Earth quake toll

50,000 dead
And the toll mounts
It has become a horrid fascination
To tally up
The figures
For the grim reaper
In the math
Somewhere it gets lost
That it is people
We have been talking about.

I am IT

I have been Tagged. Just when I was complaining(mentally) about blogs that are all about the writer( a blogpostcard is coming up). Roop I am not forgiving you!!!
But here goes:

Eight things I am passionate about( not in that order except for the top two):
1. Reading Fiction
2. Reading non-fiction- school work
3. Atheism
4. Feminism
5. Thinking for myself
6. Living Green
7. Dogs and cats and things that are sweet
8. My plants

Eight things I want to do before I die:
1. Become somebody professionally
2. Learn to Swim
3. Write a book of fiction
4. Write a book - of non-fiction
5. Learn some form of fun dancing( salsa, the swing...)
6. Read still more
7. Loosen up a bit
8. Live my life on MY terms

Eight things I say often:
1. Well actually
2. Heyyy
3. Y'all( I love the way it sounds)
4. Aisa hai
5. How you doin'( I try the Joey accent)
6. Ahaa
7. Bolo
8. I was thinking( or I have been thinking)

Eight books I have read recently(only 8?????? these include re-reads also):
1. Unaccustomed Earth
2. A Place called Freedom
3. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
4. Meta-analysis- Hunter and Schmidt
5. Wheels
6. The Clan of the Cave Bear
7 The Pillars of the Earth
8 Haroun and the Sea of Stories


Eight songs I could listen to over and over:
1. Its all coming back to me now
2. We didn't start the fire
3. Who Let the dogs out
4. Hakuna Matata
5. Pardesiya- remix
6. In aankhon ki masti
7. Maine socha na tha
8. Jagged Little Pill

Eight things that attract me to my friends( all guess work):
1. Sense of Humor
2. Sweet person(contradicts with num 3)
3. Tough as nails hardcore approach
4. Opinions
5. Openness to new ideas
6. I make good notes( I think that is a biggie)
7. General help-ability
8. Extreme good looks( I can joke can't I)

No ITS MY TURN( evil cackle)
I tag Ashish and Pragya

Whew that was tough!

A trip down memory lane: Imposting....

Blandings Castle, that seat of the delightful dreamy old peer Lord Emsworth, that stately home of England that attracted imposters like other homes attracted mice. There was Psmith as Ralston McTodd. Psmith by himself was enough, but repeating “Across the Pale parabola of joy..” he as quite another thing.

There was Ashe Marston and Joan Valentine who started the trend, which continued when Beefy Bingham came down as Mr Popjoy. Daolly Henderson, of the pink tights , daughter the delightful Sue Brown came next disguised as Miss Myra Schoonmaker in the performance of a lifetime.

All small fish though compared to the master , Lord Ickenham. Of Course Uncle Fred has experience in imposting. Apart from a circus dwarf and Gina Lolobrigida,whom he could not mimic- one owing to the height, the other “her unique shape” he had prior experience imposting as George Robinson, householder of 14 Nasturtium Road, East Dulwich, the local vet, Mr JB Bulstrode, neighbor of the Robinson, all in the course o one afternoon. But his illustrious career included impostings of a con, Sir Roderick Glossop, Miner Brabazon-Plank major, even while helping the career of the heir of the Twistleton-Twisteltons.

It was a beautiful time in English literature, written by a man who made humor reach the same level of a Mozart aria, the heights of pure genius.

Here is more on the great man

A Hair raising story...

Hair is dead. Hair falls. Hair re-grows. What is the big fuss about it? Look at the advertisements. Good for texture and volume. Hairspray. Gels. Sodium lauryl sulphate and silica based gunk dressed up under fancy names and weirder smells. Or maybe stranger home remedies. Eggs and papayas and mint- food to be imbibed through the head. All for a bunch of dead cells. So I never bother about my hair much.

I wash it two times a day- the head gets itchy if left unwashed. And I run a comb through my wet hair once in the morning and let it dry like that… it decides the style it wants by itself. Falls into its curls naturally and stays that way. Also earns me compliments. From men and women alike. Not that I need them. But my hair does not bother me. Because I do not bother it. Usually.

The long black strand in the book was mine. I know my hair. What was surprising was that this book – Haroun and the Sea of Stories- was from my short hair days. Of course I had not opened it before that. I was here in the US. The book was in Naini Tal and I had only now got it back with me in August. And opened now in January. No, I had not read it there. I was getting married and getting my teeth fixed. Try curling up with Salman Rushdie in that environment.

It could not be my hair. But it was my hair. Must have fallen out some time back, I reasoned. Immersing myself in the Processes too Complicated to explain, I forgot about it. And then it was time for dinner.

The next evening I opened the book again. There were two strands of hair where I had left off reading. Almost like a bookmark I thought. I ran a hand through my curled mane. The Shah of Blah was not so gripping this time. Or maybe it was just tiredness.

Then there were three. In the place where I had left off reading. Three long curly hair. Black with a copper streak through them. Not mine. These were not my hair. Definitely not. I never use color on my hair. Ever.

And four followed soon after. More copper. Then Five and Six and Seven. And they moved through the book. To where I had left off reading. Never anywhere else. And in no other book. I moved on to John Grisham. No hair there- nor in harry Potter- not Ken Follett. School work was similarly hairless, but Haroun and the Sea of Stories gained more and more. It was almost as if they were growing there.

