An odd, disjointed post

Silence. Some feel oppressed by it, some live with it. I love it, just as I love darkness. I love it just as I love sound, just as I adore light. Everyone sees the world in different ways; I see it in these terms – silence, noise, darkness and light. We have already assigned value to everything. Dark is bad, light is good; as for silence and noise, both have their virtues and vices – silence may be peace or death, noise may be chaos or life.

I can wish and hope that I will live in a quaint village far away from ‘the maddening crowd’, but the reality is, I have always lived in cities, plonked right into the centre of humanity. Life hurries past, its impatience and breathlessness is stunning. Why does no one wait? Why does no one look a person in the eye? Why the shuffling, pushing and hurrying? Where are they all going? No, I am not trying to ask some profound existential question - seriously, where the hell are they all going? I imagine them running through their days, mechanical, schedule bound, day in and day out – and suddenly, stunned, surprised – they are 70 and life as they know it, youth, has passed them.

Life, as I know it, is baffling at times. What is our purpose? At 20, we battle confusion and anxiety to answer this very question, some lucky ones come up with answers that satisfy their minds, while the rest just muddle their way through life, or so I suppose. For me, life is one huge learning process - but for all that learning, we get only one shot at it. So next time I am confronted with a big decision, I suppose I should remind myself of this: one life, one chance. No regrets. In the end, I will be worm food. Might as well make my journey toward the inevitable more eventful. So, I will continue to wear my childish socks, and love my colourful laces, and I will continue talking to myself. I will write here even if no one read this, though I sure as hell will try to make people read it. I will continue to watch sitcoms and dramas till I lose interest in them, and not care that I haven’t listened to, or don’t like, classic rock bands.

Wait. Watch. Breathe. Now go.

The Dream

I had a dream that I owned a house. My own place. It was a strange place, not that I expect any home of mine to be any different. Cozy.

There seemed to be no front door to this home of mine (Psychologist friends, have a field day with that one). It was small, just a bedroom and a kitchen (even in my dream, my mind is clear about the fact that I have no money).

I had to break into my own house, by the way. I climbed up a fire escape, and ended up in a corridor. To my right was a window, the kind that slides up, and I entered my house through that window, knocked over something that was on a desk under said window. My bed was next to the desk. Plenty of cushions, lots of reds, browns, and greens. Books everywhere, a small table lamp. There is no phone.

Through beaded curtains on the right, and there is a wash basin behind another curtain, and right ahead of me is a well sized kitchen. (Where is the bathroom? Where are all the French windows I always wanted?)

I worry in this house of mine, because of that darned window. What if someone breaks in through it? I look for the front door, but I cannot find it.

Please, Don't Tell Me a Story!

Ideas we are introduced to as children stay with us for life. One's personality is, after all, the result of upbringing, culture and, in the modern world, what the media projects on a daily basis. This is particularly true in the case of notions of gender identity, and the roles and characteristics that society assigns to each – male and female. The third gender is not even considered by society, so let us leave that one for another day.

Consciously or otherwise, society came up with certain ways to, and I do not use this term lightly, brainwash us, about what is appropriate behaviour for different genders. Education, modernity and the feminist movement have challenged the most outrageous of these norms, but many continue to exist. Of course, they vary from culture to culture, but some common factors are present everywhere. Let us look at three of them in this post – two are important influences from our childhood, and one that continues to assault us even after we become adults: toys, fairy tales and television programmes/films.

Toys obviously form an important part of play during childhood. In the beginning, we all get the same things – things that make noise, are bright and move. However, once children become mobile, start talking and become capable of absorbing basic concepts like who those tall people who boss us around are, or why drinking out of the fish tank is not an option, the toys they play with change as well. Out go the rattles and in come the toy soldiers and blonde, blue eyed dolls with vacant expressions. Toy guns and miniature kitchen sets. Doctor kits and mock make-over sets, complete with fake lipsticks, blush and mascara. I read about this bizarre ‘Make your own atomic bomb’ kit that came out during the cold war, which actually included four samples of uranium ore (Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Laboratory).

