6:30 am, Ommallur, 25th November

Trees sway and dance to the first ray of sun soaking the dirt of the night in hope this sleepy town immersed in the hallelujah chorus for various gods stands on its feet, birds chirp joyous songs and float in the thin air, untouched and immaculate. Mother's prayers reach the skies and hit my ears, it's been an alarm clock since I was ten. My mind wanders to the time when we woke to the sounds of the radio, when the weight of the school bag bent our shoulders. With the arrival of youth, the burden of that memory sometimes puts a smile on my face when we wanted to grow up we should have known school bags and skirts were life's precious gifts that could never be as good as a pricey designer handbag.

Hope

This year might remain

a thorn in our flesh

in our memories a nightmare

that shook us up

in the middle of the night.

A circled year on the calendar

that put plans on hold

weddings, holidays, dates

every crumb of life that 

kept our plates full

we'll  treat with contempt

this year like a rodent that we are trying to

remove from our homes

a comma we are trying to erase

from the sentence of our lives  

that has split the meaning.

Yet in the midst of a lost poem

called life, I try to wake up to the angry alarm clock, eat the breakfast

without making complaints, 

as I struggle to find the lost rhythms  

hope is the name I think of

that inspires me to sing along

with a choir that is keeping

the music alive in a mass

that can only be seen, not tasted.  

Silence

This pandemic tells us a story
of how we may need to wait
before we join the dots
of our life. The image is blurred.

Sleep is a ritual just like
the Sunday mass. I love to do it
but why I want to. I can't say.
Nothing can make it happen.
Not even the perishing blue light
of the television shutting itself down.
I think I'm evading fear by staying awake.

Thanking for the food is gratitude best done when hunger games are being played
destruction looms large so does uncertainty
learning to live in a room blinking with lights and smelling of disinfectants is a lesson
live the day until the mind can close its door.

Nights aren't tired they draw pictures on a blank slate, shapes that define existence
as I search for the brightest star in the sky, I smile at the thought of the person who taught me to memorise my name
I call him faith. He calls me silence.

March 31st 2020

Anxiety is a painful rot
in the hollow of my skull
looking for signs for a pandemic
that's spreading smoothly
as butter on bread.
Fear is a smokescreen
dulled by the brightness of TV
that fill the gaps in the room.
He should have been here
did he forget to call?

In a pilgrimage that travelled
faster than light, losses are counted
Faith was the biggest price
followed by sleep that is a violent moon chase, almost every night.
In a room reeking of disinfectants
protection is an assurance, of not having caught by the fever.
Circled dates are a holy ritual
prayer a promise
one day battles would be won
when future would be a tomorrow
feeding on the seeds of resurrection
that will wake up the dead bones
a leap of faith won't cost
many lives. It'll find it's way.
Through the lying, cheating flock
of bastardised men. 

Original Sin

The wind sweeps past me
as I sit inside the tinted windows
of a neat and swanky car.
Sundays are an affair to remember
especially the bland Sunday breakfast
in the terrace dining coloured by
the yellow sun
and these cab drives with people who speak strange languages.
Stuck in a city that I wanted to
build my home in, I want to now
Hail Mary my out of it. Our Father, deliver us from the evil one.

This day gave me a moment of realisation
when truth woke me up in the
morning, and whispered "love is a lie"
I let it sink in, and wash it away
with the bubbling  toothpaste foam. I bit hard to
chew and digest this truth with every morsel of food. It sank down my throat.

Cab drives to the church are a joyride for my song play list.  As the next song plays out  lust is the word that sings,
sweetly like the choir singer at the church.
It's defined the cycle of procreation. In clear concise words.
They named it love. And fooled us with it.
We chose to believe in it.
So that our body won't hurt
when it would camouflage itself
and feast on our flesh.
It is the truth. That the church forgot to teach us. Every Sunday we gulp it down with the host. And smile ear to ear.
Bearing the weight of the original sin.

