Where there is an Eve ...

One of the things that I love London for is that I don't have to put up with eve-teasing or sexual harassment when am on the street, minding my business. I can wear what I like, do what I like and even then, rare is the occasion on which I might hear whistles or catcalls.

Which is not to say the populace here is completely sterile. More often than not, strangers might walk up to you and say "You're pretty/gorgeous/beautiful blah di blah", but that is that. You respond (smile, say thank you, whatever) or not, and you both move on.

Personally, I haven't ever felt threatened by some man on the street checking me out. Unlike in India where every outing is some sort of battle against every other random male you encounter, hell bent on stripping you of your dignity and making you feel hunted, desperate and even ashamed for something that isn't even your fault.

To be classified an eve-teaser here, the requirement is to be some sort of labourer, going by what I've seen, heard and read on occasion. Building workers, painters etc are bound to take on the role of eve-teasers out here with their jeering cat-calls and rather frequent passes at every passing thing remotely-female. They call you 'love', wish you whatever time of the day it is and try all the time to strike up conversations. Having had painters work on the office building for a good month or two, I've been subject to all of that. They discovered where the ladies' loo was and we had to out up with several instances of them hanging out right there making it difficult to use the facilities. Except that if you told them to go away, they would. Never mind that they returned.

And having faced much worse back home, this does seem rather harmless. Which is not to say it ought to be condoned, but it's easier to deal with. Somewhere, a society that is sensitised to women being more free in their dressing and behaviour with the opposite sex seems a safe place to be. Relatively though. Because apparently, there is plenty of eve-teasing going on here as well. If it isn't the rising cases of 'up-skirting', it is the numerous instances of women on bikes being targeted (mostly a summer phenomenon because winter would dictate the use of clothing that was more voluminous).

What intrigued me mainly is the reaction to both these pieces (do follow the comments). While there was much 'Why wear a skirt then, wear trousers' sort of reaction (which gave rise to the "Yes of course, it's always a woman's responsiblity/problem. Why can't men act more civilised?" argument) on the piece about up-skirting, the reaction on the piece on women-bikers has been more constructive input on what to do, a lot of it from women readers.

And I suppose that is where the Indian society and the 'West' part. There isn't any 'Wear approporiate clothing' 'Do not make yourself conspicuous' sort of advice coming from other women, nor do the laws not take eve-teasers seriously. And nobody is giving women strictures on how dressing conservatively/modestly will earn them the respect of men.

This isn't abour comparing crime rates in either place or a comparision of whether there are more psycho stalkers here than in India and so one or the other society has merits over the other.

This is about how women are treated with far more respect (without having to dress conservatively) out here than there and what a vast difference it makes. It may not be a completely safe society but where a problem exists/arises, there is the assurance of it being dealt with.

Which makes one wonder. What does it/will it take to bring about a similar state in India? Is it that men here are used to the company of women, and their liberal attire, for it to be distracting? Or is it something beyond?

One of things one notices as an immigrant is other immigrants. Specially of the desi variety. Now, very loose and general observations gleaned are how hitherto conservative girls tend to 'bloom' on getting here — what with adopting modish raiment that shows far more skin than they have ever dared to back home, perhaps even getting into the drinking/smoking culture. What is far more evident is the utter cluelessness and consequent disastrous attempts of a huge number of the male desi immigrant population at mingling with the natives and other nationals (read girls).

A lot of times, they tend to believe firmly in the assumption that is the bequest of bollywood — that foreign girls (specially the white ones) are 'easy'. And everything they do, tends to stem from here. Which doesn't make for pleasant encounters.

A friend of mine (a native) went out for a drink with this Indian chap she met at some random inter-college party. She came back saying it was a very 'bizzarre date'. Which is to say the guy kept insisting she have another drink (and boy, the smell of wine on her breath that night was VERY strong) and when she made to leave, he'd get upset and his behaviour took a drastic 180 degree turn. Having been far too used to this sort of a male, I told her that she probably should not have gone out with him in the first place. What upset me is that such men tend to spoil the game for everyone else, leaving a bad taste lingering. I've met a lot of decent desi guys who know very well how to behave themselves, whether around firang company or not. What makes the rest so despicable then?

