingly down-to-earth, middle-class, Sri Lankan Tamil Canadian kid from Toronto is here to live out a Hollywood dream. It is easy to see why Maitreyi won the role over 15,000 other contenders -- she has a natural charm, is lively, spunky, and still disarmingly untouched by her own (healthy) ambition and early success. I love watching how Toronto celebrates her and am impressed by how well (how naturally) and lightly she wears her teen icon status. Her Tamil parents have raised her well, is all I can think.
I found the Devi character quite annoying -- I know, I am supposed to remember being a teen myself and also cut some slack given that Devi is experiencing a traumatic loss. Except for the loss of her father, Devi's story line is predictable: high achieving AND good looking South Asian kid with a physician parent; has an affinity for a high-achieving, well-off Jewish kid despite herself and their early rivalry, despite her attraction to a good-looking, non-stereotypically sensitive athlete. Come on! But the show, we are told, is based on Mindy Kaling's life. Kaling is lucky (alright, more than lucky, quite thorough actually) that she searched the world and found Maitreyi to play Devi for her and Poorna Jagannathan to play the mother. I certainly credit the full cast for my interest rather than the story and dialog itself.
The last episode of the first season, minus the drama, was my favorite episode of them all -- Nalini was more than a caricatured Indian American mother, an educated, liberal Indian woman. The trio of the women in the family reminded me of what I want for myself and my daughters -- relying on one another even when we each are different in our own ways.
Here are my kids' thoughts in their own words, uncensored, unedited:
I appreciate the effort that Never Have I Ever took to incorporate so much diversity; most of both the major and minor characters are minorities, especially Asian Americans. I also value the show’s decision to make Devi and her family be Tamil because I feel like the average American automatically associates an Indian person as a person who speaks Hindi. I liked that they show Devi’s family members speaking Tamil and eating Tamil food with their hands.
The show is entertaining, funny, and lively, while at the same time demonstrating the pain that people face. Although on the outside Devi often comes across as outgoing and comical, she is still going through a lot mentally and emotionally, what with the grief she faces from her father’s recent death, the shame she feels from having to be in a wheelchair even though she overcame her leg paralysis, and the struggles of trying to be popular and well-liked at school that she experiences. In a way, Ben, her academic rival, is much the same way going through internal pain though coming across as content. He always shows off to Devi and appears to be so proud of his academic success but in reality he is extremely lonely, always feels abandoned by his parents, and doesn’t have true friends to connect with (for the most part of the show). With these two dynamic characters, Never Have I Ever exposes the stigma of mental health problems that is especially common in high school.
-- Lekha Durai, May 24, 2020
I thought that Never Have I Ever was a pretty good show. It was entertaining and kept me really hooked while watching it, which is what a good show should do for viewers. It was also so cool to see Indian American representation in American media. I’m so used to watching shows like this, with a similar storyline, with a primarily white cast, so the diversity in the show was nice. It was really cool to see someone that looks like me represented on American television. Having said that, I do feel like the show had a few flaws. First of all, the dialogue was often poorly written. Some lines in the show were so cringey that they would never be spoken in real life. I think the script writers intended for these lines to be funny, but they just weren’t.
Devi’s mom’s character confused me quite a bit throughout the show. She was supposed to come across as a typical, strict Indian mother, but she often had no reaction to things Devi and Kamala did. For example, she didn’t care when Devi stayed at Ben’s house. She didn’t know Ben or his parents very well, but she just let her daughter stay there all by herself for a week. Secondly, she had almost no reaction when she saw Kamala’s boyfriend in Kamala’s room the day they were meeting her potential husband. She even adds, nonchalantly, that she’d known about him all along. I’m excited for season two of this show to come out, but I hope that the script writers use the constructive criticism people have expressed about the show in the next season’s script.
-- Divya Durai, May 22, 2020
Never Have I Ever is a Netflix teen series created and written by Mindy Kaling. Narrated by John McEnroe, the show is from the perspective of the protagonist, Devi Vishwakumar (Maitreyi Ramakrishnan), a fifteen-year-old Indian-American girl. The plot highlights Devi’s struggles, which reflect those of many immigrant children. As a Tamil-Canadian living in America, I respect the historical significance of Kaling’s show. However, I would not recommend it; it is poorly written and unrealistic, and also has an unclear plot and mood.
Mindy Kaling is known for her writing; she has written for The Office and many books. However, Kaling did a poor job with writing Never Have I Ever— the dialogue is not authentic. If you watch the show, you’ll notice that the actors do an amazing job to make the dialogue seem authentic. But, many sentences—written by Kaling—still do not sound right. This is partly because Kaling tries too hard to put humor where it is not needed.