30th December 2019

The aroma of freshly roasted peanuts,brightly lit malls, happy people seeking solace in year end festivities, the cackling sounds of overjoyed children, coloured billboard shining in the dark like a polestar.
The sounds of a language that talks to you, names of streets that you recognise like a math formula, the nip in the air that cuts through your tired bones.
A winter movie that will keep playing
in my mind as I go back to a city
that doesn't know my name.
Delhi is home. The final destination.
Every other place is a milestone that I can count on, before I reach home.
To usher in another new year. 

Status of women in the Syrian Christian society

Introduction

This article aims at showing the practices and procedures existing in the events of birth, marriage and death amidst the Syrian Christians of the state of Kerala in India. And the rituals and customs aimed at creating a mental and social divide in a patriarchal society with the place of women in the father's household and in her conjugal household after marriage. So also it will explore the elements of Syrian Christian wedding and the Indian practices customized exclusively for the women, and not the men to bear as symbols of devotion in a matrimonial relationship. 

The subject of analysis are the Syrian Christians of the state of Kerala in India, who believe that they were converted by St. Thomas, the apostle of Christ according to myths that date back to AD 52, but since 17th century have been divided into several different church denominations and traditions. The Orthodox and Jacobite syrian Christians are two of the segments of one denomination which split in 1912, with one paying allegiance to the patriarch of Antioch and the other to the Malankara metropolitan, the Catholicos.¹

Kerala society in the earliest centuries was traditionally plural. It allowed for the portrayal and interaction of the Hindu, Christian, and Syrian codes which led to a later society inspired by all these schools of thought. There was an effective internal impetus towards reciprocal relativity among the various spheres of social life, and less of dominance or submission of any one in relation to the others. There had been the areas bound by a pluralistic system of values in which the other spheres of activity are accorded their due and place. It does not mean at all that the Syrian Christians did not have their private world. They did have their own private world. It related to their rituals and ecclesiastical life, “with the norms of endogamy determining the level of contact and intimacy between the individuals”. The Christian community, as the traditions of the Syrian Christians show, lived and developed and the Christian life grew on the pattern of temple-life of the Hindus.² The community must have lived together as a caste, in villages or in towns, as is the ancient custom of India, and the church probably stood in a central place. Apart from the convenience for church-worship, the Christians considered it spiritually elevating to live near the churches, and this preference for living near the churches has continued in Kerala down to this day. They used to bring the sick to the church. The churches and the surrounding places were used as inns or Dharmashalas by the pilgrims.

¹ A. R Sreedharan Menon, Cultural heritage of Kerala, An Introduction, p 57

² A. M. Mundadan, History of Christianity in India, Vol. I, Bangalore, TPI, 1984, Pp. 1-21

Is male objectification catering to gender parity?

A question that is doing the rounds in feminist circles nowadays is that do men get objectified just like women do, especially with feminism clearly addressing issues of misogyny and traditional patriarchy? The answer is yes, they do. But not the same as women.

Sexual objectification can be defined as the viewing of human beings as a sum total of their body parts with no regard to their personalities or feelings. Sexual objectification has made one person the agent and another person the object.

In our conception of heterosexual relationships, the man is considered to be the subject and woman the object. Sexual objectification does not give a person the freedom to choose what they want sexually.

Sexual objectification in our culture

Sexual objectification has a status quo attached to it, which has always made the woman the subject and this thinking is so deeply ingrained in our culture that items songs with scantily clad actresses have been used to sell movies to a male audience or female models have been presented as objects to sell products used by men. The target here is the sensuality of a man who will be attracted to female objectification and will buy the product.

Bollywood has successfully objectified women in movies, by making women actors expose their midriffs, cleavages and legs dancing to music with crude, sexist lyrics. Most women actors are presented as though they are to be devoured. Indeed sexual objectification of women runs the advertising industry and has sold thousands of products by effectively dehumanizing women.

OBJECTIFYING ANY HUMAN BODY ISN’T PROGRESS, MAN OR WOMAN.

Even in everyday life, girls are asked to cover up to avoid distracting their male friends and acquaintances which patriarchal powers in authority think will create “unsafe” circumstances for girls. Which they think can’t be controlled by imposing stricter rules on those who are complicit in making spaces unsafe for girls.

