How it is to be stuck in a moment for once
And to keep floating in the abyss of time the next instance
I am living in a world that is trapped in a crystal ball
With a seer who asks us to wait for miracles to befall
We wait for the first crystal flake
But alas like snow each one shows us the next road to take
We chart our different paths, to reach the end
We have raced against time and now, cannot make amends
We look up at the sky and there is no silver lining
We look down at the earth and see that it is shining
Life is not what it will be, but what it has always been
So what we have now is far worth what it could have been ( So what Do I have now )
Yet I live for tomorrow and I forget today
I breathe but I am not breathing… I am just existing
And the perplexing question seals my lips
And engulfs my mind
To live, is a reason I must find
Until then I shall be consumed
By the monotony, the pointlessness of it all, the utter futility
of my pathetic gloom
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The state of conflict
I am Indian. I am South Indian. I am from Kerala. I am from the North of Kerala, Cochin to be more precise. I am Nair. I am a Pillai. My mom is a Menon though.
I was born in Bahrain, spent three years of primary schooling in Mumbai and then the rest of my life in Sharjah and Dubai till I came down to Rajasthan, Pilani to be more precise.
Did you or I forget what I said the first..oh yeah, I am Indian. Thank you for reminding me. (Jeez what a clichéd modus operandi but nevertheless)
That’s what we are today. We are a highly biased set of people who associate the strongest, with the minutest segregation of individuality than the rope that binds us all.
When Shashi Tharoor was a UN general, we felt proud to be represented as an Indian. When he is a member of the parliament in our country, he somehow seems less significant and people of Kerala find it easier to associate to him ( not really owing to his knack of attracting the wrong publicity,so lets say the Tweeters. Lol )
Who am I then? Where do I belong. I can’t speak my mother tongue to save my life, neither can I converse without stuttering in my national language. I am linguistically dysfunctional but I still relate on more grounds than one to another human being than most of my peers or elders.
Shanti’s friend’s getting married. Oh, where’s she from? asks a relative of mine whose anonymity represents a vast majority of Indian relatives.
Mallu
Oh, what’s her name?
Again I would like to protect the anonymity of the friend in question, whose name was thoroughly dissected to study her caste, which in some closed minds sum up everything the individual stands for.
Oh, Izhava?
Oh what?
She is Izhava?
I don’t know, what is that?
Praise my parents who conveniently either forgot or respectfully withheld such trivial and unnecessary information during my upbringing.
How does it matter?!
Well it did, it did to most. The herd, the clan, the fraternity. The cast, the creed, the lack and abundance of opportunity.
Interestingly and amusingly, the Malayalam language sees variation every few hundred kilometers you head south (or north, now I am not taking credit for the birthplace of this language. So whichever direction the Cheras approached our land).
A preposition used or a choice of verb can indicate the caste and the area from which you hail from. Interesting revelations to a market researcher.
North Indians hate south Indians or vice versa. Negative feelings are always mutual.
Eastern people are called chinks, and viewed with an altogether different pair of spectacles. Kashmiris ? Oh yea the people who are living in turbulent conditions..yeah, them, what about them.
Do you think they should be given a different state?
NO…why…because then we will have to split into 29 different states…no way.
That’s all the substance we have in our argument? What about the people who had to leave everything their ancestors had built and disperse like sand falls from our hands to various parts of the country and the world?
We have equated every group to an attribute and the person in question loses his individuality and becomes an object of either ridicule or distrust.
That my friend, is why we are filled with so much apathy today. Because we cannot relate to anyone other than someone who is one of us to the n’th decimal point or someone who lived next door or we interacted with.
Someone who has a beating heart or someone who sees the stars just like you and me. Why can’t we all just lie down on a huge play ground and look up at the sky.
I was born in Bahrain, spent three years of primary schooling in Mumbai and then the rest of my life in Sharjah and Dubai till I came down to Rajasthan, Pilani to be more precise.
Did you or I forget what I said the first..oh yeah, I am Indian. Thank you for reminding me. (Jeez what a clichéd modus operandi but nevertheless)
That’s what we are today. We are a highly biased set of people who associate the strongest, with the minutest segregation of individuality than the rope that binds us all.