As an Indian-Canadian student in the U.S., I could not relate to Kaling’s depiction of high school. She centered the show’s high school on having different cliques that stereotype each other. That depiction is true to an extent, but far too many teen shows and movies have used and exaggerated it. Kaling’s depiction of high school may be true to her experiences as a teenager, but they do not hold for Gen-Z students like myself.
In Never Have I Ever, Devi struggles through the love-hate relationship she has with her immigrant mother. But she also has to figure how to handle her feelings for her crush, Paxton. She also stumbles in being there for her friends—Fabiola, who needs support as she realizes that she is gay, and Eleanor, who struggles in her relationship with her mother. But that’s not all—Devi’s cousin, Kamala, has to choose between her boyfriend and her family’s chosen groom. Also, Devi’s friend, Ben, has to find his way out of loneliness. And if that’s not enough, Devi’s mother Nalini, who misses her late husband, is reminded of memories of him. Clearly, Kaling did not create a clear plot that solves a main conflict. There is nothing wrong with a complicated plot, but it must be executed smoothly for a good story. And Kaling failed to center all of these unrelated conflicts into one central idea. And in the midst of all of these serious conflicts, Kaling tries to insert humor where it doesn’t fit. Humor is totally fine, but in Never Have I Ever, it creates an unsettled mood. Too often while watching the show, I wasn’t sure whether to feel sadness, anger, or humor. All of these unclear conflicts and moods produce an unclear purpose. After watching all of the episodes, I do not have a good answer to why Kaling created this show other than it gives cultural representation and makes money.
Never Have I Ever gives much deserved representation to minorities like myself, and it highlights many problems that many teenagers go through, from trying to fit in and be liked to trying to come out about your sexuality. But Kaling did not produce these ideas into a good show. The dialogue was written poorly; the plot, mood, and purpose was unclear; and the depiction of high school was unrealistic. The show is probably popular due to Kaling’s name and its historical significance, but it does not live up to valid expectations.
-- Rahul Durai, May 24, 2020
Friday, May 29, 2020
Never have I ever...been this delighted to watch a new, young celebrity-in-the-making
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Tamizh makkal, Tamizh magalgal (Tamils and Tamil daughters)
Discussions about Tamil (the language) and Tamils (the people) like Periyar and Annadurai seem to abound currently in India because the question of national language is back in the limelight.
The Dhaka Tribune has an in-depth article on the history of Tamil language and the identity of its people.
Perhaps it is time for me to tell my thirsting-for-all-things-Tamil twelve-year old that her great-grandfather went to prison in the '60s, along with C. N. Annadurai, protesting against Hindi imposition.
But then again, I will have to deal with questions such as 'why don't you and daddy speak Tamil like Tamils do?', 'why don't you think in Tamil?' and 'when are you going to teach me Tamil?' Alas, no Tiger Mom am I.
So maybe it will become time for me to tell her that I am just about busy surviving somewhere, somehow; that, if my thatha wasn't snatched prematurely from this world, maybe I will now be a Tamil in Tamil Nadu rather than a Tamil in oblivion; that perhaps, she, my daughter, will have more opportunities to live life on her own terms; possibly, after the meandering and lost generations in between, she will connect right back to that proud, hardworking, self-respecting Tamil whose blood and love for the language runs deep in her veins.
Yes, maybe it is time for a Tamil moment between a Tamil mother and her much more Tamil daughter.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Condemned
The night is dark...
dank...
silent and cold...
The plantation crops stand still;
the crickets whirr
and for miles around
Everything else lies still.
But hark!
In one of the tiny sheds...
In the dark and the cold
amidst swaddling rags,
Witness
the birth of a helpless soul.
A kerosene lamp greets the babe...
into an otherwise uncaring world.
No doctors, no nurses...
Just an old neighbour with a blade.
No hospital, no ward...
Just a mat for a bed.
No blankets nor warm clothes...
Just rags and the cold.
No high-pitched wail...
Just a tiny whimper,
a resignation to the fates.
For the tired mother, there's no joy
her first born's female...
The tiny rivulet of joy
is lost...
dries...
shrivels...
In its place
a sea of helpless anger
and frustration grows.
The mother sees her daughter's fate
no better than her own,
nor any of her kind.
For she is of upcountry stock
and being Tamil is her fate.
And unto her daughter
she could bequeath nothing...but
a life of suffering...
violence...
hunger...
sorrow...
And finally death.
Blissful, welcomed death.
How to break out...
is the anguished mother's cry
To end this awful fate of
poverty...
malnutrition...
slow death.
A monstrous fate hanging o'er them
The future of the plantation child.
The future of her new-born child
a daughter of the plantations...
Condemned to a stateless being
and rearing yet more stateless.
A fate so cruel -- it has turned
a free land into prison.
To break this fate is her mission
but tears, prayers and submission
Are all in vain
They are of no avail.