One can map their behaviour rather precisely. Having spotted some hapless chick to bestow their unwanted sorry attention on, the next step is to somehow manage to be in the same vicinity as their target or get her number, by hook or crook. Then comes the calling her (repeatedly, if she doesn't answer the first time) or wrestling in on the conversation only to make her the target of all their comments thus effectively achieving three outcomes — making a spectacle of themself while alienating self from other gathered company, bringing to a halt any conversation that has hitherto been going on and embarassing said chick to no end. And then, they 'ask her out'. At which point, if the girl says yes, the following date is going to be an experience she will want to forget in a hrry but will not. If she says no, then this is the cue for them to act VERY upset and issue statements such as 'Oh I am SO sorry I hurt your feelings, i should have NEVER asked, I really regret it' and then proceed to slag her off as a 'slut' in front of friends. In the middle of all this, please include clumsy lines such as 'I really liked blah di blah about you... and I never give compliments, you should think yourself fortunate tat I am complimenting you.' (Oh really? And just WHO THE HECK are you that the girl ought to be so so honoured and grateful for your 'compliments'?)

I fail to understand where the anger comes from. Is it because all these years they've been so conditioned to think of themselves as the bees' knees by their mammas and families, little rajkumars who can have everything they want, never mind if they deserve it or not? Why is it so hard for them to accept a no as a no and then go on? I would draw a comparision here and say foreign men are better able to deal with 'rejection' but I am not entirely sure if that is true.

Where does this tie in with eve-teasing though? Often, it is reasoned that the lack of opportunity to interact with women regularly makes men behave thus, in trying to attract the attention of women. Which is a fair point. Indian society still doesn't quite sanction casual platonic interactions between the sexes, gossipping aunties are testimony to that fact.

Technically that should mean that the attempts of men to attract attention ought to be innocuous to a large extent. Why then is it that women feel threatened on the streets of India? Why is it that eve-teasing in India isn't as harmless a thing as it is here? Personally, I feel a marked difference between men there and men here. Out here, men may look, whistle, call out and that's okay. You know they're funning, they know they're funning and it ends there. In India, I always felt like there was something sinister lurking behind every time a man so much as looked in my direction (I am talking of a certain type of man here so hold your horses). There was something rather unsettling in that gaze, in their voices, their manner...

The trouble is, one cannot put a finger to it. It's just a feeling. But it's there. Why?

Pride

A trifle late, but such momentous things must be commemorated and celebrated.

Other people have said it before and better than I, and I don't have anything to add. What I do have to tell you is that up until I went to work on Friday morning my reaction had been one of pleasant surprise, quiet admiration and silent pride.

But then I started to say to my boss "Oh, I don't know if you heard the news but ..." and between then and finishing the sentence my eyes were shining with fierce pride. I'm just so proud of my country for doing the right thing.

While it may still take ages for society to accept homosexuality with equanimity, at least there won't be any hide-and-seek being played anymore because, hey, the law says it's okay! Those who oppose can go take a hike, preferably off a cliff.

Although, if at the age of near-80 my grandmother can be educated about homosexuality by my aunt and react with giggles rather than express shock or anything, I do think there is hope, a lot it. :)

Across the Universe

Ever thought, that the idea of a parallel universe may not be all that strange? That perhaps a parallel universe isn't as mystic and unreachable as we really think it is ... that maybe the time-space continuum doesn't require any special breach to be accessible and manipulated ... that perhaps, we each visit our own little parallel universes very regularly without realising it?