Body Shaming: Fat and thin are socially constructed images

Your body is your business, especially it's size but one of the first sexist social constructs that was often slapped on us was being told that a thin woman is pretty. I grew up to this idea of a perfect body image and thought that flab was "unpretty" and would not get me boyfriends and a husband when I'd decide to take the plunge and make a family. Adulthood brought it's own dilemmas one of which was, that I started to grow fatter despite being a vegetarian and a runner.This trend of moving from fit to fat got me thinking, even though I had no ambitious fitness goals like the actors or sportspersons.

I started eating smaller portions of food and gulping down water like a fish but it didn't work in my favour. I have a very strange body type which of course I don't intend to liken with fruits. I have really heavy arms and it seems all the fat that stealthily gets under my skin finds a home around the arms. Initially I didn't pay heed to it and ignored all the warning bells. No one at home especially my parents ever bothered to tell me about it, nor did my best of friends. My arms started swelling and apparently one day a comment from a friend's friend got me thinking. His usage of sexist language was evident in the message he wanted to convey. 

A Pinch of Salt

She ambled towards the kitchen sheepishly. It was their first morning together after a lavish and loud wedding. They didn't have sex but to sleep in the same room with a stranger was an uncomfortable experience. They said that he was her husband but then he hardly knew her except for the fact that he loved to go for plays and took a keen interest in writing.
To cook for a stranger was an uphill task but this was the moment that could break the ice between them. 
The kitchen was neat and everything was placed in order with clear labels pasted on the jars. She smiled happily at the thought of having accidentally married a guy who was spick and span and knew how to take care of his belongings. 
The space was stacked with all the latest home appliances that were invented to make cooking an effortless and painless experience. She was in awe of the man she had married after having a glance of his scullery. He had indeed been brought up with a sense and value for responsibility. 
She wondered as to what was the first dish that she should make for her beloved husband that would make him fall head over heels in love with her. She didn't want the first meal of their life to leave a distaste in their mouths.
The window threw the warmth of the sun on her face.The bright red flowers in the garden were gleefully basking in the aubade aura of the yellow star. 
She decided to make chole (chickpeas) and puri (wheat bread fried in oil). She remembered that on their first date in a sparsely lit restaurant in south Bombay he had joked about craving for chole bhature after having moved away from home. Struggling to knead the dough to perfection she had to make sure that the surprise she had planned for her husband  remained behind the closed doors. After battling with the hissing sounds of the fried oil and getting incinerated in the heat she hurriedly rushed to the bathroom to wash herself. She didn't want to stink like a pig and waste the moment she was looking forward to.

The ceramic tray was brimming with utensils. The pots made a loud clinging noise that woke him up. With half open eyes and a shy smile he looked at her from the comfort of the couch that was his resting place for the night. He moved quickly to the bathroom and returned in a jiffy, quickly positioning himself on the wooden chair of the study table placed in the corner of the room. She couldn't look at him with confidence or for that matter with ardor as he was this stranger turned acquaintance who had posed with her on a gilded stage for the frenzied photographers last night.
As they sat down to have the first meal of their life together as husband and wife, he gingerly touched her for the first time moving the bunch of wet dripping hair away from her face. She was taken aback by the gentle grazing of his skin on hers. They said that a way to a man's heart was through his stomach, perhaps they were right.
As he broke a piece of the puri and dipped it in chole, biting into it like a gluttonous dog, the expression on his face suddenly changed. As she bent over him to inquire as to what was wrong with the food, he grinned and inquired as to whether she could find the jar of salt or not.She tasted the food, smiling back in hesitation intently looking at a man who had no qualms in forgiving her for being stupid, or perhaps unmindful.

Forgetfulnes and a pinch of salt gave them their first sweet moment.

'This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.'

New Year in Calgary downtown

The town is blinking. Tonight all her crooked alleys are brightly shining.
They glimmer like a newly wed bride gilded in gold.
I don't know the name of the place but it's anonymity comforts me, she doesn't know me either.