Growing. One hair at a time. One by one adding on and on. What would happen if I read the book on and on. It is a slim volume. But somehow every time I settle down to read something distracts me…And I barely manage a page. Not even if I force myself. It is only Haroun and the Sea of Stories. No other book. I do not know what is happening. I have read the story. I know what happens in the end. But it is a horrid fascination that keeps me opening the book. To see what may come out of it……Something will emerge something will.. I know…. I need to find out…..

And today there was a blonde strand in my Harry Potter…..

Lesson 3: Real Men are Feminists

Have you done the double take muttering what-stuff-is-she-talking-about? Yes? Good we can continue then. I repeat. Real men are feminists. Because Feminism is not an exclusive women’s only club. It is, as Katha Politt says , about people who answer “Yes” to the query” Are women human”. Real men like real women have already answered in the affirmative to that.

Now where on earth does one find that rara avis the “Real” man. Mind you this is not about the macho huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ smelling of tobacco, fighting bears with bare hands person.That you probably would not find in the real world but in a James Bond fantasy. Nor the opener of doors , payer of checks, secret drooler of Playboy or whatever it is that grown up adolescents spend time soothing their hormones over. Again the Ian Fleming creation fits better here. Nor the guy who insists on being domineering and blusters through situations with fake bravado. Yes, and a real man does not need tradition to justify his behavior.

A real man is a good human being. It is as simple and as complex as that. A real man thinks for himself and knows his place in the scheme of things. He does not require the crutch of tradition nor of social sanction to live his life. Nor does he need to be on a constant race to show himself superior. Because he knows his strengths and is comfortable with them. He does not need to be constantly competing with others, specially the superciliously termed “weaker” sex to prove his worth. Quite simply the adage of the empty vessel making the most noise holds truest here. Because bluster and bravado and a put on macho act are in the end all signs of a deep rooted insecurity and an inferiority complex.

A real man thinks for himself. He does not need to justify his actions and behavior by using the oft spoken “That is the way it has been” He is rational. Tradition for him is important, but misogyny belongs to antiquity. As do traditional gender roles. Because he is not afraid of moving beyond the established norms to fulfill his true potential. Because he knows that those judging him a sissy( funny how the worst abuse for a man is calling him a woman – Full Frontal Feminism, Jessica Valenti) do not define his worth. He defines and lives it himself.

And the real man is not afraid of expressing his emotion. He does not hesitate in expressing what he is going through. Because he knows that suppressing emotion is unhealthy. For himself and those around him. And this goes especially for negative feelings- those of cowardice, fear, sadness. Because the real man knows he is not perfect. Instead he is aware that he needs to be working on his shortcomings. But he does not need to cloak them.

So, well adjusted and happy in himself that he is, the real man seeks the same balance in the world around him too. He looks for the same well-being in the people he deals with. Since he fits into no defined mode in paticualr he does nto automatically stereotype and class others in the moulds too. He does not look at women as the “Other”. They are living breathing humans to him. With as much rights to their lives as he has to his.

He does not need clarification from his women friends that their being feminists, or their struggle for equality is not about reducing his status somewhat. His status is entirely a function of himself, not of the world around him. He knows of the inequality in the world around and does wish to help even the balance. He does not seek safety in numbers becoming a Men’s Rights Activist, trying to “save the family” because he knows that traditional gender roles too often tend to perpetuate the domination of one sex by the other. He knows that equality of the sexes is desirable because it is beneficial for both men and women ( He may or may not have read Simone de Beauvoir” When we abolish the slavery of half of humanity, together with the whole system of hypocrisy that it implies, then the "division" of humanity will reveal its genuine significance and the human couple will find its true form”). True equality and rights for all help in raising his fellow men from the level of beasts unable to control their sexual feelings, and it also serves to create respect for all individuals as humans, besides doing all the good things specifically for women. He knows, that if only for the respect it gives men, feminism and the contingent equality is worth a try.

The real man does not need an explanation of semantics when women he knows declare themselves feminists. He is aware of what they mean. He does not objectify women, subjecting them to the goddess/ whore dichotomy, rather treats each person as a distinct human being, much like he is. And, best of all, the real man does not need to make any special effort to be Real. No trips to the gym and power muscle workouts( unless he likes that thing) No masculinity classes. No “special” diets. He just has to search his soul and look at the innate human decency within and begin treating fellow humans, men or women with the same respect.

What was she thinking

It was always spoken of in whispers. Very disapproving whispers. “She was crying when she told me. Her in-laws made her test her fetus and then forced her to abort it, it was a daughter.” Whispers because the in-laws were close relatives. The young victim was married into an extension of the family. Disapproving because we were the more progressive branch. My mother, with her college degrees and only one daughter[, “One is more than enough, thank you -now mind your business- never spoken but heavily implied] and her sisters who were content with their two daughters only families( somehow there were a lot of daughters in this part of the clan).

But that was all they did. Speak. Anyhow there really was nothing else they could do either, lest they be accused of meddling. And somehow when it is not something you need to deal with daily, it does become a “not my problem”.

I met the lady- her husband was a distant cousin- and their two daughters, even stayed in their house for a day or two. And somehow the “crying” did not ever seem to really fit in with her, I always felt. Or maybe I did not know her enough. She was nondescript. Probably would pass as good looking. Very knowing-her-place-in-the-home kind of person. Cooked, cleaned kept house and was training her daughters to do the same. The eight year old fetched water, put the dishes away from the table and was generally the model child. The two year old was more spirited – but would have the freedom slowly sucked out of her. That is all what I remember from my first visit to them.