The point of this little toy history is, through them are introduced subtle but clear ideas of what is considered appropriate behaviour and careers for different sexes. Boys need to be tough like soldiers, they should not cry, they should be brave. Girls, lets cook! Let us put on make-up, hang around in the kitchen, drink tea and have unrealistic ideas about what women should look like (If Barbie was human: 37-28-40, 7.8 ft. Really?! What a brilliant role model for inspiring a healthy body image). We outgrow toys at some stage, but the question is, do we outgrow what they try to teach us? Of course, parents may not actually want us to learn these precise ideas from our toys, but some forethought while shopping and gifting would be nice.

The next important factor would be the stories we hear and read as children. “Please tell me a story!” is a line most of us would have said at some point in our childhood. Growing up in Bombay, in a family that considered reading as the best hobby a child could have, I got access to both western fairy tales and Indian mythological stories. Western fairy tales included Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White, Ugly Duckling and the like, while Indian ones, thanks to Uncle Pai and his Amar Chitra Katha, included stories of Indian kings and mythological heroes. In retrospect, both were sexist as hell.

Among the European fairy tales, almost all had a similar theme running through them – beauty is everything, step mothers are beyond evil, weak women are cool and need to be rescued by Prince Charming. The duckling is shunned till it turns into a swan; the Princess lets the Prince climb up her hair (!), kisses random Princes and frogs, sleeps in strangers houses and lets Prince Charming slay her demons for her. And now, the
Princess has made a comeback in the form of Bella Swan and Twilight (refer to previous post). Grow a backbone, please! These stories give new heights to the more ridiculous ideas of being feminine i.e. be weak and wait to be rescued; simultaneously, they instill completely unrealistic notions about how men should behave. Unconsciously, many women do look out for their Knight in Shining Armour, who, when he comes along, may turn out to be a loser in aluminium foil...(Thank you Facebook, this one is priceless).

As for the Indian stories, don’t even get me started on them – why are almost all the mythological heroes men, and why do women feature as prominent characters only when they are playing mothers or wives to these said heroes? Sorry, I refuse to be the woman behind a successful man. I want to be successful, screw him. And though this is not related to what is being discussed, I would just like to point out that Indian Sultans and Badshahs were not lecherous and evil beings waiting to kill Rajputs and take their women. Bloody Hindu propaganda.

And finally, thank you Ekta Kapoor and co, for depicting women (and only Hindu ones as that, god knows how she would have depicted the Muslim community) as the ever suffering, silent victims of archaic patriarchal traditions. No, no, please do not rebel, do not have a career, worship your mangalsutra and sindoor, have ridiculous names and tolerate your cheating husbands. Yes, that is what all Indian women should aspire to be. A Mrs. Somebody who does not have self respect or an independent mind.

What we need is stories that teach children about independence and self-confidence, emphasise on the importance of inner beauty and loving oneself, and tell them that they can be anything they want to be. Prince Charming can go back to the happy land of singing serfs, benevolent Fairy Godmothers and evil step sisters - we new age women can take care of ourselves.

Of sparkling vampires and 'irrevocable' love

When I see girls going gaga over Edward Cullen, I am amazed at their obsession with the blood-sucking ‘undead’. Edward Cullen, in case you have been living under a rock in Antarctica, is the vampire protagonist of the Twilight series authored by Stephanie Meyer. It’s not like the books weren’t bad enough (and I should know, I read all four in two weeks. Ah, the insanity of an idle mind); the powers that be decided to compound the present craze over the book by making the truly terrible Twilight movies, which boast of incredibly bad acting, laughable make up and no creative imagination whatsoever.