The new year party is on
The sky is dressed in the shimmer of fireworks. Her eyes painted as intricately as that of a dancer.
She's welcoming her new lover. Today is the day when she'll meet him.
I remember the connaught circle
It's nook and cranny thronged with people on new year's eve
reminds you of a swarm of bees, ready for attack.
I didn't know the names of the lifeless bodies swaying on the streets, poisoned with alcohol
I didn't know if they'd make it home after the celebrations
Or will wander on roads named after dead people.
One thing is common. Between how the new year arrives. There and here.
Every person pins their hope on tomorrow's sun.
They anticipate it's arrival like a mother expecting her first child.
Somewhere the bells ring. The sky is lit up. The people cheer.
Here comes another year. In a land I didn't know about.
Last year at this time I was welcoming possibilities.
This year I usher in nothingness.
Nothingness weighed down by doubts.
Doubts about how will I survive, this strange city's scary gaze.
He suddenly seems like the intimidating ruffian I used to meet on delhi streets.
Each day. Every other day.

Anna Chandy- The first Indian woman to become a Judge

Anna Chandy has the rare distinction of being the first Indian woman to become a judge not only in India, but in the entire British commonwealth. She was also one of the earliest feminists in Kerala. She was the first woman in the state of Kerala to earn a post graduate degree in law.

Her publication "Shrimati" was the first women's magazine in malayalam in which the issues of women and widow marriage were widely discussed.

It is also said that she was the second woman in the world after USA's Florence Allen to have been appointed a high court judge.

Picture credit: 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Chandy#/media/File:Anna_chandy_judge.jpg

Early life and education 
Anna was born on 4th May 1904 in Trivandrum, the then capital of Travancore in a Syrian Christian family. Her father passed away soon after her birth after which her mother took great pains to bring her up along with her sister, by working in a local school. 
Anna enrolled herself for a post-graduate degree in law in 1927 when the Government Law college opened admissions to women despite scathing opposition. She got her post-graduate degree in law in 1929 with a distinction and was subsequently appointed to the bar and became famous as a criminal lawyer braving the snide remarks of her male colleagues.

Starting the publication Shrimati

She took her activism outside the courtroom by starting the magazine "Shrimati" which was the first women's magazine in Malayalam. Along with articles on home management, health and household industries, it became an independent voice for women's rights and the question of widow remarriage. Through her writing in Shrimati she also tried to focus on the issues faced by women workers in farms who weren't paid reasonable wages by their landlords and were harassed. 

Entry into politics

She made an entry into active politics in 1930 when she decided to contest for the Shree Moolam popular assembly, an elected representative body for Travancore state. Her opponents carried a malicious slander campaign against her accusing her of having relationships with the Dewan of Travancore and important government officials. This worked against her and she lost the elections.  Despite protests and hostility from both her competitors and media she was successful in winning the Shree Moolam popular assembly seat serving from 1932-1934. 

As a prominent activist and speaker, she passionately fought for women's rights and especially for the rights of daily wage laborers. In 1937, she was appointed the first lady munsif or the lowest level judicial officer by the then Dewan of the Travancore state, which paved the way for her rise up the ranks. In a speech she described her ordeal and how all the peering eyes were waiting for an opportunity to pin the blame on women and how the future of women lawyers would be determined by her performance in her chair.

“I must admit that I was not free from trepidation when I first stepped up to the Bench. However, what was foremost in my mind was a fierce determination to make a success of this experiment. I knew I was a test case… If I faltered or failed, I would not just be damaging my own career, but would be doing a great disservice to the cause of women.”

She was later appointed the district court judge after India gained independence and in 1959 she became the high court judge, becoming the first woman to hold this position among all commonwealth nations.

After a career full of controversial and courageous moments, she retired in 1967 and became the member of the National Law Commission where she keen on bringing substantial changes.

Her fight for women's rights
In an era when women were forced to spend their times in the four walls of their house and not allowed to step out  to work, she fought against a fellow legislator who was opposing the appointment of women in government jobs. She used the law brilliantly against her opponent and said

"‘From the elaborate petition, it is clear that the plaintiff's immediate demand is to ban all efforts by women to gain employment, on the grounds that they are a bunch of creatures created for domestic pleasures of men, and that their lives outside the hallowed kitchen temples will harm familial happiness."