What if our dreams are not the concoctions that our brain rustles up in collaboration with our subconscious? What if the things that we consider dreams are actually our forays into a parallel universe ... a universe where things are more in our control, where happiness is easily attainable, where we meet our past and are able to deal with it, where one meets the people one fantasises about meeting, one senses (touches, smells, tastes, hears, feels) the things one has wished for and they are more tangible ... where one can escape the harsher bits that are nightmares by simply jumping out of said parallel universe? What if we really and truly live there ... in our dreams, through our dreams, while dreaming?



And just as I was getting used to blogger's block I get hit on the head with a post. I'm done interrupting, back to the entertaining movie programming.

Nero: Kahin Deep Jale Kahin Dil

Blogger's block and Life continue to plague me so I have nothing to post. Catty has kindly come to my rescue though and provided me much fodder, while she's still on a roll at her own space. Gotta appreciate that! Now, I don't know how many of you followed the lengthy discussion that happened between Amey, Catty and I over an actual movie called Nero, but having now appointed ourselves director, writer/lyricist and producer, respectively, here's presenting Catty's very vivid script... in parts.

A beautiful land, very far away is ruled by a just and kind king who is obsessed with things Roman . All is well in the land except that the king can't have children. His evil half-brother karan singh (Arbaaz Khan) seeks to usurp the throne, and live happily ever after with his harem. Karan Singh has instructed the queen's maid to add 'the pill' to the queen's tea every morning. However, the maid's loyalty gets the better of her and eventually, Nero (Abhay Deol) is conceived.

On Nero's birth, the king speaks to the court wizard and they conjure up 200 new coins to symbolise the new era. The coins bear a picture of the king and queen with the royal heir on one side and the royal seal on the other. These coins are magical, as the royal wizard has charmed them. Every year, till Nero turns 20, 10 new coins would become visible in the chest. These coins would bestow upon the ruler (presumably Nero) one super power per year. The loophole is that if in the wrong hands, the superpowers could be used adversely - to plunder and destroy. And only the royal heir could stop the mayhem.

The wizard then puts the coins in a box and curses one of his ichchadhaari naags that he will guard the coins for Nero. Only the royal heir with the "one" coin would be allowed by the snake to touch the chest and take the coins. Once nero is over 20, and has taken all the coins out, he would be able to free the snake and return him to the state of his choice by gifting him the coin he wore around his neck. He then puts one coin, strung on a gold chain, around Nero's neck.

Karan Singh, however, overhears the first part of this "private" discussion and decides to get rid of Nero. He throws a party for nero's first birthday, aboard a ship. (cue Sunny paaji doing a "Lucky Kabootar")

While the guests are busy watching the item number, Karan Singh pays one of the maids to throw Nero aboard. He is unaware of the coin around baby nero's neck. The king suffers a stroke and dies. The queen, heartbroken, withdraws to a dilapidated kaali ma temple and swears that she will not speak unless reunited with her son. People eventually forget about her.

... Yeh jaanne ke liye ki aage kya hota hai, dekhte rahiye, Nero: Kahin Deep Jale Kahin Dil!

If the last post brought up bad feelings of any sort in you, the time to turn away is NOW

So, Medusa and her lover fought. And as women are wont to do, she railed and wailed and was furious ("Nothing's wrong! FINE! You don't understand me!").


Did she then give her lover the death-stare and break into a rendition of "Patthar ke sanam"?







Yes yes, I know. Long time indeed. No, I did not spend four weeks in hibernation only to come up with another awful pun. It just sort of came to me and I thought it too good to waste :D Back into my unintended hideout cave, see y'all back here when I do. Will continue to pop up at your respective spaces however.

*disappears in a flash of lightning after getting clobbered on the head by a huge stash of books, struck by an especially large one titled 'Life'*

Nero

Okay so maybe he didn't really fiddle while Rome burned.



But who's to say he did not sing "Is diye sang jal raha mera Rome Rome Rome"?