And then “it” happened. The spoken-of-only in-whispers-and-at-the-dead-of-the-night abortion. Which of course all of us youngsters came to know of, just as all family scandals become public knowledge- by that strange osmosis that seems to permeate these unknowables. And possibly even we discussed it amongst ourselves- I do not remember spending too much public time over it- because my cousin-confidantes did not seem to find it tragic nor even worth spending more discussion time on. But privately I did wonder about them. At first I made her out to be a tragic heroine – forced against her will to perform an abominable act of murder- helpless while the dragons of her family lashed against her (I was young and very impressionable).

But soon news filtered that their next “try” had hit gold- they had conceived a son, she no longer even seemed suited for the swooning tragic role. But I kept thinking about them. The daughters . The elder one had been about 10 when her youngest sister was never born. Of course she was not told officially. But I am betting she knew. Children know. She must have heard the words, understood something. I mean, can you really hide something like this? I wonder how she felt, how did the younger feel when their parent’s love and attention was taken over by their baby brother. When the new upstart moved into their mother’s womb and then took over their lives. Did they resent his presence? He did get more attention than they could ever think their overworked parents and doting grandparents were capable of giving. Did they feel grateful they had not been flushed away to make way for him?

The mother. How could she have looked her in-laws in the eye ever again. And talk to them normally, without a red hot rage boiling up inside her. How did she let her husband touch her, make love to her( if the act preceding reproduction in this case could be called that)? Did she pray secretly that it was ok, as she checked for signs of a pregnancy? Did she secretly curse her elder two daughters for being female?

I met them again years later. The daughters were well into their teens and the little boy one of the most obnoxious little brats I have ever met. Yes I was prejudiced, but not so against a child. He was spoiled and nasty even as his sisters had been precocious and cute- too much pampering makes little monsters- I mused. I could not help thinking, so this was what that had been all about? And his mother, the tragic heroine of my imagination, busily dissecting a mutual relative in the way only idle women who do not work full time can, suddenly saying “Well we care for providing both our daughters an education like people provide for their sons, after all they are all kids only”.

Enchanting songs from Enchanted

The Devil himself....

With a Devil like this, am I glad I am an atheist!!!!

The trouble with dogs

THis book is actually called Bedtime Stories for dogs... and it is adorably hilarious....



A sad truth when it comes to Man's Best friend.


I need a puppy so bad....

Lesson 2: Mommy does not know best.

And neither does Dad, nor Grandma nor Grandpa nor uncle nor Aunty and not fifth cousins twenty times removed. They may know more, owing to their grey hairs and general experience. But they do not essentially know what is best for you. Because only you know hat is best for you. And it is high time you stopped trying to let everyone else, specially the “elders” do your thinking for you.

Having said that I now pause for you to commence your brickbats and counter arguments, before carrying on. The most common refrain against my stance is that one “owes” to ones family of origin. Owes, birth, general upbringing etc. etc. Well, I wonder is love and blind obedience the price to pay? Doesn’t the family of origin owe the perpetuation of their genes( and trust me that is an onerous responsibility indeed, for without the perpetuation of the genes, the mammals and later the primates would never have proliferated their little fragile species) to the progeny? Of course the answer is an affirmative, so then, by the same logic of owing, shouldn’t they be deferring to whims and fancies…

But argument aside, this is not about general knowing the “better” alternative in terms of the stove is too hot so it will burn you, rather the all-knowingness that seems to pervade anyone who is chronologically older when it comes to tradition( my pet bête noir), choices, behavior, dealings with the opposite sex, careers, lifestyles etc . etc… And before you start deciding to go on hunger strikes for every time the food at home is not what you like, let me tell you I am not suggesting rebellion. I am merely suggesting you use that all important organ- Your brain. Think through carefully. Think through the suggestions, think through the alternatives, think, think, think. And then make a choice, which is based on cold-hard reasoning rather than just emotion.

Unfortunately, if you have to be reminded to think for yourself, you probably have been pretty well conditioned by the self-same “elders”. And you know what, it is not even their fault. Unfortunately they behave that way because they were conditioned to think it was the best way to behave, to conform to rules or regulations or whatever set up for societal structures very alien to our own. And even though things changed outside, internally they remained the same. Simply because they refused to address the cognitive dissonance because of the differences.

And you know, it is also very difficult to think for oneself. Because thinking carries with it the burden of taking responsibility for the actions that accompany the thinking. The thinking I advocate is not the armchair variety, rather the take action kind. And too often those actions result in consequences that may seem painful in the short run, but nevertheless pay off after a while. It is a simple matter of perseverance. Remember the story of Robert the Bruce and the Spider?

Mommy specially has all too often gone through a very excruciating conformation process. At every stage of her life it has been drummed into her that she is not as equal a human as she would have liked to be. Of course there are mommies that have broken the chain, but they are not as many as one would like. And of course she very heroically tries to get the best for you- as do Daddy and the rest. But the greater their brainwashing, the more difficult it is for anyone else to even try to understand you.

Now that I have further distressed you by letting you see how very hopeless things are, let me remind you, you do not have to rebel for everything. You just have to take a stand. And simple as it may sound, it is among the most difficult things to do. And not only because you loose moral support. But because the results are far from certain. Of course following a much-trodden course will also lead to uncertain sureties of success, but it is not quite as risky as a very unknown, an alone risk kind of a way.

