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.

Perspective

While in conversation with Winger today, we were talking about someone who proposed to his girlfriend over the weekend.

"He took her to Venice ... on a Gondola
waited for sunset
and proposed
!"

"WOW! Man he's got style!"

"Yeah. And money :)"

And at that moment, it struck me.

That we women are a bit sexist ourselves.

There are those of us who might decline expensive trips and costly trinkets and the like ... even if we secretly want them.

But how many of us actually go to the lengths men sometimes do, like whisking away our men for a weekend in Venice and propose to them dramatically? Or anything akin to that?

We might be empowered, earning, ambitious, and making financial decisions independently. And yet, something like this doesn't come to us. We are happy to cook a fine meal, dress up nicely and keep house wonderfully to show our love ... hell, even deal with difficult relations and in-laws with fortitude as an extension of our love for our men. Yet, the wooing continues to be done by them.

There are good men out there who deserve to be wooed, god knows there are men like that out there. And yet, there is no sign of them being showered with those elaborate displays of affection that they bestow upon their women.

Suddenly, I feel a bit small.

Oh and she said yes, in case you were wondering.

Tenner

D tagged me to do this a really long time ago and I am finally getting down to it (sorry, D!). I'm also partly borrowing D's idea for doing the tag.

1: My roll number from class 1 to 7. Loved being the first one to have her name called every morning to answer... and then I could spend the next 20 minutes day-dreaming while the teacher finished her list :D

2: Number of laptops I've had thus far. Meet Yvonne the second!


3: Number of cities I've lived in — Mysore, Bombay and London. Also the number of countries I've visited: England, Scotland and Singapore (I SO need to travel!)

4: Number of bloggers turned good friends — Mahi, M, Catty and Galadriel.

5: My favourite number... I also like to think of it as my lucky number.

6: Number of cellphones I've used till now. I have some stories to tell there... of the ancient but sleek one that died a slow death and the trusty one whose face I managed to destroy one night ... bejeezus!

7: My favourite day every month, even if the actual day is pretty crap. Also the number of years I've lived away from home.

8: 2008 rather, if I had to be precise. The year in which blogging took off for me in a big way

9: the soft toys I had when I was growing up.

10: The number of books on my desk right now ... take a look!

Tag done! Anyone wanna take it up?

'... an institute you can't disparage'*

It would be something to raise children in a world that has no need for feminism. But since that is unlikely to happen in my lifetime (the world without feminism bit, not the children bit), I shall consider myself a success if I have raised my son to be a feminist.

In the meantime, I take heart from the fact that there are men like this woman's fiancé. He identifies himself as a feminist ... how many men do you see doing that, on any given day?

The article ties together two of my favourite topics for debate: marriage and feminism. It's going to be a long post, bear with me.

It shall have to begin with what the author states shortly into her article, '... there is no such thing as perfect when you are a feminist getting married.'

She's referring to the reactions of family, friends, colleagues, fellow-bloggers and feminists when they hear of her unconventional wedding plans (Among other things, no proposal, no ring, no white wedding gown).

From non-feminist acquaintances, the reaction has been one of utter bewilderment. Compounded on hearing that she intends to keep her last name (and here I was, thinking it had become more common and accepted). In a society where the rock-on-a-gold-rope and a white dress are the symbols of marriage and every girl is brought up to dream of being given versions of these two items for her very own, it is perhaps ... understandable, why they may react so.

After all, it's very hard for the Indian society to calmly accept a woman who does not choose to wear a mangalsutra or changer her last name when she gets married. As a feminist however, the questions that arise are the ones that I am asking when I read about such reactions: What is the need for symbols of marriage? And why does the onus of sporting them fall upon the woman? (I am also wondering why a diamond is the stone of choice for an engagement ring here. Anyone knows where the tradition comes from?)

Valenti goes on to talk about 'the misogynistic traditions that accompany marriage'. " have always thought of marriage as involving the loss of a certain amount of autonomy ... plenty of issues that continued to make me question marriage: the father "giving" the bride away, women taking their husband's last name, the white dress, the vows promising to "obey" the groom. And that only covers the wedding." she says.

Described that way, marriage does seem misogynistic. When the burden of keeping house and rearing children falls onto the woman alone, yes. But that is akin to saying parenting is misogynistic if you take into account that traditionally daughters have not had the opportunities and liberties that sons have been given. The way society has come to interpret marriage is, unfortunately, the way marriage is being defined these days.

Which is why there are feminists who voice disappointment at Valenti's wedding announcement for "seem[ing] to find flaws with patriarchy, but fail[ing] to find a way to bring it down".
And this is where I find myself parting ways with this sort of a feminist. I do not see marriage as a product of patriarchy. True, patriarchy has managed to assert itself in a manner that influences marriage. But marriage in itself was never a concept that was meant to cage women, in my very humble opinion at least. Marriage is about two people making a committment to each other. How they divide duties and responsibilities is therefore a product of their union, unique and very much their own. It is unfortunate that it has become the norm for the women to be the inferior partner in this institution while having to do the donkey's share. But it does not take away from marriage the chance that it can be different.

