A recent discussion of Chivalry

My reaction to Chivalry:

I'm no feminist usually, but it does disgust me. But my disgust turns into amusement soon. I am no Victorian lady, I am able bodied and wear convenient clothes, all of these enable me to- Open my own doors, Pull out my chairs, voice my statements as loud as I need them to be. 
What amuses me men dithering around me thinking it's scoring them points while I'm laughing my heart out!
'Understanding and consideration' is better deserved by the needy not women who play needy when they need to. Chivalry is the 'modality' that needs to be kicked back to the Victorians and their era.

The Header

The header is a collage of Felix Vallotton's woodcuts. How did I discover Felix Vallotton? Well, I did.

Here is another woodcut, not from the collection in the header- The Assassin. I love the drama in this image.

Dreams and Fears

Like a child throwing a fit, I threw my things away. I picked up all I could reach and threw it. I looked around at the expanse of my clutter. I felt secure with the mess around me. As if every one of those objects served as a defense. Then he came, he picked out every one of those in exacly the order in which I had dispersed the pushed them out of his way and moved closer and closer to me. Then he stood facing me.

He is there

I see him playing a keyboard in the corner of the big white room as I lead my life.



The notes are interspersed with his laughter, that strange guttural sound he makes.


I also keep hearing him say ‘Jasmine’. And weighed breaths. He lurks in the corner, never stops playing, never comes to claim the spotlight.


Sometimes I turn around to check if he is there. He plays the same tunes, interrupts with the same laughter and calls my name the same way.

In loving memory of Romeo

You little lovely being, you spread so much joy, I hope you find peace.

They are tearing it down

They are tearing it down. Piecemeal, little pieces in every direction, all the time. Can it still be piecemeal?



Like a cat jumps at its scratch post and slides its claws down the length of it. Disintegrating the wood. Freeing it of itself.


The debris is being broken further. Further and further. It looked like a piece of the autoclave an hour ago. It looks like a piece of something now. It could have been anything- a part of a remote, a part of a chromatographic circuit etc. They are leaving no grace for the remains.


And who are these agents of destruction? These men who work unscathed by the dust, by the sound and by the sheer magnitude of their task, they are no ordinary men. While we cringe our noses, try to filter our breath, search for places to plant our feet in, distract ourselves from the sound, these men-they lumber on. At times we stop and examine their work, it is almost moving to see the building that shelters us facing the savageness. It seems that the sheer ferocity of their task propels their beast. They pound at the Aluminum harder, cut through the meshes faster and ram the crumbling walls harder. They look into your eyes through a glaze; something in them is hard to reckon with.


In a little spot in all this destruction, there is something being constructed.

Say it, Say it, Say it

When my computer says 'This may take several minutes', it means it.

The can was fluorescent green

I picked it off my friend’s shelf. The can was fluorescent green. I didn't expect much from it, "Just don't let me stink". I sprayed it, it seemed ok and then I busied myself with exiting the place. I picked up my bag, found my hairclip, dusted my shoes and slipped into the long drive to work.



In office, as it sat down beside me, I asked the Smell- "Where are you from?” it replied “From a girl's bedroom". "But I know you", I said. "You think I smell like your cousin and her room?" "Perhaps" "You think I am a homely feminine smell? Like a half-open girl's dressing drawer with sunlight shining into it?"I get distracted by my vacuum calculation. The size of the nozzle just doesn’t seem right. I turn around to ask my colleague. The Smell catches my attention again as I look over my shoulder. “I’ll get back to you later, let me design now”, I push the smell back into that drawer and shut some of the sunlight with it.

There is a palm tree

It is some kind of a palm. I walk past it everyday. Sometimes it sways with the wind. Usually it just looks down at me as I walk by it. Yesterday I found a fruit lying under it. But the fruit was not from the palm. 

Gifts

Strange gifts from friends. 
This was from one who shares a penchant for libraries. 
Thank You!

Where, Here?

"Have you been here often?"
"No, not since the last time I met you here."