So, I hear you asking( provided you have read so far and not given up ) what does this have to do with feminism. Well, just about everything. Remember feminism was about equality of all human beings. Thinking, using your faculties to the fullest is merely about utilizing the potential to becoming more equal. Yes, yes some people think better, some do better, but that is very little a matter of gender( even though men have larger brains on an average- but that has little to do with general brain capability. Think, question, and come to your own conclusions. Even make your own mistakes( “experience at any price is cheaper” As Jerome K Jerome quipped in Three Men in a Boat). Remember the perpetration of stereotype- by not thinking- is very largely responsible for the mess society is in today.

So till next time repeat to yourself “Only I can decide what is best for myself.”

Lesson 1: Feminist is not a Dirty word

International Women’s Day is in close danger of becoming just another one of those days wherein some ideals are brought out of he closet, speeches made, a few marches undertaken, protests mad, tea and refreshments had and then the ideals carefully dusted away, not to see the light of day till the next year. I correct myself, it has become that.

It has had an interesting history. Beginning with a very socialist base in 1909 in the USA, it became adopted by countries of the former Iron Curtain as a secular Spring holiday and is now beginning to become just another one of those Hallmark holidays- with a few speeches and pretences at equality thrown in. And it is not because the day has lost its relevance. If anything, Women’s Day is far more relevant now than at any other time.

Because somehow “Feminism” has become a dirty word. I have absolutely no idea why it happened. Feminism is just the radical notion that men and women are equal. And claiming, often too proudly as a lot of women do, “I am no feminist” is almost like agreeing that men are definitely the superior sex. Just a matter of semantics, you say. Because feminism is equated to the bra-burning( who in their right mind would or could burn that all-important garment, I do not know) set, or to the caricature of the chain-smoking, man-hating, hairy-legged lesbian. Not too attractive, the media tells us. Of course it is another thing that feminine attractiveness is something entirely dictated by what big business decides will sell their products better. Notions of feminine attractiveness are so much foisted on us by the opinions of others that they have even ceased to seem like shackles.

But, I digress. We were discussing why feminist is a dirty word. The other “F” word. In my humble opinion it is because the negatives associated with it are so great that people do not like the association, and they publicly rush to denounce it, without bothering to educate themselves about it. Rather like “atheist:, but that is another story. And there is the overwhelming apology, “Men and women have their innate differences…but….” Why on earth do we women apologize so much . For being, thinking, even existing. It is ridiculous. Almost as if we were afraid for having our own thoughts, because we need approval from the masculine half of humanity. Again a process of socialization. Learned at Momma’s knee “Say sorry for everything..” And so we keep on.

No one is denying the innate biological differences between men and women. But we are all part of the human species. Equal halves if anything else. Biologically that is. And only biologically. Because where hormones do not matter, as in matters of the mind, of tactile skill, or the law, all the human species is equal. Specially under the law. Other differences are individual not gender-specific.

Yet, women keep saying sorry. For daring to think they deserve an equal deal. And the few brave men( brave because they get called a lot of uncomplimentary words in a lot more derogatory ways) who try to stand up for women’s rights need to specify its about equality, not superiority. And superiority of a sex is really stupid concept, considering that unless we learn the secret of parthenogenesis the human species would die out. As it would anyhow if we let one sex bred out.

So feminism is not a very bad really. Actually it is not sex-specific either. Men have been, are and can be feminists too. Revolutionary thought isn’t it. John Stuart Mill was one of earliest ones. He lent his name to Harriet Taylor to publish her Essays on the subjugation of women( this was in the really dark ages when women were not allowed to publish tracts, or even have the brains to do so. And it was nto so long ago either). The point I am making is, if it was good enough for John Stuart Mill, surely it is good enough for a bunch of men now.

So now that we have reclaimed the F word from the undeserved infamy it had, we can concentrate on matters of importance like how to establish a more “equal” culture. Till then, keep repeating to yourself ”Feminism is NOT a bad word”.

The burden of Being Female(C)

“Isn’t it time she had a little brother”. I do not remember who said, it, but even at the very mature age of three, it was a very offensive remark. And of course, the person who said it, did not know my mother very well, because no one in their right senses would have risked that long winded and rather belligerent talk on gender equality and feminism. My mother is a formidable person, specially when crossed. And utterly non-hesitant in speaking out her mind. And expressing her opinion. Sometimes embarrassingly so, like in this case.

Over time I grew to realize that it was important for her to be so. She had evolved the formidable persona, this ready-to-take-on-the-universe attitude simply because of the fashion in which she chose to live her life. Not that there was anything wrong with her life. She was smart, a professor of Physics, married to the man she loved( Yes in the 1970s no less, with a “not taking your permission, but asking for your blessings” to her folks), financially independent, and with an only child, a daughter. But the formidable tough as steel façade was required. She had had to cultivate it, just because she had to live life on her terms.

And while I was growing up, apart from the “little brother” or the very patronizing “yes, girls are just like boys” , I pretty much was shielded from the rest of the world. The parallel world women are made to grow up into, wherein day after day they are fed the “you are female and thus different(read inferior, soft, to be taken care of)” was a rather alien place for me. Not too much though. Because there was school. And friends outside the home. And cousins. With the latter, I learnt that gender equality is not a genetic thing. It is something that has to be striven for. You need to “make your bones” for it.