When Shashi Tharoor was a UN general, we felt proud to be represented as an Indian. When he is a member of the parliament in our country, he somehow seems less significant and people of Kerala find it easier to associate to him ( not really owing to his knack of attracting the wrong publicity,so lets say the Tweeters. Lol )
Who am I then? Where do I belong. I can’t speak my mother tongue to save my life, neither can I converse without stuttering in my national language. I am linguistically dysfunctional but I still relate on more grounds than one to another human being than most of my peers or elders.
Shanti’s friend’s getting married. Oh, where’s she from? asks a relative of mine whose anonymity represents a vast majority of Indian relatives.
Mallu
Oh, what’s her name?
Again I would like to protect the anonymity of the friend in question, whose name was thoroughly dissected to study her caste, which in some closed minds sum up everything the individual stands for.
Oh, Izhava?
Oh what?
She is Izhava?
I don’t know, what is that?
Praise my parents who conveniently either forgot or respectfully withheld such trivial and unnecessary information during my upbringing.
How does it matter?!
Well it did, it did to most. The herd, the clan, the fraternity. The cast, the creed, the lack and abundance of opportunity.
Interestingly and amusingly, the Malayalam language sees variation every few hundred kilometers you head south (or north, now I am not taking credit for the birthplace of this language. So whichever direction the Cheras approached our land).
A preposition used or a choice of verb can indicate the caste and the area from which you hail from. Interesting revelations to a market researcher.
North Indians hate south Indians or vice versa. Negative feelings are always mutual.
Eastern people are called chinks, and viewed with an altogether different pair of spectacles. Kashmiris ? Oh yea the people who are living in turbulent conditions..yeah, them, what about them.
Do you think they should be given a different state?
NO…why…because then we will have to split into 29 different states…no way.
That’s all the substance we have in our argument? What about the people who had to leave everything their ancestors had built and disperse like sand falls from our hands to various parts of the country and the world?
We have equated every group to an attribute and the person in question loses his individuality and becomes an object of either ridicule or distrust.
That my friend, is why we are filled with so much apathy today. Because we cannot relate to anyone other than someone who is one of us to the n’th decimal point or someone who lived next door or we interacted with.
Someone who has a beating heart or someone who sees the stars just like you and me. Why can’t we all just lie down on a huge play ground and look up at the sky.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
My daddy strongest!
Yesterday:
Scene: At Vaayu lounge, two absolut shots and a beer mug down.
“Hey molu, what are you doing?”
“Hi Acha, just came to a restaurant.”
“At 6?, why so early or late?”
“Having a late lunch”
“Why didn’t you have lunch, why don’t you have any thing on time..?”
“achaa…just had a late breakfast”
“What are you eating?”
“Err…(peanut masala?) just ordered a sandwich ( thank god for baristas)
“Who are you with?”
“I am with a person I met at that StartingBloc dinner I had told you about?”
"Person?"
"YES!"
“Alone?”
“Yes acha…”
“Hmm..(read hmph)…bye take care”
Acha is worried now…6 pm, at a restaurant with a stranger. He is sure I am not filling my stomach, he is worried for my liver and heart.
Lets rewind: 6 months back. Just landed in Bangalore, with a new meager paying job.
“Hi molu, how are you?”
“I am fine acha..”
“You sound very low or tired..what is it?”
“I am just tired…”
“Did you have dinner?”
“Yeah had a kathi roll at the food court?”
“Did you have chyavan praash?”
“yes.”
“Yes? Don’t lie..”
“Have bananas, they are loaded in potassium”
“Acha why do you have to call and only give instructions?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like why cant we keep instructions to 3 days and the remaining 4 days why cant we just talk”
“Because you don’t listen to anything and you don’t take care of yourself!”
“But can we try this?”
“Hmm..do you go to the gym?”
“I try to…
“I told you then itself do yoga at home, you wont go.”
“Acha…!!”
“Did you buy fruits, do you drink milk often?”
I am just wondering why I even brought up the point of limiting instructions to MWF and have a conversational TThS!
The monologue went on for 20 mins that day.
The chyavanpraash is not over yet!
Rewind: First year at college.
“Acha, I just tried alcohol”
“How many times will you Try it?”
“I like it.”
“WHAT?”
There is a drowning out of the Mumbai traffic..suddenly all I can hear is him.
“I don’t get addicted so don’t worry, but I like it.”
“Promise me you wont touch it again”
“I am 21…why would I do that?”
He is livid. Mom jumps in to keep the rickshaw from toppling..