Indicators

So I've been thinking of buying a car. I always thought I'd buy the most fuel-efficient, low maintenance, sturdy mechanics car, but I have a lovely little brother. He loves the big, shiny things in life and can be very persuasive with his charm.So I thought of a lot of cars, thought of my budget and again thought of a lot of cars. Then came the new Alto K10 but bros said it looks like a creature from Tralfamadore. Then I thought of the Chevrolet Beat and kept thinking about it. At this very opportune time, my friends also decide to buy new cars- the Volkswagen Polo and the Ford Figo. Another friend drives the Fiat Punto.  And I noticed that I was noticing cars all the time. Piqued by my lack of attention, my Maruti started getting even with me. Clutch Bearings, suspension, steering wheel, all the big expenses that my little car could ask for came home uninvited. One not so fine day, in the midst of the IFFCO Chowk mayhem, I was trying to turn right. And I cursed as I hit the indicator. My last memory of it was that it was not working for a long while, like my odometer and I was used to getting exasperated every time I tried to point my car right. But that morning it worked! The mechanic had fixed it. I had been so flustered by the repair, trips to the mechanic, by the new car search , the car loan stuff, selling old car search. The blinking indicator was like a poultice. The rhythmic blinking was somehow so peaceful, so distant from the conundrum of a new car.
It was probably the right indicator.

An Anand Karaj

My cousin sister is a practising Sikh born into a Sikh family. She married a man who is also an apparently practising Sikh born into a Sikh family this June. Recently, they went to get their marriage registered in Punjab. The clerk asked them for a picture from the "Anand Karaj", and my sister replied, "Oh, I don't think we had that ceremony". The clerk was obviously taken aback and she asked again- " Did you walk around the Guru Granth Sahib four times?". It was then that the newly-wed couple registered that they did participate in an "Anand Karaj", and in fact it was the "Anand Karaj" that they had dressed up so gaudily for. It was why their profiles mentioning their hobbies were on that matrimony website. It was what they invited all those guests to. It was where the bride shed those tears. It is what the Sikh communion is, it was the occasion that was marked by those recitals of those laavans that they didnot strain themselves to listen to, but did 'walk' around the Guru Granth Sahib to.  It was the "in-between" those two evenings of partying. 
I attended that Anand Karaj that June, or did I really attend one?


I know that non-Sikhs are not encouraged to participate in an Anand Karaj. How do you distinguish between a non-Sikh and a "lets party after this" Sikh? So many such questions, isn't it?

Life as it was last week

was neither the best nor the worst.

Clef

The floor was littered, with the exigency of their moment; they didn’t wait for the soprano to soar, they soared on another floor, while this lay littered.

A Kureishi Shelf

I've had strange factions of luck with Kureishi. My first Kureishi- Love in a Blue time with the lovely Blue cover found its way into my bag from a government library somehow. I loved the spined copy so much, and even more so after discovering the much duller paperback version in the expensive bookstore, I  immediately decided to keep the forbidden copy away from its lawful home-the State Library. But, the beautiful cover played elusive and I lost the book to a friend so dear I didn't scratch him bald when he told me that my first Kureishi had decided to move on.


Gabriel's Gift I found in the AC Joshi Library, a library that had a noted dislike for modern fiction and hence my surprise, " Kureishi, you, here?". The silvery blue cover reflected my "blue love" for Kureishi back at me. And hence a pleasant afternoon under the winter sun with Kureishi in my lap before he returned to the dark hustled library shelf less than 14 days  from our shelved encounter.


One grumpy day I happened to turn into the little old magazine kiosk and found the most  brilliant cover I've ever I've seen on a book. Intimacy limned as a couple in bed, intimate.
This cover I've never seen in any bookshop, I had to discover it between obsolete India Todays and Womans Eras. And I hold this Kureishi close to me like no other, intimate. 


In Bangalore with my Twink, I found Love in a Blue Time again, in a pile that threatened to self destruct anytime. I escaped with Kureishi, myself and my Twink-then tight under my arm.


And then this Sunday, I again sauntered over to the little old magazine kiosk and found The Buddha of Suburbia content amongst the Pregnancy and Childcare and Digit Magazine. So even though I owned a much more expensive sparkling version, I still picked up the spent Kureishi.