And that is why I am amazed at feminists who think of marriage as being patriarchal, misogynistic and anti-feminist. Feminism has always been about equality. About having choices and the freedom to choose. Feminism gave women the right to vote and the right to own property. It does not necessarily mean that every woman must/will vote (if you think voting is bounden duty, please read this), must/will own property, then it isn't so. Because both of those are still choices. A right, any right, is still a choice (Again, if anything is a must, it becomes restrictive itself, even if aiming to free). Therefore I do not see how marriage is an anti-feminist institution. It is a choice. To be made by an individual. Being married does not take away from the fact that one is a woman and/or a feminist. The two are not related, in my view.

Vetoing marriage in effect negates feminism. It is taking away the very essence of that ideology and taking women back to square one albeit by giving them a different set of must-dos.

The repercussions are that both marriage and feminism/feminists invite criticism. In trying to be independent, ambitious and emancipated, living up to the impossible ideals set by fanatic feminists, women might choose to be rigid and walk out of marriages which could well have been saved, bitter about the concept of marriage itself .


On the other hand, feminists (and here I am loosely grouping staunch feminists as well as those open-minded, liberal, independent and ambitious women who do not choose to identify themselves as feminists), are viewed as a threat to the institution of marriage. In reality, neither of them are mutually exclusive.

I am a feminist and I am most certainly going to get married. I won't need an alter-ego or a body double to juggle those roles.

*From Frank Sinatra's 'Love and Marriage', I rather think the line describes both feminism and marriage.

How annoying can you get!

Following darling AlwaysHappyKya's admission of her pet peeves, here are mine (Other than the cake and the other list I already made, that is):

I have to straighten the bedcovers in the morning before I leave. I cannot stand to come back to an unmade bed.

My books have to be in mint condition at all times. You can guess I don't lend them.

I also have to buy books, long as I can afford to. I do not like to borrow books and give them back ... chances are that I will buy a book I have liked rather than borrow it again from the library. Same for DVDs.

The bedroom door must stay closed when I am sleeping, even if the main doors ar securely locked and people within are known to me. (same pinch AHK and Silvara :D)

It's also an absolute must for me to cover up with a sheet/duvet when sleeping ... it makes me feel secure, never mind if i kick it off later in my sleep.

Jeans. I iron them. I know you can wear them without doing that/ are supposed to leave them unironed, but I cannot. I have this deep-seated conviction that thy fit better if ironed :P

I can never not wear earrings.

Can't eat pasta if there's no parmesan cheese.

I do not eat beans. Ever.

When I wake up, I do not talk until I reach work. I do not like being talked to soon as I wake up. Or being woken up by the sound of voices. It helps majorly that I live on my own at the moment ... and that friends who stay over are either understanding of this habit or are simply early risers :P I know for a fact that I cannot be heard if I talk soon as I am up and it bugs the hell out of me to have to increase my volume to be heard. Grrrrr

Okay maybe that is enough for now.

Frood Alert!

Matt Dunn. What a find... WHAT a find!

So I read The Ex-boyfriend's Handbook. Four hours of absolute enjoyment and four hours well spent, in my opinion. My only problem was the three and half hours between lunch (when the book was delivered and I started it) and the end of the work day that kept me from finishing it sooner. Also it was a bit tricky having to hide the cover trying to read it while out because it's just so ... amusing. I noticed at least three people glance at the book and then smile surreptitiously at me. God knows what that was about, but then again, I see people smiling surreptitiously around me a whole lot so maybe I shouldn't be too bothered.

The cover. I honestly thought they'd sent me a mangy copy when I'd asked for a new one, till it turned out that no, it was the cover design. The frayed edges, the old looking paper... bloody hell, that's clever! I thought ... still, not a good cover as such. Why the heck are the letters in bright pink?!

The book now ... there's only one word to describe it: Chuckle-fest. It's full of clever lines and puns and the story moves forward fairly speedily and the narrative style is just so matey.

The story itself is pretty ... straightforward and ordinary: Boy gets dumped and gets told it's because he's let himself go. Boy decides to turn over a new leaf and win girl back. What follows is part 'What is the point of my life? What do I want?' and part metrosexualisation of said boy. Helped (or hampered, depending on how you look at it) by a slew of delightful characters, along the way.

I absolutely loved the character sketches. There's the narcissistic, babe-magnet best friend who gets into scrapes for sleeping around and keeps trying to help our hero get some action. There's the barmaid who despises the best friend and the verbal sparring between them is thoroughly entertaining. Then the boss, unpredictable and volatile, the homeless man who has his own skewed values and principles and regularly bullies our hero into buying multiple copies of the Big Issue in a given week. And there's the personal trainer ... She's that unidentifiable factor in the story which adds the va-va-voom. Bit like the hint of cinammon in a cake — barely there but without whom the cake would fall flat.

I'm hooked. Matt Dunn is among my favourite authors without a doubt and I so cannot wait to read Ex-girlfriends United and From Here to Paternity!