“let it be…just calm down”
“Did you hear what she said?”
A spat ensued..I didn’t want to make false promises. My dad just wanted me to be a presentable Indian daughter and his angel.
Further rewind 6 years back
“Who are you chatting with?
“Many people…
“Why did you minimize the screen then?”
“there were too many anyway”
“But you minimized just one, don’t lie to me”
“Acha (I cant even ask him to read my chats because that would mean being grounded after he saw the sweet nothings to my first love)
“why do you always close your door?”
“Because I like it…!”
“What is this a PG?”
“AChaaaa..!!!”
He storms off….
What is with his timing…how does he just know when HE logged in!
“Why do you make such a face when you see Arjun?”
“I don’t…
“Acha you act so strange and scary when he is around, he is terrified of you!!!”
“What is this about?
“Why cant you just like my friends!!! This is so embarrassing…amma , you should see acha talk to arjun…what is this..why don’t you like him? (LIKE DUH…my daughters first boyfriend…why, I would love to adopt him!)
“Pinky don’t raise your voice!”
“I am not…but why cant you just be nice to him!”
A major spat ensued…I knew why he was so 'De Niro'-ish..but I was embarrassed..my then-boyfriend was terrified and too scared to come anywhere within a 5 km radius of my fortress…my dad transformed into a gruff looking monosyllabic person who just looked the trembling guy up and down.
I took my basketball and dribbled for 3 hours till he called me back and kissed me on my forehead. He still never broke the unapproachable keep away from my daughter exterior when he met arjun again.
Arjun is gone. Heart break. My dad,I guess never wanted that to ever happen. Health is non existent with work timings…Liver is not in the best of conditions.Safety is a concern with the happenings that occur daily in metros and the outsourcing business.
It must be so difficult to be a dad, and so much more to be mine. But he tries his level best to make sure I am doing alright,in his own disciplinarian,purely instructional and sometimes defenseless way which melts my heart and makes me choke.
I miss my dad today.
Phone rings.
Daddy Cool calling.
In my contact list, he gets to be the coolest person.
In my life he is my guardian angel with horns of course.
Scene: At Vaayu lounge, two absolut shots and a beer mug down.
“Hey molu, what are you doing?”
“Hi Acha, just came to a restaurant.”
“At 6?, why so early or late?”
“Having a late lunch”
“Why didn’t you have lunch, why don’t you have any thing on time..?”
“achaa…just had a late breakfast”
“What are you eating?”
“Err…(peanut masala?) just ordered a sandwich ( thank god for baristas)
“Who are you with?”
“I am with a person I met at that StartingBloc dinner I had told you about?”
"Person?"
"YES!"
“Alone?”
“Yes acha…”
“Hmm..(read hmph)…bye take care”
Acha is worried now…6 pm, at a restaurant with a stranger. He is sure I am not filling my stomach, he is worried for my liver and heart.
Lets rewind: 6 months back. Just landed in Bangalore, with a new meager paying job.
“Hi molu, how are you?”
“I am fine acha..”
“You sound very low or tired..what is it?”
“I am just tired…”
“Did you have dinner?”
“Yeah had a kathi roll at the food court?”
“Did you have chyavan praash?”
“yes.”
“Yes? Don’t lie..”
“Have bananas, they are loaded in potassium”
“Acha why do you have to call and only give instructions?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like why cant we keep instructions to 3 days and the remaining 4 days why cant we just talk”
“Because you don’t listen to anything and you don’t take care of yourself!”
“But can we try this?”
“Hmm..do you go to the gym?”
“I try to…
“I told you then itself do yoga at home, you wont go.”
“Acha…!!”
“Did you buy fruits, do you drink milk often?”
I am just wondering why I even brought up the point of limiting instructions to MWF and have a conversational TThS!
The monologue went on for 20 mins that day.
The chyavanpraash is not over yet!
Rewind: First year at college.
“Acha, I just tried alcohol”
“How many times will you Try it?”
“I like it.”
“WHAT?”
There is a drowning out of the Mumbai traffic..suddenly all I can hear is him.
“I don’t get addicted so don’t worry, but I like it.”
“Promise me you wont touch it again”
“I am 21…why would I do that?”
He is livid. Mom jumps in to keep the rickshaw from toppling..
“let it be…just calm down”
“Did you hear what she said?”