And now I live with the Kureishis.
:)


P.S Dear Hanif Kureishi,
My apologies for completely discounting my copy of Midnight all Day from this narrative, I, well, didnot enjoy it a bit.

Point

The ends of his fingers marked the beginning of my desire.

The Love beneath their Fleece

Dedicated to Booker who contrary to all expectations, did not take off his shirt.

They drove up a 40 degree incline and then they shared their first breaths of air with Her. Their wide open collars breached to her the lumps in their throat at the sight of her.

Nobel had created a goddess of her. She saw that he even had prayer beads with her alphabet on each of them embracing his gullet. Booker’s driving was enough wild to scare even the immortal Goddess. She sat perched between them both; the writers not further than the expanse of her shoulders allowed and not closer than that. Booker gave the impression he would turn his face to hers and seal the kiss that was lingering in both their heads. Nobel and she had serious business to do; they both came armed for each other; the arsenal in their bellies, their eyes shone at each other with the glimpse of the fireworks they could create.

Booker looked perfect with his eyes that reminded Her of dark forests and his structure which she would have loved to explore had he only undid his buttons. Nobel looked all-pervasive, his hair echoed the despair in his eyes and his dimples betrayed it all.

Having arrived at their destination at Bookers mercy, they placed themselves in the ascent to Zafraan. Intoxications ran freely here and Booker and the Goddess rejoiced. Dear booker, with his contempt for such “pleasure-measures” rejoiced in rubbing with the Goddess’ shoulders during their revelry. They dismissed the carrot-head who offered his obeisance to the Goddess all evening before allowing him to lay their table with ambrosia. After the alcohol had filled his soul Nobel silently declared looking directly at Her a cardinal sin.

She told Nobel how the polka dots and the music of the forest in the toilet reminded Her of Her heavenly abode. Nobel had recently beaten Her at a game of verbal intercourse and she was poised to stake Her claim in the conversations that evening. Matters of love and sexual intercourse could not have been accorded with these lesser mortals but she was adamant and with Booker safely in Her cape, Nobel looking Here, there everywhere but at Her, she felt she was headed at a win.

On the way back up the 40 degree incline, Booker finally confessed of his sources of pleasure and displeasure; he was assured salvation was his. They found their preferences rhyme, that their laughter rhymed and that their scorn also rhymed in some stanzas.

There were embraces at the end of it.

She suggested they catalogue this tryst, a first hopefully; and here is Her account.

For more on the evening from Booker:

http://inafreestate.blogspot.com/2009/11/our-she.html

For more on the evening from Nobel:

http://filteringthrough-bunts.blogspot.com/2009/11/little-evening.html

The color on my fingertips

The red is so sad.

My fingers look like they could play a dirge.

a white shirt

The detergent washed away the malaise, they now smelt of oranges and lilies and over-ripe plums put together. She pulled them from the washing line as the rain and gust tugged at each other. They fell on the mosaic, got caught in the fence, fell on the grass, and then they gathered in her arms. Still warm with the remains of the sun, still crisp from the remains of the detergent and damp-stained with the waters from above. I closed my eyes, picked one of them up and buried my face into the cornucopia of that aroma. I knew with my eyes closed, I knew that it was white. It smelt white.

It smelt like Paras did that wonderful noon in Bangalore.

Back

Back to where my hair smells of "Guaiacol Malonate" and not "Mallige".

The New Plant

I am in a manufacturing plant that uses rechargable batteries in torches.

I am in a manufacturing plant that has a wood-fired boiler.

Believe me.

clicks

We’re leaving the office last. He’s walking behind me. I saw him look at me with his slightly open mouth and perennially grave expression under the glaze of three sets of illumination.

He switches off the first set of lights, click, and dark.

The second set of lights goes off, click, darker.

We’re both heading for the door and the last set of light switches is in my arms reach.

I deliberate my pace; reach for the switch, click.

Slow down, we’re both slow.

And in that space where I couldn’t discern anything else, I hear a loud sigh, close behind me.

Reach for the door knob now, click.

And the violent light comes barging in, into our little moment. Like light had been eavesdropping on our silent solitude crouched against the door and it tumbled in as I turned the doorknob.

