My Two Bits

Over the last couple of days I’ve read a lot of brilliant writing and some very poignant pieces on SlutWalk. Some rants, some personal experiences, all of them in support of an idea that needs to be addressed more than any other issue in our country. And proof of this need is the simple fact that there is more than one idiot out there who is still missing the point of the exercise, insisting on it being a publicity stunt and a demand for more attention.

So far I’ve been quiet on the whole issue, not because I didn’t support it, but because I didn’t believe I had anything of consequence to add to the topic. Today I realised that it’s not about how important my contribution is. What is important is that I speak out and stand by SlutWalk.

When people talk about women *dressing to attract* or *asking for it*, I’m taken back to when I was about 12 yrs old, a pre-teen, with the body of a girl and not a woman. It was evening and I was walking to an aunt’s home with my younger sister and mother. I remember I was wearing a t shirt 4 sizes too large for me and baggy shorts. The walk was a 7 minute one and through a busy residential area, never once taking us down lonely, isolated paths. Some 250 metres after we’d left our building, we were walking past a homeless looking man. And just as we crossed him, he reached out and caught hold of my arm, dragging me with him. Thankfully my mother had the presence of mind of scream out and hit him with her bag, after which he ran away. But that feeling of blind panic remained with me. Remains with me. I still remember being stunned and then feeling dirty. On reaching my aunt’s home I scrubbed my hand raw with soap and couldn’t stop crying. Why me, I asked my mother. For years after that every time I passed a man on the road I folded my arms and stepped a few feet away.

What had I done to attract that man? What would have happened if my mother had not happened to be there with me? Just getting my hand grabbed terrified me. Imagine what rape does. Oh forget physical contact. If you’re a woman reading this, just think back at all the times you’ve been whistled at or attracted a comment on the road. Then think of how you feel. I know my heart starts racing faster, in an ugly sort of manner and I hurry to get out of there, pretending to ignore the eve-teasers. And when you think of all those times you’ve been teased, look back at what you were wearing, how you were walking, whom you were with.

To a rapist it doesn’t matter. You could be in a burqa, you could be 12, you could be 60. Just because you’re a woman he thinks he can. Just because you’re a woman he thinks he’s allowed to. Just because our society believes the woman asks for it, he believes he’s not wrong. And because of this, girls are being blinded for resisting an attack on their body - an attack that strips her of every last bit of self, pushing her into a circle of fear, panic and trauma. And for what reason? Because men would rather find a hundred different reasons to defend their animalistic tendencies than accept the fact that they find it difficult to respect women? That men don’t consider this an issue that needs to be raised in every household in the country? Because just being a man absolves them of it all?

To all the men who think SlutWalk is a joke, I ask if you are comfortable sending your sisters, mothers, wives, daughters, girlfriends, aunts and cousins out alone on the roads of Delhi at night. The day you are confident none of them will be teased, touched or raped, then you have a right to talk about such issues with disdain.

To all the women who think SlutWalk is a joke, I ask, what are you afraid of? Or have you never been teased, touched or groped at in a crowd? If you have, then you will know how easy it is to hide behind silence. It takes courage to come out and talk about abuse. If you cant appreciate it, then shut up. Stay hidden behind your silence. Someday you might have the strength to come out and take a stand against something you believe in. I hope that day is soon.

DIY Lamp-type Thing

One balloon, half a roll of toilet paper, 100 ml of Fevicol, 4 cups of water, a paintbrush, paints and an eager to help husband later, I had this to show. For an experiment, I think it turned out all right didn’t it? Didn’t it? *glares at you till you say yes*.

Now all I need to do is find a place for it in my house and I can start making more. Maybe I’ll use twine this time. Hmmm.

PS: The Fellow simply burst the balloon once the paper had dried. Just in case you thought he was really useful or something.

A Monsoon Surprise

You know what brings a smile to your face and a spontaneous moment of thrill?

Waking up to find that the first rains of the season has brought with it lilies - a brilliant splash of red in an otherwise drab garden (which almost gave a huge sigh of relief as the first fat drops of rain hit it).

The rains are here and it’s going to be a happy season.

Off The Grid

Two weeks back we moved houses. And with that we moved our phone and internet connection. Now since BSNL works on its own timetable, we spent several days devoid of the pleasures of the World Wide Web. Of course, before smartphones arrived, this would have meant no access to email, Twitter or Facebook, not an entirely comfortable feeling. Unfortunately, the new house is anti-communication – seeing as there is not cell phone coverage inside the house. You only have to cross the threshold of the house for the bars on your phone to disappear – something that took getting used to. And once we did, it was quite easy to lose track of where our phones were, considering they were now nothing better than glorified alarm clocks.

Anyway. Since I was a little caught up with setting up house and settling into it, I really didn’t have time to miss the internet and/or my phone. And then the BSNL phone chap turned up. We were connected to the internet once more (and had a landline number where people who really wanted to, could contact us). But I hadn’t accounted for my laptop and the troublesome Wi-Fi adapter that I’d been dealing with for some days. And so even though the internet was up and running, the only way I could browse the web was by using the laptop like a desktop. Not fun. Not even a bit. Considering I’m used to multitasking (a fancy term for saying I have ADD), I need the television, the laptop (and internet) and my worktable all in the same space.