A spat ensued..I didn’t want to make false promises. My dad just wanted me to be a presentable Indian daughter and his angel.
Further rewind 6 years back
“Who are you chatting with?
“Many people…
“Why did you minimize the screen then?”
“there were too many anyway”
“But you minimized just one, don’t lie to me”
“Acha (I cant even ask him to read my chats because that would mean being grounded after he saw the sweet nothings to my first love)
“why do you always close your door?”
“Because I like it…!”
“What is this a PG?”
“AChaaaa..!!!”
He storms off….
What is with his timing…how does he just know when HE logged in!
“Why do you make such a face when you see Arjun?”
“I don’t…
“Acha you act so strange and scary when he is around, he is terrified of you!!!”
“What is this about?
“Why cant you just like my friends!!! This is so embarrassing…amma , you should see acha talk to arjun…what is this..why don’t you like him? (LIKE DUH…my daughters first boyfriend…why, I would love to adopt him!)
“Pinky don’t raise your voice!”
“I am not…but why cant you just be nice to him!”
A major spat ensued…I knew why he was so 'De Niro'-ish..but I was embarrassed..my then-boyfriend was terrified and too scared to come anywhere within a 5 km radius of my fortress…my dad transformed into a gruff looking monosyllabic person who just looked the trembling guy up and down.
I took my basketball and dribbled for 3 hours till he called me back and kissed me on my forehead. He still never broke the unapproachable keep away from my daughter exterior when he met arjun again.
Arjun is gone. Heart break. My dad,I guess never wanted that to ever happen. Health is non existent with work timings…Liver is not in the best of conditions.Safety is a concern with the happenings that occur daily in metros and the outsourcing business.
It must be so difficult to be a dad, and so much more to be mine. But he tries his level best to make sure I am doing alright,in his own disciplinarian,purely instructional and sometimes defenseless way which melts my heart and makes me choke.
I miss my dad today.
Phone rings.
Daddy Cool calling.
In my contact list, he gets to be the coolest person.
In my life he is my guardian angel with horns of course.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
ramble on.
So here I am, 6 months into corporate life and do I like it?
Hell No! I feel as insignificant as ever, like a drop in the ocean, like any other fish in the sea…and I don’t buy into the million drops- make an ocean concept. That’s not how the corporate world works. It’s the many drops of sweat that make the fat salaries of the sharks above. True we will get there some day but I am failing to see the point of getting there, as each day passes by.
Have I become smarter?
I guess so, at least less rusty than what my grey cells were in college. But at times, I can really hear the music in the distant land, I can see a pristine beach with white sand, I can hear the waves in my head…I can blank out during a client call and then come flailing back into reality to see the stares of my manager and colleagues. A long errrrr…..and then my manager fills in the rest of the err-encrypted message. Smart he is!
Be there wherever you are, was something mom always told me…but that’s my toughest challenge…to be there..and it’s not because I have got an attention span of a fruit fly …if they have one…I think they do, have you seen how they rub their sticky palms before they feast on sugar crystals, and how they hover over a crumb till they get swatted down…I hate the sound they make…ZzzZZzzzz….It sends the heebie jeebies down my spine…just cant stand it…but yes, where was I? How can I be there ma ?…when it doesn’t …it doesn’t fascinate me. It does interest me no doubt. I am an analyst and I look into numbers which tell me a story. It tells me about a honcho who’s buying my client’s product and there he suddenly dumped us! Tough luck…but why…and there’s a pattern. A set of these honcho’s have been attending conferences and jazzy stuff paid for by my competitor. That means limos, 5 stars, wine and a lot of media attention. Wouldn’t hurt to shift would it? Will it be a short term or long term effect? Or maybe my client’s product has a flaw he has not shared with us yet. I am an undercover number crunching snoop dawg!
Yes it does interest me…but my ego starts acting up. Hello? What about me? What about us? Does HE, whoever your client is, know you exist..? To that I proudly say, Yes yes, he does! In fact, he was really impressed by an idea I gave in a client call the other…
Oh really? He might be impressed but he expects it, because he’s paying you for it. Who’s idea is it going to be when he rolls it out to his sharks?
Mine!
Lil miss fantasy queen, its going to be your firms. Oh no..it gets better. It is going to be HIS.
What’s your point? What do you want from me…I’ll prove myself and I’ll climb up this bean stalk.