We’re climbing down the stairs together. The moment is so long behind us, as if all the depth, distance, height of the world has come between climbing down the stairs with him and sharing that dark, dark moment with him. He talks mildly of our projects, of our next trip.

Another day gone, a day when his hair smelt like out of a shampoo commercial.

Them

Beads from a foreign land

Mono no Aware

For those of us new to this,this japanese concept implies a sense of ephemera, knowing how fleeting all things are, and how things that are transient are somehow more sadly beautiful. Evenescent beauty is what is captured.Mono no aware is the perspective of a tired, relaxed, even disappointed observer. The scholar Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801) invented this unique concept to define the essence of Japanese culture (the phrase derives from aware, which means “a sensitivity to things”). He believed that the Japanese encompassed the capacity to experience the objective world in a direct and unmediated fashion, to understand sympathetically the objects and the natural world around one without resorting to language or other mediators. This concept became the central aesthetic concept in Japan, even into the modern period, allowing the Japanese to understand the world directly by identifying themselves with that world. This is probably why sakura or cherry blossoms are so important to Japan.

I've been glued to the Japanese Writer Kazuo Ishiguro for quite a while now,he has iconically captured mono no aware,in Steven's (from "The Remains of the Day") eyes,in Kathy's (from "Never Let me Go") love.

Looking for a book to pick up? Ishiguro won't disappoint!

Seven Stitches in time

If I could rhyme
There'd be more lines
not just "Seven Stitches in time"

Nostalgia

For all my friends who’ve had more than many silent excruciating moments in the face of my continuous ranting about missing Maharashtra………….another ranting!
This time though, it’s about how much I missed my home while I was there. This is a side of the story hardly any of you would have heard...

Nostalgia- Missing my land

- Bisleri started promoting its mineral water with the advertisement-“I’m going back home to the mountains and lakes”. But I wasn’t going back home to the Shiwaliks and the Sukhna Lake of Chandigarh. I was stuck with the crooked edge of the Western Ghats and the Bhigwan Lake. Even the migratory birds at the lake were fortunate enough to go to their homeland every season.
- I had to forego my dear habit of leaving my second button unfastened after entering the plant, my work required me to be held up with queer people on queerer locations and in the queerest of positions; so to not add to the queer tale implied that I keep myself well-buttoned up. As a boyfriend of mine phrased it-“The undone second button on your shirt was mercilessly pushed into extinction”.
- Every time I came back to Bhigwan from a vacation at home, I’d enter my room and the room would smell different from what it did when I left it, so I’d tell myself that the room’s forgotten my smell, and so will Bhigwan, it’s time to go. And I’d live the following few days essentially construing the change of smell as an omen for me to be leaving for home.
- Friday lunches at my mess used to be punctuated with a sweet dish. Unfortunately, the cook would never remember to spare a share for me before adding cardamom to it. It took a lot of Friday lunches with sweetened curd as a substitute for sweet dish and a lot of “sweet-talking” with the kitchen staff before this feat was achieved. I missed home where not just my parents but all my relatives had registered my dislike for cardamom and always saved me a share of “cardamom-free” sweets.
- The season of mangoes arrived and I thought that the season would pass without my Mom’s mango shakes!
- In the loud drone of Temples, I missed the peace and quiet of Gurudwaras.
- So used to I had been to calling out to my brother whenever I felt technologically impaired, I knew my “helpdesk” was just a holler away. In Bhigwan, technical help implied using up a hard-worked- Compensatory Off leave for a trip to Pune’s interiors to find an HP service center. I missed my “whiz-kid” lil bros and his free services.
- Every time I had to fish into my pocket for buying a book, I missed my State Library, Chandigarh that offered me so much without any “bills” attached to the transactions of literature.
- I had two Punjabi songs in my laptop and I would listen to them over and over again in an attempt to stay in touch with my language,I’d read my holy text in Punjabi in an attempt to not forget how to read and write Punjabi. I craved for the slightest excerpts of Punjabi, writings on Trucks, some words in the language of some Haryanvis I knew there or in the Dogri of one of our cooks there…
- In the year that I spent there I must have changed my phone number times enough to be labeled-“promiscuous even with numbers”, all because I did not have a Maharashtrian ID proof. I had phone numbers in the names of my colleagues, friends, relatives of friends, friends of relatives, colleagues of relatives, colleagues of friends,,,well, you get the picture. And every time the service provider found out the same, my connection would go kaput in minute’s time. Punjab was so friendly and convenient, I could have had n number of connections in n people’s names, but all that I wanted in Bhigwan was ONE phone line that wouldn’t betray me anytime I wanted to connect to my land, but Maharashtra wouldn’t allow that.
- Every visit to Bhigwan was marked with an unnerving “transportation” issue. Relying on the company’s transport implied either rushing up activities to an uncomfortable pace in the hope of catching the college bus or wiling away time at some uncomfortable spot in Bhigwan waiting for the market bus. I missed the convenience of my PB 02 0822 apart from the car itself.
- On the eve of Gurupurab, I rejoiced alone with a singular “deepak” in my balcony.