I went to an all-girl’s school. Simply because the good schools in Nainital were not coed. The only one which was coed was a boarding school. (And no, I did not grow up to be either totally man-shy or a man-chaser, as the stereotype goes.) And even that all-female educational atmosphere did not instill the “women can do anything”. They did talk about it. They did focus on famous heroines in history. But personally speaking, I knew they did not believe it. Because the “real” world ensures it to be a “feel-good” myth at best. Right from the very beginning an inordinate amount of energy was spent on skirt lengths. Long was ok, shorter than the knee screamed “wanton”. Even my rather precocious self could never make the connection why it was so wrong for a little bit of skin to show. Neatness, tidiness I could understand, but why was an inch of thigh so “wrong”? The boys in the nearby all-boys school—boys our age, did wear “short shorts”. But for us, knee and above was sacrosanct territory. And then the subtle differences began. By Class 3, we were having needlework and knitting lessons.( yup I can embroider, knit, sew, crochet….) Cleanliness was a virtue, as was humility. Doing well in Math and Science was a good thing( it is another story that I had to because my parents taught Physics , but I was an outlier), but it was not as much of a do-or-die as boys our age had it. And then there were strange times when we were forced to remain indoors playing because some flasher took it upon himself to parade a colony naked. Of course our caring community did not make too many efforts to catch the pervert, rather to keep us indoors.

And then teenage brought along awareness that the world had totally different standards- for our difference in chromosomes. And somehow the little voice that said “School is like this because its run by the Catholic missionaries, who live in the times of the Inquisition” become quiet. Because compared to what it was like inside the walls of St.Mary’s, the outer world was positively Jurassic. And it became even more anachronistic as teenage took over. We were ogled and followed. Leched at and groped. And( this was not for me) it was our fault. Our male cousins found us very interesting. But we were scolded off them and any other attention our male relatives may have given us. No explanations of course! Transition into womanhood was not a celebration, rather a shameful, very tentative, hand-up when the nice people from Johnson and Johnson showed us their “girl growing up” movie and handed out little packs of sanitary towels. [ A lot of those Stayfree Pads ended up in the class dustbin, because people could not take theirs home, what would their families say].

And it carried on. From being blamed and shamed, for wolf whistles and obscene phone calls on to the realization that we were unclean. Because religion is a very powerful medium to instill one’s unworthiness. [honestly, look at the quantities of guilt ALL religions dole out]. Also very effective at avoiding logic. Too unclean to sit near the idols, too dirty to do anything of note, only secondary humans- fickle, unworthy, irredeemable…. The list just grows. And wrapped in the guise of faith, of belief it just gets better.

But even though my upbringing was more than secular[ there is some rule that says physicists are atheists, I think…, anyhow], I did have friends and cousins. And it was in their houses that I got to see how little they regarded their men-folk shielding them from the vagaries of bras and female underpants drying on the clothes line( a stray strap, showing for a minute second was an inexplicable sin, punished by a long talk on appropriate attire). And a clean Sanitary pad was to be smuggled in to the common bathroom ( the soiled ones probably apparated away Harry Potter style). Never mind that the same men-folk lingered rather long on Baywatch and Victoria’s Secret advertisements ( in our foreign magazines) or that there was a huge pile of stinking rubbish, even bathroom “unnnameable” trash right outside the very respectable middle-class colonies- another safai karamchaari strike. Women and their bodily functions just did not happen at home. Because there was something wrong with them.

There was also a rather strange mixed message that popular entertainment and “success” stories of fellow females brought out. Men were “settled” when they got jobs. Women, after they got married. My career-oriented cousins( “they were too ugly for anything else,” said a disapproving at everything else aunt) were “truly” happy after “good” boys were found for them. And there was this undercurrent of being appropriately attractive. Appropriate, of course stood for denying any whiff of innate sexuality- probably because sexuality stood for control. So hair was oiled and sleekly plaited away- no wanton stray locks. Clothes were clean, decidedly feminine, but woe if necklines went lower, or hemlines high. [Anyhow by the late teens skirts were out- and pants too non-female.] “Attractiveness is important” was inculcated. So we powdered and plucked, painted and tweezed. And worried about how we looked. Even while being “proper”. Because after all the objectification and the problems thereof were strictly our issues, not at all the faults of a universe that treated us as property, not as human beings.

We grew up to careers. To be engineers, doctors, MBAs. Not like women a generation before us, who had to be content with teaching. We grew to MCAs and computer courses. What they forgot to tell us, but reminded us, ever more subtly that it was not because of our innate mathematical or technical abilities, rather because it increased our marketability to “dream catches”. If we were smart we had “something going” by the end of undergraduate college, if not, we “Settled down” in time honored tradition.

And that is when I learnt why I was like my mother. And understood how frighteningly like her I was in voicing my opinions. Because I learned how to reply ”Well I neither have wonderful genes( I am uniocularly myopic) to pass on nor a kingdom to rule, that it is time for me to settle down” in reply to the officious, “You need to marry , women get more fulfilled when they have a family”. And then the questions, started. Or maybe they had always been there. The whole lopsidedness of the equation. That I had to work just ever so hard just to be who I was. That my twenty year old cousin had an option not to marry the “nice” arranged marriage man her parents found for her, an option she did not exercise, because she never knew that she had it. “Twice as hard to be half as good” a professor in FMS had said, it was a quote then, but it became a hideous reality. The irrational gratitude at having been allowed to be “normal” – something which I see every time I hear a woman praising her spouse for being so “sensitive”( men rarely talk about their wives being so caring, its an assumed duty of a spouse). And the myriad other circumstances. Not blatant discrimination. But the more subtle, more difficult to get rid of – because it is so difficult to pin point – nuances. In speech , in behavior- in everything. The culture of fear- coming home before dark, staying vary of strangers, always having an emergency number on speed dial on a cell phone- indeed not venturing out without a cell phone. EVER.