Does it really change lives? (Echo)
I frown. I am upset now.
That’s my point it doesn’t. It doesn’t make a kid tug at my hand and give me the most beautiful grin. That kid is still going to be clearing my dishes as I leave that tiny restaurant to catch my train for a visa interview. It’s not going to let another girl study because she will not have light from 4 in the evening till midnight, after which there will be no other go but to wait for the sunshine. It is not going to make any one smile
And I try to shhh my conflicts and my existential soliloquy and fall into a troubled lack luster slumber.
Hell No! I feel as insignificant as ever, like a drop in the ocean, like any other fish in the sea…and I don’t buy into the million drops- make an ocean concept. That’s not how the corporate world works. It’s the many drops of sweat that make the fat salaries of the sharks above. True we will get there some day but I am failing to see the point of getting there, as each day passes by.
Have I become smarter?
I guess so, at least less rusty than what my grey cells were in college. But at times, I can really hear the music in the distant land, I can see a pristine beach with white sand, I can hear the waves in my head…I can blank out during a client call and then come flailing back into reality to see the stares of my manager and colleagues. A long errrrr…..and then my manager fills in the rest of the err-encrypted message. Smart he is!
Be there wherever you are, was something mom always told me…but that’s my toughest challenge…to be there..and it’s not because I have got an attention span of a fruit fly …if they have one…I think they do, have you seen how they rub their sticky palms before they feast on sugar crystals, and how they hover over a crumb till they get swatted down…I hate the sound they make…ZzzZZzzzz….It sends the heebie jeebies down my spine…just cant stand it…but yes, where was I? How can I be there ma ?…when it doesn’t …it doesn’t fascinate me. It does interest me no doubt. I am an analyst and I look into numbers which tell me a story. It tells me about a honcho who’s buying my client’s product and there he suddenly dumped us! Tough luck…but why…and there’s a pattern. A set of these honcho’s have been attending conferences and jazzy stuff paid for by my competitor. That means limos, 5 stars, wine and a lot of media attention. Wouldn’t hurt to shift would it? Will it be a short term or long term effect? Or maybe my client’s product has a flaw he has not shared with us yet. I am an undercover number crunching snoop dawg!
Yes it does interest me…but my ego starts acting up. Hello? What about me? What about us? Does HE, whoever your client is, know you exist..? To that I proudly say, Yes yes, he does! In fact, he was really impressed by an idea I gave in a client call the other…
Oh really? He might be impressed but he expects it, because he’s paying you for it. Who’s idea is it going to be when he rolls it out to his sharks?
Mine!
Lil miss fantasy queen, its going to be your firms. Oh no..it gets better. It is going to be HIS.
What’s your point? What do you want from me…I’ll prove myself and I’ll climb up this bean stalk.
Does it really change lives? (Echo)
I frown. I am upset now.
That’s my point it doesn’t. It doesn’t make a kid tug at my hand and give me the most beautiful grin. That kid is still going to be clearing my dishes as I leave that tiny restaurant to catch my train for a visa interview. It’s not going to let another girl study because she will not have light from 4 in the evening till midnight, after which there will be no other go but to wait for the sunshine. It is not going to make any one smile
And I try to shhh my conflicts and my existential soliloquy and fall into a troubled lack luster slumber.
violate
I hugged Dushy and KK. I had had a wonderful yet scandalizing time staying at their bachelor pad. Now I am no cleanliness freak myself. I love mess and camping in mess, making space for myself on my bed after a hard day’s night, is pretty adventurous and impromptu and it suits me just fine. But this was not a pad…it was a whole new world. Where one entire bedroom was dedicated to a pigeon and her eggs and the others filled into what was left in the house. The men were on a hair today gone tomorrow mission, which meant religious oiling or “champi” session as you call it…and minutes which in their world was hours, combing their tresses and strewing the hair strands all around.
It took me atleast two days to get used to the balls of crinkled black on the floor!
I had a good time. A very very good time. I was back in Hyderabad after 6 months, and it was still intact. A mix of two worlds, a foodie’s abode to heaven and yes for people who enjoy controversy, it was teeming with it. The city was “bandh” for two days that I was there due to the Telangana demands and security threats. The movies were as cheap as can be, and I wanted to watch all the bollywood movies before I got back to Bangalore which is synonymous to mooch-me-off-my-meagre-pay city.