Copyright Malathi Raghavan 1985-86
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
My mother's extension
My mother and I,
We grew up together;
We wish to conquer the world together;
We learn to live for one another,
So as to fill the gaps in each other's lives,
Such that the whole of our universe has fewer holes.
My mother is mostly left behind by the swiftly changing outside world,
And so I choose to be the colorful rainbow above her unpaved road.
While she has lived in one city all her life,
I've flown across countries and moved from one city to another.
Since she cautiously diversifies her mainly homemaker life
I recklessly concoct unusual career paths and hope that she too can enjoy the
view.
She was relegated to being under-educated,
I make up for it by striving to be over-educated.
For every year of education that she didn't have,
Her value in the marriage market soared.
For every year of education that I do add,
My value in the marriage market drops.
The age at which she wanted to add a missing career slot to her family life,
Is now the same age that I want to add a missing family slot to my career life.
With her effortless air of charming sociability she attracts helping hands
to her side;
With my contrived air of proud self-sufficiency I drive away annoyingly poking
noses.
But sometimes she confides in me that she could do without some meddling folks;
At those times I confide in her that I could do with some more caring souls.
There are days when I watch, wait, and get exasperated at how crowded her life
is;
In turn, somedays she watches, waits, and gets her heart broken at how lonely
my life is.
And then we cry.
Together we cleanse our knotted souls;
And through the tears, we smile.
Then we remind each other
To be strong,
To be confident,
To believe in our own lives,
To trust in our own fates,
To practice patience while we wait for what's missing in our own different
ways.
But alone and separate, we are not;
We each are assured by one another.
The cord, it seems, was never ripped.
As in a circle, we know not
Who begins, who ends;
Who asks, who receives;
Who sows, who reaps.
We merely strive to keep that circle unbroken.
Her dreams, I live;
My dreams, she lives.
We live both our truths and our lies.
Both half-happy, half-sad.
If two happy-halves make one happy,
Where do the two sad halves go?
"Modern math and logic are beyond my comprehension," is all she can
offer.
Then I get angry in that special way reserved only for a daughter.
I complain that once again I am left alone with the puzzles and the fears.
Without moving in space, I manage to trample the maternal heart.
Did I say we grew up together?
That we learnt lessons in the presence of one other?
But yes, I meant the lessons of life.
Unlike those that are taught to me inside four walls,
Unlike those that are printed in books,
Unlike those that are strictly formulaic,
The lessons of life, those we are allowed to learn without being separated.
So together, she and I, we are still searching for the answer
That we are sure is still out there, somewhere.
In the meanwhile, there is Mother's Day
To remind me of her selflessness and sacrifice;
To remind me that my mother sustained my life at a time when I most needed her.
At a time when without her there couldn't have been a me,
She did not wake me; she did not leave me alone; she did not send me on my own.
And so I sigh, a dark, heavy, guilty sigh.
Because when I look deep inside me, I know that even now she has not sent me
off alone.
She has, in fact, bundled in me all of our ancestors' hopes.
And these as my badge of honor, I am blessed to wear.
Within my heart I am gifted with all their dreams
In loneliness, I gently unwrap them to soar high and fly.
In me she has collected the reservoir of all their tears
That I may, when I thirst, have a fountain to drink from.
In every vein of my body flows their blood;
So, when I hunger I am assured of my nourishment.
And from every pore of my body oozes their sweat.
It is in this way that I wrap myself with their fragrance.
So my mother, in her own wisdom, and love, chose me as her extension.
To carry with me to these far-off lands a part of our ancient self.
Do I spread my wings homeward or plant my roots downward? -- this I know not
yet.
But today, I am content to merely think of my mother, who is far away,
And of all her own mothers.
(C) Copyright: Malathi Raghavan 2000
Sunday, May 26, 2013
HemaMalini (Vidyodaya, '86)
A year or so ago,
When I came across
A class photograph
From my past, I
Touched faces,
Saw smiles,
Heard distinct voices
Across the miles;
Across the months, the years
Of life that slipped away...
Like so much fine sand.
If the persons behind the faces
Switched off their TVs,
Shut out the traffic,
Turned down their chatter,
Quieted their families
For a moment,
Will they hear my thoughts?
I wondered.
Will they hear me whisper
"Hey, how are you doing?
Do *you* see my face too?
Do you wonder
Why I flashed in your mind's eye?
Can you hear me?
Did we connect?"
Yet, so busy that I was
Doing the asking,
Lining up the questions,
That I failed to
Listen
To the silence
That came away
From the corner
That I imagined
Held one classmate
Securely.
Turns out,
*I* didn't sit still enough
To recognize
That her voice
Was by then
No more.
R.I.P. HemaMalini.
October 6, 2012.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Hidden Universes
A universe
Explodes inside me
(Not unlike the real Big Bang)
Each time I stumble
Onto music
From my teens.