And I wonder, how different would it have been if I had been born male. Would I know how the other half lived? Would I care, or would I attribute to “gender difference” the timid behavior, the guilt of trying to be human even while bearing the burden of being female?

Why bemoan the winter...

And when winter comes
We bemoan the chill
The enwrapping cold
That enfolds ever closer
Encircling wind
Icy fingers tearing away
Every shred of feeling
Cold numbness in its stead

Still we curse
The deadening of sensation
The loss of touch.

Hope for warmer days
Thawed fingers
Unfrozen toes
Rushing gushing blood
All too keen
To feel the unfelt
(And so forgotten)

So when winter comes
We bemoan the chill
The blessed numbness
The unfeeling
Deadening of all sensation
Cessation of all pain.

Homecoming(C)

I lived here 15 years ago.

It is still the same. The house –more decrepit. The trees-taller. The lawns- wilder. The same faces- on ever younger children.

Change happens.

But nothing has changed. The same air, the same water. Even the tea glasses.

The same oppressive feeling of stagnation.

Nothing has changed.

Except me. .

A MAtter of Semantics: Please do not call it "Eve-teasing"

Eve-teasing. Eve as in the female. Tease- as dictionary.com tells me is

“–verb (used with object)

1. to irritate or provoke with persistent petty distractions, trifling raillery, or other annoyance, often in sport.

2. to pull apart or separate the adhering fibers of (wool or the like), as in combing or carding; comb or card, as wool; shred.

3. to ruffle (the hair) by holding it at the ends and combing toward the scalp so as to give body to a hairdo.

4. to raise a nap on (cloth) with teasels; teasel.

5. Also, teaser. Television Slang. a short scene or highlight shown at the beginning of a film or television show to attract the audience's attention.

–verb (used without object)

6. to provoke or disturb a person or animal by importunity or persistent petty annoyances.

–noun

7. a person who teases or annoys.

8. the act of teasing or the state of being teased.”

All in all two extremely harmless words that get nowhere close to describing the heinousness of the act- rather acts. “Trifling raillery” indeed. Of course it was a trifling raillery that one of my closest friends had to endure the shame of being called a “big baby” because a stalker forced her to be escorted to and from school by her family. He would stand on her route( a mere 5 minute walk) and ogle, follow her and make lewd remarks. “She could have ignored it” was the verdict. Ignored it at the cost of her peace of mind. Kept a straight face and walked on, unmindful of the catcalls, the comments, the combined efforts to make her feel ashamed for the perverts behavior.

And of course it was a “petty distraction” which made my cousin use scarves and belts to strap across her bosom in the vain attempt not to look “grown up”- something which I found hundreds of teenagers doing with bad posture, nearly medieval undergarments- all so that they did not attract unwanted attention. Victim blaming at its most evolved.

Yes, indeed these were minor nuisances. Just like the case on New Years eve in Mumbai where two women were set upon by a gang of 70 or 80 men. Or the not much later incidents in Delhi. Or even those that the “Blank Noise Project” is trying to educate people about.

Because “eve-teasing”( how I detest that word with its archaic images of old Hindi movies with “chhed diya” and a naughty coyness) is an euphemism. But unlike euphemisms, which seek to tone down the darker aspect of things , even while people realize just how deep the impact is, eve-teasing does not do that. It makes the incidents of assault, stalking, unwanted unwarranted attention, perverted behavior or even in certain cases severe bodily injury and death just “minor “ or worse” trifling”.

But is it so surprising? That crime against women and blatant misogyny is so much a part of our lives that we do not even question the culture of fear we live in. It stems from the roots of our socialization. That we do not laugh at the apparent contradiction of educating our women about “appropriate apparel” to “protect” them even while condemning a stalking experience. That senior journalists on national television debate if “women are asking for it” and attire just becomes one of the several chains which women are shackled by. After all the constitution says they are equal and that token is enough. So we have “family friendly” policies, the impact of which is to reduce freedom for women, as are the continuous efforts of the more right wing religious zealots. Women after all are possessions, to be guarded, protected, taken care of but in the end used.

And so we call it “eve-teasing”. Not crime against women, not assault, not stalking, not perversion( which is another story) . And we tone it down. It is “annoying”. Period. Of course it leads teens to an overwhelming sense of guilt, coupled with low self confidence. Steers women to the “safer” professions( and in case you think ”that” happened a long time ago, let me enlighten you with the fact that in 2004, one of my bosses told me “industrial marketing is not for ladies” in very modern NOIDA.) Never mind the economic, social and national implications. It is just “petty” Like women. Not serious enough.

Of course crime against women exists in the west also( I know this will be treated by a “ we have a tradition of treating our women like goddesses”) . But it is not disguised by an innocuous phrase. It is called what it is. CRIME. And that is where we need to get. Because unless we see it for what it is- A Crime, a heinous act against one half of humanity; not to be trivialized nor toned down, nor dismissed as an “annoyance” – no matter what laws the state makes against it, the streets, the buses, the alleys, indeed India will not be safe for women, nor indeed can we claim respect as part of our tradition.

The Second Sex....