I boarded the bus. This seemed neat, and I started chatting up the lady next to me. A fashion designer for Lee. Interesting. After a bit of conversation everyone in the bus shut their eyes and went into REM land. I have had random jacks annoying the crap out of me before with i-will-stare-at-thy-till-some-telekinesis-takes-place-and-I-can-unbutton-thy experiences so in spite of being a heavy (pun intended) snoozer, I am an owl in a bus.
I finally gave into losing my vigilance and drifted off into a snooze. I covered myself with a blanket right up to my head.
4 30 am. Someone actually uncovers me and soon there is a hand on my breast and I wake up in shock. I see a glimpse of the person in the darkness, but the oaf a lady (you will see why I detest her so much) next to me is so wide, that I miss grabbing his hand. I yell out. I scream out. People around me stir. I am reeling in shock. My left breast is burning.
My co passenger says to me, “ oh that’s horrible. What can be done about it now…just forget it and go back to sleep”.
I want to slap her across the face but that’s not going to help either. I have been violated and there is no one ready to even help. I am in shock.
Around me are men, some the age of my dad. One of them looks at me with a lecherous expression and keeps looking till he dozes off again. I must have resembled an angry porcelain statue because I was stupefied.
I wait for a while. The sun is rising. I wake the bison next to me. I walk up to the cabin of the conductor and driver and knock. They open the window. I complain, I tell them what happened to me.
They pretend that I am talking an incomprehensible dialect. Oh god, why do we have so much diversity than I feel like a freak each time I cross a border. Why cant people speak just one god damn language!
I ask two young guys at the front if they could help me translate. I narrate to him exactly what happened.
The scene is exactly like a bollywood court room drama with the heroine being questioned about her unfortunate violation by Danny.
Where, How…and then sorry, due to the lack of evidence, the case closes and a thousand other men decide it’s that easy to molest a lady.
I am choking…I am angry as hell can be. I can’t pin point to one person though I know it is one of those workers in the bus, who distribute water bottles. He was tiny, a half man.
He is right next to the conductor and he’s got the goose bumps.
He tells the conductor it’s the cleaner. The cleaner, a gruff looking man is woken up and brought in front of me. I say this is not the person.
I can understand telugu, and I heard the conductor asking my violator, you did it right?
He turns to me and says, you should have come earlier. The man must have got down the bus by now.
I refuse. I have been up all night watching. No one around me even budged when I screamed. And trust me the man is very much in front of me.
“Sorry madam , but this is the first time this is happening in our travels.”
“How many more times do you want it to happen before you take action.”
My translators add in vehemence, “You want some one to be raped, katha?” Some people are snickering by now.
Meanwhile the entire bus is staring at me wide eyed. I am sure many of them where thinking, ok this is turning out to be melodramatic. People just staring…Not a single stare of empathy, even from the ladies. Was I speaking the right tongue? It is Hindi right?
I am shaking..I am sobbing…I am not even angry with the boob groper anymore. I am disgusted at the lack of sensitivity in the entire bus. I am sick at the bison who sat next to me,who had a younger sister like me…was it so commonplace for a girl to get molested that it loses its spark of controversy also, and its just not worth fighting for anymore.
I was amused at the number of ball-less men in the bus; this could be an interesting case study.
I walk back to me seat. I wanted to say Thank you all. That will be all. My stand up act is over! You were a dead audience by the way.
I walk back in pain. I am shaken. But my breast is not burning anymore. I have at least fought for myself.
I wonder how many women out there go through this and do nothing about it because they are just too embarrassed or scared.. it’s a horrible feeling. Your body cries out in pain.
Enough of this.
Least to say, the man lost his job. One of my friends saw to that, and though I don’t know how he did that…I am not really vindicated. My sympathy to the families of the dead souls in the bus. May their souls RIP.
It took me atleast two days to get used to the balls of crinkled black on the floor!
I had a good time. A very very good time. I was back in Hyderabad after 6 months, and it was still intact. A mix of two worlds, a foodie’s abode to heaven and yes for people who enjoy controversy, it was teeming with it. The city was “bandh” for two days that I was there due to the Telangana demands and security threats. The movies were as cheap as can be, and I wanted to watch all the bollywood movies before I got back to Bangalore which is synonymous to mooch-me-off-my-meagre-pay city.