How is it
That neither my Zambian-assembled husband
Nor my "half-Indian" kids
(the other half is "Canadian" or "American" as the case may be;
so says a 6-year old)
Nor even my sis-from-another-gen
Notice this world,
This oh-so-real-that-it-is-painful world
Hidden well
Inside me?
And so I come to ask
My peers
Does your universe
Explode too
Into millions of unexpressed moments
Occupying spaces that you didn't know existed
With every song, tune, beat
From our past?
Do you stop and wonder
'Who am I? What am I doing here?
Where is the world
That once used to be mine?'
Kodai kaala kaatre
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4T0fjYELw8
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Looking at the NCERT cartoon controversy through the prism of class
So much has been said – in
English – about the lack of a sense of humour in Dravidian Tamils by reader-commenters in the English newspaper, 'The Hindu,' and commentators elsewhere.
However, few have understood how the anti-Hindi protests of 1965 aimed to bridge the gap between the socioeconomic classes by opening up access to
the English language in Tamil Nadu and beyond. Fewer have connected how, by not illustrating this nuanced principle and urgent strategy for better economic prospects, the cartoon does a disservice to the protesters and to the history of Tamil Nadu . Instead, those who opened the doors are discussed, by some Tamils and non-Tamils alike, as uncouth trouble-makers with nothing more than political self-interests. So much have we advanced since
those days when English was available mostly to the elites; so much have we
taken for granted the middle- and working-classes' economic potential in the English-speaking world!
The auto driver who shared his dreams
There was once an auto-rickshaw driver in Vadapalani, Madras, who had completed a hand-written novel in Tamil. He grew up in a small town and moved to Madras after his marriage. When I met him about 15 years ago, he appeared to be in his thirties.
His questions about my life in America started even before he turned the auto onto 100ft. road (I had hailed his auto just near Kamala Theatre). What I had to say about my student lifestyle, how I compared America with Russia (having previously lived there), what I had in mind for my future -- all such topics interested him. I answered politely without a hint of the impatience and reticence my own family members were guaranteed to receive when they posed similar questions to me. When we arrived in Adyar, he wanted to know if he should wait to take me to my next destination. "OK," I said and promised not to keep him waiting too long. In less than half-an-hour, we set off to Saidapet. By the time we arrived at my next destination, I was tired from all the questioning. I paid my fare and was eager to take leave.
A couple of days later, my grandmother announced, with enough of a critical note infused into her voice, that an auto-rickshaw driver was asking for me at our gate. I was getting ready to go out for the evening with some new and old friends. I recognized the driver right away. "I wanted to show you something," he said. "OK," I said trying not to show I was distracted. My friends were probably already on their way to pick me up and I still wanted to gather a few things. From inside a plastic bag, he pulled out two thick, dog-eared student notebooks.
"I wrote a book," he said. "Here, take a look."
I took the notebooks in complete politeness and flipped quickly through the pages. The writing in Tamil was neat and appeared easy to read to anyone with an interest in reading it. I am embarrassed now to recall that I was somewhat restless on the inside and lacked exuberance about this novel he must have written with such sincerity and dedication. Perhaps he had always felt the urge to write but apparently, one fine day, he had been inspired enough to stop, buy a notebook and write down a story based on a couple of passengers he had driven that day. After that, his book grew, absorbing the collective experiences of the auto-driving community. He also had with him a hand-written manifesto on Indian development in a third, ruled notebook. This manifesto, he said, contained all his visions, objectives, policies and procedures for India's future and development.
I was, then, too young, somewhat indifferent, and clearly unimaginative to absorb how unique a person he happened to be, with his not-so-common dedication to pen his thoughts, observations and feelings. Not yet curious about the world of writers, I was just another middle-class kid looking forward to meeting up with friends and having 'a good time.' So I hardly did justice to the first page of his hand-written book and, although he must have valued me enough to share his passion and likely hoped to spend some time talking about his book, I don't remember an animated conversation. Now years later, I cannot remember the faces I met at the evening's party, the conversations that I must have had, the inevitable cute guy in the room that I must have glanced at shyly and surreptitiously. But I remember that unpublished Tamil writer's pride and eagerness well, and often regret not paying more attention to his interest. Maybe I could have asked him to lend me his books to read them at my own pace. Maybe I would have been one of his first readers, if not his very first reader. I would have come to know what hopes and dreams an auto-driver had for his country. Now, belatedly, I want to know the names of his characters, the languages they spoke, and the reasons they captured his attention. And I want to ask him the all-important question: does he know how to get his books published?
If only I can go back in time. If only I had bothered to remember his name.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
In memoriam: Amutha "Ammu" Subramaniam
TO BLOSSOMS by Robert Herrick
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here a-while,
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a-while;--they glide
Into the grave.