I know. Utterly dreadful. But this is partly why I blog :D

What a tangled web we weave...

Gather around kids, I'm going to tell you a story today (yes, another story).

So in this story are five people. Two guys and three girls. Let's call the girls Mini, Skinny and Bonny. And let's call the guys Thor and Arthur.

Mini, Skinny, Bonny, Thor and Arthur all knew each other (even if just vaguely) since they all went to the same school.

Mini, Skinny and Bonny all lived somewhat near each other. Mini had hung out with Bonny on several occasions and was quite friendly with Skinny whenever she saw her in school.

Thor and Arthur had always been good friends.

And the girls all were friends with the guys in some way or the other.

A few years later:

Mini and Thor are friends and talk to each other infrequently about inane things.

Thor crushed on Bonny but nothing came of it and they've both moved on.

Bonny and Skinny are the best of friends, as of years.

But neither Bonny nor Skinny talk to Mini. In fact, when Bonny was visiting the place Mini lived in and a crush-crushed Thor requested that she extend a friendly hand to a lost-in-new-city Bonny and Mini did so, Bonny wouldn't acknowledge it.

Bonny was showing her solidarity with Skinny because Mini had dared come between Skinny and Arthur at one point. Never mind the fact that Skinny had been engaged then and was basically going to screw up things royally for herself, Arthur and the invisible boyfriend. Never mind at all the fact that Mini only stepped in trying to protect Arthur from said screw-up without any intention of bagging him herself.

Arthur is happily partnered. He hasn't been in touch with Thor for months. In fact, it would be safe to say that he has been totally incommunicado for a while with everyone. Mini is a special case though.

Arthur has cut contact with her entirely.

"You cow!" "Actually, I'm eight of them"

When I sailed to Kiniwata, an island in the Pacific, I took along a notebook. After I got back it was filled with descriptions of flora and fauna, native customs and costumes. But the only note that still interests me is the one that says: “Johnny Lingo gave eight cows to Sarita’s father.” And I don’t need to have it in writing. I’m reminded of it every time I see a woman belittling her husband or a wife withering under her husband’s scorn. I want to say to them, “You should know why Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for his wife.”

Johnny Lingo wasn’t exactly his name. But that’s what Shenkin, the manager of the guest house on Kiniwata called him. Shenkin was from Chicago and had a habit of Americanizing the names of the islanders. But Johnny was mentioned by many people in many connections. If I wanted to spend a few days on the neighboring island of Nurabandi, Johnny Lingo could put me up. If I wanted to fish, he could show me where the biting was best. If it was pearls I sought, he would bring me the best buys. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet when they spoke they smiled, and the smiles were slightly mocking.

“Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and let him do the bargaining,” advised Shenkin. “Johnny knows how to make a deal.”

“Johnny Lingo!” A boy seated nearby hooted the name and rocked with laughter.

“What goes on?” I demanded. “Everybody tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. Let me in on the Joke.”

“Oh the people love to laugh,” Shenkin said, shrugging. “Johnny’s the brightest, the strongest young man in the islands. And for his age, the richest.”

“But if he’s all you say, what is there to laugh about?”

“Only one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!”

I knew enough about island customs to be impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four of five a highly satisfactory one.

“Good Lord!” I said, “Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away.”

“She’s not ugly,” he conceded, and smiled a little. “But the kindest could only call Sarita plain. Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid she’d be left on his hands.”

“But then he got eight cows for her? Isn’t that extraordinary?”

“Never been paid before.”

“Yet you call Johnny’s wife plain?”

“I said it would be kindness to call her plain. She was skinny. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow.”

“Well, I said, “I guess there’s no accounting for love.”

“True enough,” agreed the man. “And that’s why the villagers grin when they talk about Johnny. They get special satisfaction from the fact that the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo.”

“But how?”

“No one knows and everyone wonders. All the cousins were urging Sam to ask for three cows and hold for two until he was sure Johnny’d pay only one. Then Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said ‘Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.’”