I boarded the bus. This seemed neat, and I started chatting up the lady next to me. A fashion designer for Lee. Interesting. After a bit of conversation everyone in the bus shut their eyes and went into REM land. I have had random jacks annoying the crap out of me before with i-will-stare-at-thy-till-some-telekinesis-takes-place-and-I-can-unbutton-thy experiences so in spite of being a heavy (pun intended) snoozer, I am an owl in a bus.
I finally gave into losing my vigilance and drifted off into a snooze. I covered myself with a blanket right up to my head.
4 30 am. Someone actually uncovers me and soon there is a hand on my breast and I wake up in shock. I see a glimpse of the person in the darkness, but the oaf a lady (you will see why I detest her so much) next to me is so wide, that I miss grabbing his hand. I yell out. I scream out. People around me stir. I am reeling in shock. My left breast is burning.
My co passenger says to me, “ oh that’s horrible. What can be done about it now…just forget it and go back to sleep”.
I want to slap her across the face but that’s not going to help either. I have been violated and there is no one ready to even help. I am in shock.
Around me are men, some the age of my dad. One of them looks at me with a lecherous expression and keeps looking till he dozes off again. I must have resembled an angry porcelain statue because I was stupefied.
I wait for a while. The sun is rising. I wake the bison next to me. I walk up to the cabin of the conductor and driver and knock. They open the window. I complain, I tell them what happened to me.
They pretend that I am talking an incomprehensible dialect. Oh god, why do we have so much diversity than I feel like a freak each time I cross a border. Why cant people speak just one god damn language!
I ask two young guys at the front if they could help me translate. I narrate to him exactly what happened.
The scene is exactly like a bollywood court room drama with the heroine being questioned about her unfortunate violation by Danny.
Where, How…and then sorry, due to the lack of evidence, the case closes and a thousand other men decide it’s that easy to molest a lady.
I am choking…I am angry as hell can be. I can’t pin point to one person though I know it is one of those workers in the bus, who distribute water bottles. He was tiny, a half man.
He is right next to the conductor and he’s got the goose bumps.
He tells the conductor it’s the cleaner. The cleaner, a gruff looking man is woken up and brought in front of me. I say this is not the person.
I can understand telugu, and I heard the conductor asking my violator, you did it right?
He turns to me and says, you should have come earlier. The man must have got down the bus by now.
I refuse. I have been up all night watching. No one around me even budged when I screamed. And trust me the man is very much in front of me.
“Sorry madam , but this is the first time this is happening in our travels.”
“How many more times do you want it to happen before you take action.”
My translators add in vehemence, “You want some one to be raped, katha?” Some people are snickering by now.
Meanwhile the entire bus is staring at me wide eyed. I am sure many of them where thinking, ok this is turning out to be melodramatic. People just staring…Not a single stare of empathy, even from the ladies. Was I speaking the right tongue? It is Hindi right?
I am shaking..I am sobbing…I am not even angry with the boob groper anymore. I am disgusted at the lack of sensitivity in the entire bus. I am sick at the bison who sat next to me,who had a younger sister like me…was it so commonplace for a girl to get molested that it loses its spark of controversy also, and its just not worth fighting for anymore.
I was amused at the number of ball-less men in the bus; this could be an interesting case study.
I walk back to me seat. I wanted to say Thank you all. That will be all. My stand up act is over! You were a dead audience by the way.
I walk back in pain. I am shaken. But my breast is not burning anymore. I have at least fought for myself.
I wonder how many women out there go through this and do nothing about it because they are just too embarrassed or scared.. it’s a horrible feeling. Your body cries out in pain.
Enough of this.
Least to say, the man lost his job. One of my friends saw to that, and though I don’t know how he did that…I am not really vindicated. My sympathy to the families of the dead souls in the bus. May their souls RIP.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Q&A.
Today I have no specific agenda, nor propoganda...
I am just bored..as I have reached a stalemate..I am just not able to resolve the conflicts in my head.
What do I want to do in life ? Make a change. Be an example. Be happy. Enjoy what i do.
Why does it bother me to no end, when I come across people doing all sorts of things?
-Because i didn't think about it first.
Why cant i think about things ? - I rule them out even before giving it a fair shot.
What is it like to start afresh? - To not have any scars, to believe and accept again.