Quick synopsis: Bella moves in with her father who lives in a rainy town called Forks, so that her mother can go on tour with her step-father. She starts high school, boys start falling in love with her, though she can’t figure it out, and at this point, which is about 20 pages into the book, the author introduces Edward, handsome, ‘perfect’ Edward , thus conveniently bypassing the need to give Bella any background history whatsoever. She seems to have had no semblance of a life before moving to Forks, and quickly falls in looove with Eddie boy, after exchanging about 20 words with him. Eddie boy is not any boy, he is a vampire, an old vampire, and a vampire who sparkles in sunlight. Seriously, sparkles. Now falling ‘irrevocably’ in love with a sparkly stalker vampire (he sneaks into her room at night to watch her sleep, the creep) vampire is never a good thing, and neither is having a hormonal werewolf for your best friend. The series should have never gotten past an editor without undergoing some serious hacking, but evidently, said editor was on vacation.

The series are not the best books for impressionable teenagers, and the main reason for that is the female protagonist of the series – Bella Swan. I have never come across a more needy, spineless and annoying character in a book. She shows no sense of self preservation, is morally ambiguous, and her world revolves around her boyfriend. I mean, going numb, curling up into a ball and jumping off cliffs because a boy ditched you? Not cool. Surely falling out of love is an option? No guy is worth jumping off a cliff, for Christ’s sake. Her aim in life is to turn into a vampire and be with her guy forever -- go get a degree, a job!! She idealises Romeo and Juliet (and look how well that story ended). So in the end, what message is the author giving out? Forget about defining your identity, be ambitionless, selfish, dependent on a guy for your happiness to the point of being suicidal; be a perpetual damsel in distress and be careless about the feelings of family and friends? And what is this talk of 'irrevocable' love? Besides sounding slightly daft, it is also sounds completely wrong when a 17 year old says it, who simultaneously wishes to have the sparkly prima donna as her boyfriend for ever or die. What a choice.

Give me Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel (ooh, David Boreanaz) ANY day. They have courageous, independent and strong characters who can act as perfect role models for teens, rather than whiny Bella Swan.

Will I grow up?

Some days, I want to be someone else. Not that I don’t want to be me. I like being me, being goofy, serious, neurotic me. But some days, it might be fun to be someone else. (don’t use pop psychology, just go with it ok?)

The person I want to be most is a reclusive writer, with a cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a dog called Jack (more on this imaginary dog some other time). With no large water bodies or a phone anywhere nearby. Just Jackie boy warming my feet, a laptop, lots of coffee, a cozy table, lamp and me. Books covering every surface. A writer, poet. Changing the world with that brilliant novel. This me knows how to play the guitar and the violin and is quite well read, what with being a writer and all. This me even understands Shakespeare without the Lambs helping out, and can argue whether or not Shakespeare was a chauvinist.

A winemaker. Mmm. Vineyards in Italy. A nice crumbling stone cottage with a fireplace, logs crackling in the fireplace during winter, lovely employees who sing as they crush the grapes (hey, it’s MY imagination). Besides the winemaking, I am also a shepherd in my free time. “The hills will be alive with the sound of bleating.” Let us establish at this point that imaginary Jack will always be by my side. (Daddy, Ma? See? This is what happens when you deny your ONLY offspring a pet. Too late now. I am evidently damaged.)

A chef. Surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables, and so much possibility. Flour
in my hair and a smile of satisfaction at my glorious Christmas pudding. Chopping, crushing, steaming, baking. Spices: star anise, bright oranges, fragrant cumin, glossy red chillies, cinnamon sticks, bay leaves (take out the chillies and the cumin, and I could make mulled wine at this point.)

Edith was right. I am a hopeless romantic.

Why I Write

I often see writers trying to explain why they write. They do it eloquently, gracefully. Look at Terry Tempest Williams's essay. (Tempest. What a fascinating name. Does it offer us a glimpse into her personality? But then, are we moulded by our names? I know people who are nothing like their names, many named after gods and qualities they never reflect :D And yet others who are their names personified. Sulekha. Good writer. She is. Mehjabeen. Moonbeam/Moon-like. She lights up a room.)