Her daunting fight did away with the rule that prevented women from holding government posts. She was one of the first women in the country to demand women's reservation. However she was also a firm advocate of equal rights which is why argued against the law that exempted women from death penalty. She believed in the free and fair justice.

She also passionately fought for reproductive rights of women challenging the Travancore law which gave men the power to exercise conjugal rights without the consent of their wife. In a speech she gave in 1935, she argued 

"Many of our sister-Malayalees have property rights, voting rights, employment and honours, financial independence. But how many have control over their own bodies? How many women have been condemned to depths of feelings of inferiority because of the foolish idea that women's body is an instrument for pleasure for men"?

Her autobiography titled "Atmakatha" was published in 1973.

She died at the ripe old age of 91 in 1996.

Anna Chandy was often described as one of the earliest feminists of Kerala and one of the first torch bearers of women's rights in India. She was way ahead of her times which is why she was one of the first women to openly and fearlessly fight for the autonomy of women on their bodies. Her invaluable contribution paved the way for women judges and lawyers which had largely been a male dominated field.

References

1) Navrang India

2) Anna Chandy-Wikipedia




  

History Lesson

She is sitting with her husband  on a narrow bench
perhaps, they borrowed it from a school
dressed in starched cotton like the mothers
in those days, her eyes stretched wide open
as butterfly wings before a flight
her right shoulder gingerly grazing his.
Her children hover above her
as chicks around their mother
battling for food,
standing straight
with no bend in the body
hair immersed in coconut oil
neatly parted to the right, or in the middle.

The two girls have worn frocks
that rest below the knees
with black socks pulled up
to camouflage the legs.
Boys dressed in shorts and shirts
have been buttoned up
till their Adam’s apple hurts.

All of them smile in unison
as if the person behind
the camera tempted
them with sweets.
Black and white portrait of a family
that came into being, forty years ago
one of the boys is missing
so is the father, the mother still wears
stiff clothes, her eyes flicker
like an old tube light
Second from the right, was my mother
who now looks like the
woman in the photograph.

Melpadom, Kuttanad,Kerala, 12th January 2016

On the gilded dome of another dawn, strange shapes
of different sizes are being made
sometimes it looks like an orange
being peeled, sometimes like tender mango skin
then it changes colours, like a chameleon
behind villas getting eaten up
by dust, a slow fire burns
in a shanty.

Riding on the lacy blue winds
birds return home, to a place
where eyes will be heavy with sleep
earthworms wriggle back into tiny holes
as coconut trees let their hair loose to dry.

The murky owls will take refuge
in the chimney of the house
before which I steal a glimpse
of shadows growing paler
of hens getting into their coop
and the servant scuttling into her
one room house
the sky will rub off the red vermilion
from her forehead
and will soon wear a black veil.

Last Supper

In the name of the Father, Son and of the Holy Spirit
the Red Sea parted and enemies counted their footfalls
on the graves of our forefathers.
Since then, milk and honey haven't flowed
only bombs have made music
as we walk on egg shells.
We preserve the locks of hair our daughters left,
and remember our sons by their pictures
we waited for their burial, drunk by the unholy passion of pain
their tiny bodies we held, close to our chest, all night
to not let the maggots feed on them,
their graves do not know their names
as the apricot trees that gave them shade, have wilted
at the enemy's commands,
for a few pieces of silver, they have plotted against
our husbands, who will be nailed
to their crosses soon.


The full moon bleaches the blood
on the battlefields
as their cup runs over,
they dip their pens in it, everyday
and write deadlier decrees of death
while we fatten ourselves, innocent lambs,
to fall prey to a landmine or a bomb
Please do not betray us with a kiss of peace
that was promised to us at birth,
the sheep of our flock have been scattered
as our shepherd won't come to lead us
Death is our final Resurrection.

27th September 2017, Marine Drive,Mumbai

This city never changes colors
unlike humans and chameleons,
the queen watches the sky pour ashes on her head
as the prostitutes teething pain behind their painted lips
offer themselves to the heat of hunger.
Dancing to the garish tunes of this concrete jungle
mountains rise from molehills
as I look for you like a helpless child
who's lost her way back home.