What is an idea? - its just a passing thought, its a thought that comes to you when you start to think. When you start to observe.
What can you observe? - Any thing. The way something is placed over something. Why is one thing above the other. There are a million things to observe. There will be a multitude of ideas from each observation. Its called perspective.
How do i give value to my idea? - You give value to them, when you think about them the second time. When you are excited about them. When you can give them a purpose.
When will I strike gold? I am so impatient. I cant wait any longer!
-That's when you need faith. Faith and patience. Time will heal. And you know if you give it a chance, it will do the job beautifully. Give time a little longer, to bring what is coming your way. All you need to do is wish for it.
Good night.
I am just bored..as I have reached a stalemate..I am just not able to resolve the conflicts in my head.
What do I want to do in life ? Make a change. Be an example. Be happy. Enjoy what i do.
Why does it bother me to no end, when I come across people doing all sorts of things?
-Because i didn't think about it first.
Why cant i think about things ? - I rule them out even before giving it a fair shot.
What is it like to start afresh? - To not have any scars, to believe and accept again.
What is an idea? - its just a passing thought, its a thought that comes to you when you start to think. When you start to observe.
What can you observe? - Any thing. The way something is placed over something. Why is one thing above the other. There are a million things to observe. There will be a multitude of ideas from each observation. Its called perspective.
How do i give value to my idea? - You give value to them, when you think about them the second time. When you are excited about them. When you can give them a purpose.
When will I strike gold? I am so impatient. I cant wait any longer!
-That's when you need faith. Faith and patience. Time will heal. And you know if you give it a chance, it will do the job beautifully. Give time a little longer, to bring what is coming your way. All you need to do is wish for it.
Good night.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Silent interrogation. Flashback. Third degree torture.
Water splashed on to my face. Ice cold water. A lump formed in my throat. My feet went cold. There I was pinned down; waiting to be consumed in the wrath I had willingly walked into. The sound of footsteps stopped.
My feet pushed against the rods under it, clutching it frantically to numb the pain…but to no avail. Hands trying to cover my face from the fury. Every hair parallel to every other and vertical.
Eyes smarting with pain, I try to distract myself. This can’t go on forever, it will pass…
Think of your happiest moment…I try to think of my little niece, the innocent and cherubic angel I loved so dearly, whom I would have gotten to hold and play with, had I just used my sense of judgement …but in the next second the electric neural pulses of dismemberment brought me back to reality…
The Torturer drops the device; I inhale hard and revel in those moments of glory. The pain is passé as long as it was over.
Device retrieved. Pressed against me skin, I grit my teeth and flail out my palms. Open. Close. Open. Close. A fish hooked to the bait. Grasping for life.
I am moving my legs, flapping them wildly. Open. Close. Open. Close. A duck trying to swim after getting trapped in an oil slick.
Never again will I repeat this. Never will I even think about it. Never will I give in to that temptation, hoping that it would in some way superficially better my life.
That will be 15 Rs Ma’am. I throw it at her and rise from the chair. I am never doing my eyebrows again!
And the hair grows back. And the cycle continues…only to be very sporadic owing to the writer’s morbid fear of the device: a reel of thread.
My feet pushed against the rods under it, clutching it frantically to numb the pain…but to no avail. Hands trying to cover my face from the fury. Every hair parallel to every other and vertical.
Eyes smarting with pain, I try to distract myself. This can’t go on forever, it will pass…
Think of your happiest moment…I try to think of my little niece, the innocent and cherubic angel I loved so dearly, whom I would have gotten to hold and play with, had I just used my sense of judgement …but in the next second the electric neural pulses of dismemberment brought me back to reality…
The Torturer drops the device; I inhale hard and revel in those moments of glory. The pain is passé as long as it was over.
Device retrieved. Pressed against me skin, I grit my teeth and flail out my palms. Open. Close. Open. Close. A fish hooked to the bait. Grasping for life.
I am moving my legs, flapping them wildly. Open. Close. Open. Close. A duck trying to swim after getting trapped in an oil slick.
Never again will I repeat this. Never will I even think about it. Never will I give in to that temptation, hoping that it would in some way superficially better my life.
That will be 15 Rs Ma’am. I throw it at her and rise from the chair. I am never doing my eyebrows again!
And the hair grows back. And the cycle continues…only to be very sporadic owing to the writer’s morbid fear of the device: a reel of thread.
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