This shall of course, much to my friends disappointment be followed up with a write-up about how much I miss Maharashtra (It’s only but fair!). :)

A Case Study !

Case study: Ranbaxy Laboratories Ltd.’s Female Toilets

Women are luckier than men; enjoy more fringe benefits, to cite an example- the Ranbaxy Labs Ltd. Ladies Toilet.

While the men get a boring row of urinals, the women get a set of two rooms. One of the rooms has a sofa and is, simply phrased, a place to sit and the other room boasts of a life- size mirror and a closet apart from the urinal cabins. The function of the”sitting room” is unclear. I, as a woman, can’t think of any activities that a woman needs to perform in the sitting room of a toilet. Though I see the sofa being put to many uses- women rummaging through their purses on it, sharing animated conversations, trainees killing time in their non-existent “training schedule”, even lying down on it though it defies the size requirement of even the most petite of women! At times, I tie my shoelaces there.

The female toilet has only 2 commodes: Ranbaxy actually has a very good sex ratio so the explanation that the number of women is lesser so the number of toilets required is lesser absolutely doesn’t suffice. Also as far as I believe the excretory systems of men and women are alike, both need to frequent the toilet only as much as each other. So well, the women get the comfort of the sitting room and the displeasure of only 2 toilet seats and the men get a no-nonsense row of urinals.

The cleaning schedule is also notable. Ranbaxy has only male cleaning attendants; they knock before entering the toilet and leave a “cleaning in progress” signboard at the door during the course of cleaning. Such well-structured nitty-gritty’s catch and deserve at least the slightest of my mention.

Another eccentricity of the toilet is the Moaning Myrtle in the ladies Toilet. If you see the strewn toilet paper in the toilets over the seat and floor and the tapping, you’ll believe me when I say, that humans would fail if they were put to such a task. Though the only moaning that you hear is the whirring of the exhaust fan (an Alstom, now you know my company has a lot of money!) and that of the blowers of the AHUs outside the building.

Indulging in my own idiosyncrasies, I keep turning out the light of the sitting room and almost never find them turned on again. This easily illustrates the utility of the sitting room!

A paragon of privacy is also exhibited in our toilet- Women will not just come to the toilet to speak on their phones but will enter the toilet cabin and unmindful of other prospective users waiting for them to conclude their excretions and their conversations over their phones. The men have to use the “lesser-private” corridor between the 2 toilets for their “private” conversations.

Conclusion: Ranbaxy is an equal opportunity partner!

Queer Phone Calls

She called me because she painted her toenails orange.
I called them because I had to unpack and didn’t want to so I was not entering my room.
She called me up at 6 in the morning, teary eyed (yes, I couldn’t see it, only heard it) because she was reading The Kite Runner and loving it and to say thank you for introducing her to it.
He called to check if it was still her.
We called each other for Long Island Iced Tea.
I called him when I was sitting in the toilet and could see an upturned ugly cockroach and described it to him.
I called her because I had to drink cough syrup.
I called because she was not calling.
She called them to tell them it was"that time of the month".
I called him because I had already started my trip and couldn’t get my mind off whether I had left A or B or C article at home, so I called searching for a distraction.
She called me because she'd deleted his number and didn't know how to call him now.
She called him because the movie had scared her.
He called to say he called.