This morning I had my breakfast at Theobroma
as the cold coffee cut through my parched throat
I saw the smiles you lent me 
melt on the brown velvet cake
chewing vegetables sandwiched between frail breads
I ate fear
fear of a rendezvous someday over an English breakfast
my eyes riveting in circles
trying to thaw cold feet stuck in my shoes
circling dates on a calendar
skinning nail biting moments from dead carcasses of air.

It's a long lustrous night before the day spills gold
on the feet of trees
Here in my room coiled under a blanket
I wish you would blow gently over the clouds
that embower your city, sending rain to me
I've always loved walking in the rain.
Tomorrow these messengers of yours will wake me up
their winter melting on my palms
Don't know if this is how it would feel?
Your first touch.

Daughter not in Law

In this month
and in December
five years ago,
I had to be stranded
in the land of Pambayar
the land of three rivers
that clings to paddy plantations
in a winding wisteria
My grandpas' land.

Daughters are sent
to an alien burial ground here
tied to a man
with a golden garland
like cattle roped on
positioned poles.

Grandma came from another country
where the earth was petrified of coughing clouds
my eldest cousin went to a land
where trees touch the sobbing sky
another went to a place
where the mollified mud
crashed and churned houses
youngest went to a state
with slanting roofs
that sleeps by eighteen hours
for heat retention,
my elder one would go to a city
melting with economic elegies
Ma came to the heart of India
Aunt went to the hills
where rubber is as precious as milk
every time I visit grandma's grave
the wind blows towards the west
as if she is asking me
with advisory authority
When will it be time for me to go?

The Weight of a Memory

1) everyone loves the arrival of 

new things. Like the sun hides

to let the stars appear, the moon

rests in the deep annals of the sky

a lone object. Scarred, colourless

but bright. 

2) winters melted on the palm of the earth, until it started to burn.

flowers sprouted from new born buds

but sooner, it will be a funeral pyre

that will burn petals of life,

everything will turn to dust.

3) stuck on the soles of my shoes

are the moments I counted back,

when I waited upon him, while he never came I stumbled,
evening walks lay stretched on a straight path. 

4) I thrust my pills into my mouth

I need one more to live through the night. It swallows pain, like the last hiccup that I gulped,

I look at the things I don't need

everything that is garishly coloured is a memory. 

A few weeks later I know what happened to me as I discarded the garbage bag

An episode of partial amnesia. that ate my headaches. 

Pramila: Esther Victoria Abraham- The First woman to be crowned Miss India

“My husband asked me to choose between him and the theatre. And I chose the latter. After that he never came to the theatre. Never saw me either. That was it. I was pregnant then. There was no other meeting, no other conversation … that was the end of my family life …”

Esther was born in 1916 in Kolkata to Reuben Abraham, a businessman from Kolkata and Matilda Issac from Karachi. Her family was of the Baghdadi Jewish origins, that traces its routes to the Middle east and who settled primarily around the trade route ports around Indian ocean and the South Chinese sea.

She had three half siblings and six siblings from her parent’s own marriage.

Picture credit: https://www.indiatimes.com/lifestyle/self/a-look-at-miss-indias-over-the-years-278279.html

Education and early life

Esther attended the Calcutta Girls high school but later shifted to St James which was a co-educational institution and had a reasonable fee structure which the family could afford due to its declining means. Esther learned that to be an all-rounder she had to to excel in both studies and sports and become better than the boys.

She was a hockey champion and had won many trophies in sports.

She had a penchant for drawing and on graduating from high school received an arts degree from Cambridge.

On completing her high school degree she went to become a kindergarten teacher at the Talmud Torah Boy’s school. Esther was pretty and the boys in her school would try and find all kinds of excuses to speak to their beautiful teacher. Despite having done a B Ed degree she didn’t want to teach and was drawn to the Hindi cinema.

From Esther to Pramila

Her family had keen interest in music and dance which attracted young Esther to cinema. Her entry into silent movies happened by a sheer stroke of luck.

In those days her first cousin Rose and her younger sister Sophie were a part of the Corinthian theatre.

Meanwhile she got married to a Marwari theatre personality and had a son Maurice Abraham. Her parents convinced her to annul the marriage and they brought up Maurice.