It’s been more than a fortnight and we’re all settled into the new place. I have nothing urgent occupying my time and attention anymore (unless you count worrying about the rain over-watering my plants as urgent). My laptop is yet to be fixed and I don’t miss the internet a bit. Honestly. For someone who was nearly addicted to StumbleUpon, Twitter, randomly Wikipediaing everything I could think of and being on chat 24X7, I’ve gotten used to not being online quite comfortably. In fact I’m as surprised as the Fellow is about the lack of withdrawal symptoms. One would expect me to go slightly cuckoo and antsy about it. Instead I’m astonishingly content.

I’ve been off the grid for more than 2 weeks and am in no hurry to get back on it. I don’t know when I’ll post this and it doesn’t bother me. Life is good and there are gobhi parathas for dinner.

These Adults

I’m older than you so I know better. Experience is what counts. These grey hair count for something you know. You learn from your grownups.

I grew up being indoctrinated on this. From school textbooks to morals of stories and even random gyan dropping by the grandparents, everywhere I went, this is what I heard.

Today, I question that. Ok, so I questioned it a long time back, but today I think I want to write about it.

Even as I type this, I’m witness to a society meeting happening in my living room – the only neutral place in this set of apartments. 15 minutes into the meeting, the decibel level went beyond the legal limit allowed in a gentleman’s house. And in the one and a half hours that followed, not only did the yelling increase, the language worsened. At one point I was afraid these 45 plus men were going to resort to physical violence. If not broken bones, a couple of slaps definitely. The youngest member of the society is maybe 32 years old. He kept being slammed by the building bully as a “balak”, a child. The oldest member, an octogenarian, periodically reminded people that all the stress would kill him sooner than his time. The bully’s ally used his lung capacity to the fullest obviously thought that the best strategy would be to out-shout everyone. And the aunties who came along just sat there nodding whenever their husbands spoke.

And the conclusion? Nothing. Why? Isn’t it obvious? Everyone here is an adult. They’re all experienced. They all have grey hair (even if it is under Godrej hair dye). And they all think they’re grownups. So who will listen to whom? They’re all convinced that what they know is best. Of course, it is also obvious that a lot of them are operating from insecurity and stupidity – making them more obnoxious, annoying and dangerous than anyone else in the room, simply because not only do they not understand anything, but they also don’t shut up.

So here I am. Keeping a tight check on my tongue and my tendency to say the right things at the wrong time (or the wrong things at the wrong time). Otherwise I would love to tell the fat uncle to get off the pure silk, hand-embroidered cushion he was sitting on, shut his trap, pay his dues and remember that being the size of two men doesn’t give him two votes.

Or the right to drink two glasses of the mango shake I served.

That Elusive Ice-Cream

I talk. A lot. And this is an understatement really. If you know me beyond this blog you will have no problem believing me. And if you don't, well, believe it. Talking was something i've done well all my life. As a 4 yr old, i was introduced to my best friend's extended family as the girl who taught her how to talk. Go figure. And when the family went on a road trip (which, for an 8 yr old me was the hour long drive from the suburbs to *town*), i had a captive audience in the parents and sister.

Of course, dad would decide to use the opportunity to help me build some character, and of course, learn to hold my tongue for at least a few minutes (if not for the entire drive). What would he do? What any parent with a modicum of common sense would. Bribe me. And so dad would promise to get me ice-cream if i could stay quiet for 5 minutes. Not difficult you say? It's just 5 minutes after all right? Yeah well. Let's just say, 5 minutes is quite a lot of time, and back then, it felt like *ages*.

And now. Almost like the universe is making up for all those 5 minutes i never managed to keep quiet, i find myself forced to keep quiet as prescribed by the doctor. Ok so the entire left side of my face is killing me and not talking is making it better. But still. No one who knows me can imagine a quiet me. Even people who've met me once for a couple of hours are finding it difficult to believe. And my dad is just tickled at the idea and takes immense pleasure in going sshhh if i open my mouth to say anything.

It's been 3 days of no talking (10 minutes in 72 hours doesnt count) and i think i'm ready for that ice-cream now. With interest.

The Way The Universe Works

For months now i've been complaining about how i need to get off my ass and work some weight off. And i was all set to start next week. Really. I was out of excuses and the will to procrastinate and postpone was fading quick. But then the universe decided to run out of patience and take things into it's own, mostly bitchy hands.

It messed my jaw up. Ok, so it might have nudged an already dormant condition to the surface, but the result is pretty much the same - i have to keep my trap shut. And you know what this means right? Yes. Look shocked. Even i dont think i can do it. But i sure am going to try. Maybe i will be successful in resting my jaw and wont see the need to talk for the whole week that it is likely to take for the swelling in my temporomandibular joint to subside. Oh stop laughing. I've gone through almost one whole day of talking no more than 3 minutes. I might just be able to manage 6 more days (at least).

In the mean time, not only do i have to go without talking (which anyone would think was punishment enough), i have to give up food also. At least food that has any taste (read: unhealthy food). Instead, i have to make do with liquid/semi-liquid foods. And you all know what that lists reads like. No? Khichdi, porridge, juice, soups, and maybe milkshakes.

Well, as the sister said, at least i'll lose some weight at the end of these 7 days.

You see how the universe is working here?