“Eight cows,” I murmured. “I’d like to meet this Johnny Lingo.”

I wanted fish. I wanted pearls. So the next afternoon I beached my boat at Nurabandi. And I noticed as I asked directions to Johnny’s house that his name brought no sly smile to the lips of his fellow Nurabandians. And when I met the slim, serious young man, when he welcomed me with grace to his home, I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. We sat in his house and talked. Then he asked “You come here from Kiniwata?”

“Yes.”

“They speak of me on that island?”

“They say there’s nothing I might want that you can’t help me get.”

He smiled gently. “My wife is from Kiniwata.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They speak of her.”

“A little.”

“What do they say.”

“Why, just….” The question caught me off balance. “They told me you were married at festival time.”

“Nothing more?” The curve of his eyebrows told me he knew there had to be more.

“They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows.” I paused. “They wonder why.”

“They ask that?” His eyes lighted with pleasure. “Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?”

I nodded.

“And in Nurabandi everyone knows it too.” His chest expanded with satisfaction. “Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita.”

So that’s the answer, I thought: vanity.

And then I saw her. I watched her enter the room to place flowers on the table. She stood a moment to smile at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the sparkle of here eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right.

I turned back to Johnny Lingo and found him looking at me. “You admire her?” he murmured.

“She…she’s glorious. But she’s not Sarita from Kiniwata,” I said.

“There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata.”

“She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo.”

“You think eight cows were too many?” A smile slid over his lips.

“No. But how can she be so different?”

“Do you ever think,” he asked, “what it must mean to a woman to know that her husband has settled on the lowest price for which she can be bought? An then later, when the women talk, the boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel, the woman who was sold for one or two? This could not happen to my Sarita.”

“Then you did this just to make your wife happy?”

“I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes. But I wanted more than that. You say she is different. This is true. Many things can change a woman. Things happen inside, things happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks of herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands.”

“Then you wanted–”

“I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman.”

“But–” I was close to understanding.

“But,” he finished softly, “I wanted an eight-cow wife.”

I read this story a long time ago in Reader's Digest and loved it to bits. Even today, Johhny Lingo beats any of the other heroes I've read about hands down.

Googling for the story today, I found that a short film had been made too ... not too much to talk about apropos the picture quality and definitely doesn't compare to the prose, worth a watch still... there's even a very recent version made!

It almost makes me wish that system was still around. Hell, in keeping with my 'men must be wooed too' pratigya I'd pay eight cows for the man I loved!!!

Although, if the experience of one gentleman were anything to go by, it's not a good idea. He says:

I called my wife an eight cow woman and.. no dinner.

What do you say to your boss

when you see something that looks like fluff atop his head and he catches you staring?





"I thought I thaw a puddy tat!"

Vicissitude

is one of my favourite words (even though it does not end with 'ous'; yep, those are my absolute favourite for some unfathomable reason).

Anyway, vicissitude has been the flavour of my day because my morning started off with me musing over how tiny things had changed over months and contributed majorly to my 'growing up'. Such as remembering to renew my travelcard the evening it expired instead of waking up the next morning, panicking because it would take time to renew it, huffing and puffing and being late for work (heck, I managed to remember and renew it one evening in spite of being fairly inebriated! Go me!).

Then there were the posts that Chandni and Dee put up today...

And then the biggest realisation. I stopped myself from sending an email to a friend. It was typed and ready. It was okay sounding. Hell, it didn't even have any matter that might cause inconvenience, trouble or bad feeling. But it didn't seem right. The time. My inner voice told me I'd be better off if I did not send it. And I listened to it. So I guess that's goodbye to the rash old bit of me.

Finally, that I write about feminism quite a bit (no, wait for the part that follows) and since feminism is in itself a rather changing thing ... my old tagline could well apply to it. Or maybe I could have a new tagline: Feminism is a dewdropdream.