A chance visit to Bombay to visit her cousin Rose Ezra changed the course of her life. Director R S Chowdhari spotted her while she visited Rose who was acting in The Return of the Toofan Mail. The director thought that the tall and glamorous Esther would do greater justice to the role and she was signed after being put through a screen test.

The movie The Return of the Toofan Mail was never completed but this marked the beginning of Esther’s entry into Hindi cinema.

She stayed on in Bombay and started working with Irani’s Imperial company. In 1936, her first movie Bhikaran hit the theaters and her anglicized hindi was accepted and became a rage. After this movie she was given the screen name Pramila by director and producer Baburao Pendherkar.

She went on to act in movies like Ulti Ganga,Burra Nawab Sahib, Bijli,Shahzadi, Jhankar, Our Darling Daughter, Maha Maya among others that often saw her play a vamp and stunt star. She also became the first major woman film producer with 16 major films under her banner Silver Productions. Morarji Desai, the then Prime minister got her arrested for she was suspected to be a spy for as she often travelled to Pakistan. Later it was proved that her constant travels were aimed at promoting her films.

Picture credit:https://www.flickr.com/photos/123622359@N06/14202418876

Filmography

• Return of the Toofan Mail, directed by R.S. Chaudhary (1935)

• Bhikaran, directed by P.K. Atharti (1935)

• Mahamaya, directed by Gunjal (1936)

• Hamari Betiya / Our Darling Daughters, directed by R.S. Chaudhary (1936)

• Saria, directed by Shanti Dave (1936)

• Mere Lai, directed by Gunjal (1937)

• Mother India, directed by Gunjal (1938)

• Bijlee, directed by Balwant Bhatt (1939)

• Hukum Ka Ekka, directed by Shanti Dave (1939)

• Jungle King, directed by Nari Ghadialli (1939)

• Kahan Hai Manzil Ten, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1939)

• Sardar, directed by Dwarka Khosla (1940)

• Kanchan, directed by Leela Chitnis (1941)

• Shahzaadi, directed by J.P. Advani (1941)

• Basant, directed by Amiya Chakrabarty (1942)

• Jhankar, directed by S. Khalil (1942)

• Saheli, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1942)

• Ulti Ganga, directed by K. Dhaiber (1942)

• Bade Nawab Saheb, directed by B.D. Vedi (1944)

• Naseeb, directed by B.D. Vedi (1945)

• Devar, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1946)

• Nehle Pe Dehla, directed by S.M. Yussuf (1946)

• Sal Gira, directed by K.S. Dariani (1946)

• Shalimar, directed by Roop K. Shorey (1946)

• Doosri Shaadi, directed by Ram Dariani (1947)

• Aap Beeti, directed by M. Kumar (1948)

• Beqasoor, directed by K. Amamath (1950)

• Hamari Beti, directed by Shobhna Samarth (1950)

• Dhoon, directed by M. Kumar (1953)

• Majboori / Choti Bahen, directed by Ram Dariani (1954)

• Badal Aur Bijlee, directed by Maurice Abraham (1956)

• Fighting Queen, directed by Nari Ghadiali (1956)

• Jungle King, directed by Masud (1959)

• Bahana, directed by M. Kumar (1960)

• Murad, directed by Nari Ghadiali (1961)

• Thaang, directed by Amol Palekar (2006)

14th February 2016, Aurora hall, Calgary

From the winter window

melting with human heat

in a strange city brimming with nameless life

I watch two people ensconced wearing each other's bodies

 like warm cardigans, twining their fingers like knitting needles

It's the festival of love, as love can be seen

plastered on walls of restaurants,

malls and the community hall in pink

 sealing the deal in sales

 or doled as discounts.

While in this part of my weary world,

 these two speak to a civilization

Torn by bombs, fractured by barbed wires

My lonely eyes capture the postcard greeting they give to the world

On a moonless night lit by silent street lamps.

Sipping slowly from my favourite mug with a happy picture

He gave on one such Valentine's day

I wonder,

Why do photos save moments

that will be forgotten?

As tears trickle down my face

I realize that I now prefer my coffee salted

 as my tongue gets used to the taste of

 wet memories.