“One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman” was what actually changed my life at fourteen . Lying innocuously on a shelf at home, flanked by a Freud and a Jung, “The Second Sex” was enticing if only for greater promises of “interesting” content- there was a nude woman on the cover. I opened it for a preview into “adult” literature. I read it and became an adult.

Feminism, the equality of the sexes, women’s lib- were not mere words. I grew up in a very gender-equal household. My mother, my hero, was very much a person of substance and the atmosphere at home as far from patriarchal as my parents could make it. But there was the outside world. The whole universe of school with its underlying “women must be good wives and mothers above all” that the convent tried vainly to beat into us, the terrors of growing up and becoming aware of ”eve teasing”( what a euphemism for being made to feel guilty for perverted groping and catcalls) , the television with its “family friendly- so women need to be shown their place” content and plethora of views on “appropriate” behavior, apparel that everyone at large threw about. Yes, I was born female, but they were trying to make me inferior.

And also the over-compensations that a trying-to-be-politically-correct society threw around. “Only one child, but daughters are as good as sons” something I had got tired of hearing or the “highest marks among girls”( as if they were a rare beast whose every achievement needed to be lauded). It was confusing. It was painful. And it was very disheartening at times. But then there was “The Second Sex” and with it came the relief of discovering that the dilemma was not unique to me alone.

It was empowering. The discovery that my sex was not a limitation. That I was who I thought I was. And that alone sustained me , indeed sustains me in trying to be who I am , a person, a complete person.

Something which, by the very virtue of my sex the universe at large still tries to deny me and others like me. Why else would a female politician be a “token” candidate as the presidency in India has proved- or the descendant of a political dynasty as the Bhuttos, the Gandhis, the Kumartunge(s) have time and again shown. Why else would a Hilary Clinton be analyzed on her clothes, her laughter, her tears- everything but her politics. Why else would the “goddess” or the ”slut” dichotomy exist still into the 21^st century? Or indeed why would woman power be seen as emasculating, when it calls for equality and greater growth for both sexes.

It is complex, frightening and but challenging. A new way of thinking to get rid of the literal cobwebs of the mind with regard to human beings.

Rock me gently

Somethings are worth preserving for time to come!

See it to believe it!!!!

Was having an "interesting day", this has made me smile in more ways than one!


Whoever did this has the most amazing sense of humor ever!i wonder what Chidanand Rajghatta would have to say about this assimilation of the diaspora?

http://video.yahoo.com/video/play?vid=1543322&fr=yvmtf

Erica sings

More often than not, one gets to rather politely tell people one knows "Yes, you sing/dance/paint well". Most cases.

Sometimes, very rarely, you just meet someone who really truly does- and you realize, you want everyone to say so for them.

This young lady is a very special person. And she sings like an angel!

It seems like Yesterday

It seems like yesterday
When this year was ushered in
With a lot of hype and hope
And those resolutions.

It seems like yesterday
When a lot of to-be-done lists
Were written and re-furbished
And those anticipations.

It seems like yesterday
When another fresh beginning
Was made and plans solidified
And those celebrations.

It seems like yesterday
And so it will seem soon enough
Another yesterday
Another year over.
(Written on Dec 29, 207)

Ode to Oatmeal

Warm oatmeal. With a flavor of cinnamon and a soupcon of apples. Apples or some synthetic thing that tastes of apples. Warm damp sawdust after it has been cooked for a while. Oddly satisfying. And filling too. Maybe it continues to bubble in the stomach much in the same way as it does in the microwave. Bubble and rise and fill up an emptiness that good food refuses to sate.

Because good food is a hedonic dream. Much like first love. Heady, dizzying, beautiful .Melting mouthful after mouthful. Refusing to sate, to fulfill. And then suddenly it is gone. And only the greasy remains on empty plates- and the lingering aromas of herbs are left. Left to mockingly taunt when one cleans up the feast. Put away the plates, clear up. Clean up. Along with the guilt of having indulged. Of having pandered to the tongue, listening yet not listening to the brain. Just one will not make a difference. But it does, it so does matter. And the “good” rarely stays on. Just the emptiness of unfulfilled desires.

And so one returns to safety. To warm sawdust tastes. To the feeling of having done something for yourself after having conquered the taste buds. Because in life, like in food and love….what matters is the outcome not the process.

The GREAT Indian Question

In retrospect it is always very easy to say, “I should have seen it coming” It is just that the “it” always manages to take me by surprise. Not because this “it” was so unusual, rather because it was so inane. Mundane to an extremely annoying sort even the first time. The always asked ”So what language do you speak at home?”

Please people, what is it about an inter-state love marriage? Why does it so pique the interest of those who have had the other kind ( I am inclined to call it dislike or indifference) of till-death-or –the-divorce-court-clone-tear-us-asunder arrangement? Of course this is a universally-desi( since there are 1 billion plus of us, universal DOES apply) phenomenon. No matter what the occasion, how inebriated the state, wherever the venue, amongst a group of Indians, this topic does come up. After of course the “How did you meet”, which is pretty intolerable, but not quite as idiotic.

The idiocy of the language question lies not quite in the content but in the context it is evoked in. usually by total strangers. As in almost total strangers. Because for a people who bestow “Unclejis” and “Auntyjis “ liberally( much like the garam masala in hostel cooking), the casual acquaintance of another casual acquaintance, met casually at a casual watering hole is hardly stranger. And the question crops up usually in the first six minutes of the conversation. Somewhere after the “which part of India are you from” and the “how did you meet”. Sometimes it comes in after the “I saw ” or after a hurried confidence about “ he likes only Indian food” if the speaker be a woman. But always within the first six minutes.