Tempest says she writes because:
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=502133944457

I think, I ponder, try to get inspired. I struggle and finally, I squeeze out a few words, about why I write, before I give up. For now.

I write to put my memories into words. I write to share my life. I write because it makes me happy. I write because it makes me question, it makes me think. I write because it is the only way I will ever express all my thoughts, everything I feel. I write to challenge my imagination. I write to tell stories. I write to tell you about my day, to cajole you into telling me about yours. I write about things that matter to me, about people who matter to me. I write because I like the sound of words, their taste, their feel. They give me company on sunny days, on rainy evenings and on silent nights. They surround me when I am alone; they protect me in a crowd. They float around me like dust motes in a bright sunny room, and I follow them with my eyes, frantically trying to commit them to memory, or to paper at least. They flutter all around me, make me what I am. I bat at them like a cat, try to pluck one out of the air and pin it down. It’s hard. Yet, I love these words. Words, do not float away from me. Stay close.

Chocolate! Fire alarms! Paris!! Spell!!!

Dear Reader,

I am battling bloggers block and the urge to eat chocolate, a combination that has a tendency to drive a person mad. I get ideas when I am about to be claimed by sleep, and by the time I wake up, poof! All fantastic (at least in my semi conscious state, they seem so) post ideas are gone. So as I sit here before my laptop and wonder what to type, I am struck by random, random thoughts. Should I inflict them upon you, or should I sift through them and pick up one that I could elaborate, tweak and beat into submission, into something that vaguely resembles some coherent flow of thought? I wonder, I ponder and I decide: Blitz Krieg!

In Paris (yes, you lot are going to hear about this place so much, you might as well give in), in Paris, I went to a pub with the group I was travelling with. In the dark pub that was lit only by UV lights, everything became very interesting (anyone remember that Friends episode where Ross whitens his teeth for a date?) Our t-shirts, teeth, eyes glowed a ghostly white and the ambience was seductive. A pianist, super cheerful with a glass of whiskey next to him, played out tunes in a surprisingly accent free voice. People around us were steadily getting drunk, while he sang soulful songs. But after every song, there would be just a couple of people clapping, and as I sat there looking at him, I wondered how he did this job. Imagine sitting there, playing for a bunch of people for whom your music was just white noise? My soul would die a bit each night if I were him. Whiskey would help prop up my spirits too though, I suppose...

You know what technology – text messaging, online chatting, facebook - has done to this world? Besides making us into complete idiots who depend on technology for the simplest of things, it has ruined our ability to spell (mum, don’t laugh, I can spell, ok?). I often wonder what would happen if people (and I don’t mean annoying teenagers, I mean fellow 20+ year olds) type ‘you’ instead of ‘u’? or ‘this’ instead of ‘dis’? it is amaaazzzzzziiiinn dat ppl r unabl 2 typ cmplte wrds. I wonder how much effort it takes to type that odd vowel? I assure the followers of this culture, that contrary to popular belief, those ‘a’s, ‘e’s and ‘I’s are important. Really, they are.

I love fire alarms. Everyone I know and lived with for the past one year in halls greeted them with pure, unadulterated loathing, while I would run out of my room with a huge grin. I consider fire alarms to be a fantastic opportunity to catch up with friends. Others did not agree though. The general hatred towards the alarms was compounded by the fact that it always went off at odd hours, usually between 1 am and 6 am when some fellow creature of the night was burning food or smoking stealthily (and unsuccessfully) in their rooms. In my case, this meant I was wide awake every time, since I don’t keep to human times. Shelby called me a “bloody prophet” because the alarms uncannily went off often on days when I would mention them. “Ooh Shel, love those pyjamas, I hope the fire alarm goes off so that people see them”/ “Sigh. Last days, and no fire alarms. So sad.” Were followed by the ear splitting “teeooooteeeoooteeeoo” of the alarm. I think my flatmates hated me a bit because of this.

Strange and highly disorganised monologue done. Thank you for reading.

Love,

Me.