Because no matter how I answer it, it is not the answer the questioner seeks. Rather the asking of it and then emitting a “How interesting” which is another very stupid thing to say. More so because it is only me the female of the combination who gets asked this question. By men and women alike. Like last time. The husband of the casual acquaintance, who was a dear friend of the casual acquaintance of my “till-death-or-inane-questions-tear-us-asunder” partner asked me after a few seconds of polite( but with an expression of “I would not care a damn”) talk of “what do you do”. Which in my opinion was a waste of both his time and mine, because in this really cool place, Republic, with a couple of layered rum thingies inside me polite conversation with a strange and horribly boring man was the last thing I wanted to do. I got married to have boring conversations with a non-stranger , but not in “Republic” where a large portion of the populace was trying out various forms of horizontal dancing on the plush leather couches…..you get the idea….

Anyhow I replied with a “English” and would have gone on to “Hindi” to be greeted by a “even at your home” Well duh ., I was not talking it in is home was I . “As in your native place” he clarified. Why were my linguistic peculiarities more interesting than the fact that I was interested in meso-mico research in HR Management, but even more of the rum thingies did not help answer the question.

Which brings me to my gripe about it. It is obtrusive. Get it people, interfering to the nth degree. Because you are total strangers to me. As are the questions about how we met and when we got married. Because we do not know you. Nor want to. Certainly not after these idiotic bits of conversational jetsam. Because it is not your business what goes on inside my home. Because you do not need to know.

Having said that, I must now prepare “original” answers to the big Q. For my personal and private entertainment. Because being rude is what I need resort to. Answers like “Well since it is Saturday, English..” or better still “Swahili, that way nether knows what we are saying”. Maybe a "Talk, we DO NOT TALK at home"

Any other ideas?

And that is why they say a picture is worth a million words....
If it is Texas, a billion trillion....
yo Texas!!

Edge of the World

In response to

http://space.newscientist.com/article/dn13029-voyager-2-probe-reaches-solar-system-boundary.html?feedId=online-news_rss20

Far reaches of time and space

Into the inky blackness

Pinpoints of light

Further than man has gone

Further perhaps than man can go

Except in imagination

Someday reality

And on the edge

Lies a whole world

A universe

More interesting than imagination

Itself can imagine.

The skull on my work table(C)

A skull sat on my work table

And I could only helplessly stare

And wonder how best to use it

Cover the mass of paper there.

A skull sat on my work table

And I could only look on to see

How true Darwinian evolution

Whether Neanderthal or Cro-magnon he.

A skull sat on my work table

And I could only wonder more

Best incorporate in a mystery

Or in strange fantasy set store.

A skull sat on my work table

And I look on in silent dead

No crime of passion but imagination and

My ever fragile muse: now so dead.

Tradition

We started a tradition today
Candles on a mirror plate
A glass of wine
An uproarious game of cards
( Not that the wine or the laughter
Needed an excuse)

But we started a tradtion today
Celebration
For the sake of celebrating
A joy called life together
( And yet we celebrate each day
Like no other)

For we started a tradition today
The tradtion of learning
To be a family.

Of Purple cows

Having not met a purple cow
Nor creature of its ilk
I will wonder anyhow
If it yields Purple milk....

The Harry Potter revealations

So JK Rowling claims Dumbledore is gay. Damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t . Because the virtual world erupts in a furor about her “outing” the “greatest wizard of all time” . Should have, should not have, should have earlier the arguments continue.

Of course the claims “it is a children’s book” and “family values are at stake” are ridiculous enough to be dismissed immediately. But on a closer examination even the “this makes a statement and should have been done earlier” claimers seem to have missed the point. In my opinion, the point is, Dumbledore gay, straight( or as Vikram Seth once asked in a poem , “stray” or “great”) does not matter. I mean Dumbledore matters- matters a great big deal, but not as an icon of his sexuality. He is just himself- a great person, a wonderful wizard and superb lovable character. Plus, he is JKRs creation. And thus completely at her mercy- in as many closets as she would like him to be.

Which reminds me of all the stuff about “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. I know I know I know. It was a very moral story. And it is entirely open to interpretation how one reads the “decadence”. The corruption of the soul in my opinion stemmed as much from his lying, cheating and hypocrisy as his other sins- and when I read the book in my early teens the “other” pat was never as apparent. Just as the implications of what “Alice in Wonderland “ meant did not matter, It was a wildly imaginative story and pedophile or not, Lewis Carroll did a great job with that, the “Looking Glass” and then the Sylvie and Bruno series. So incidentally did Enid Blyton, despite the gollywogs. She never spoke of any sort of discrimination except for snitches and sneaks- remember the Mallory towers and St. Claires stories?

But some adult or the other, with nothing better to do had to go ahead and determine what was age-appropriate and politically correct. And force them out, or rewrite them or stir up endless controversy. Books are books are books. And popular authors, despite their wide audience, often do not write because they like the public or the money that flows in( that is an added value, not the sole aim) , they write because they love their characters as well. And they present a story, despite its stereotypes, despite its shortcomings as they see it. So the responsibility rests with the reading public, notably the adult reading public to remember that this is a story. Not reality.

Because in reality gender, color, religion, caste, region , age or sexual orientation need not define a character at all. Unless that is the narrow band in which one likes themselves to be constrained.