Amazing show...

How gay!

This is for all my gay friends who call me homophobic...

I love not being normal.

Reporting rubbish

Talk of sensationalism and here is a headline: “When Arundhati Had to Flee”. Nothing in the report conveys it.

I am not interested in commenting on the subject of the debate Fascism and Terrorism: Two Sides of the Same Coin. Instead, I will reproduce the AR relevant parts:

- Arundhati Roy was in the hall but she did not go to the dais. She sat among the audience. It would emerge later that she had not been warned that there were going to be politicians. “I don’t share stage with politicians. I am ok here,” Roy whispered to the Urdu Press Club’s general secretary Tariq Faizi.

- Meanwhile Roy, who by now had moved to a sequined sofa from the bare plastic chair in the back row, appeared restless. She wanted to leave. But then she was offered the mike. “My Hindi is bad. Can I speak in English?” asked the celebrated writer who was clad in a sleeveless kurti. A shawl was wrapped around her thin shoulders. Speaking in broken Hindi, generously interspersed with flawless English, Roy confessed, “I spoke on the same subject in Turkey recently.”

- She kept her speech on Muslim persecution short. At the same venue a week earlier, Roy, along with Girish Karnad and many other intellectuals, had battled for Bangladeshi writer Taslima Nasreen. Now seated among a predominantly Muslim crowd, Roy described Taslima differently—“She is not a great writer. Don’t waste your energy on her.”

- The presence of VHP’s Surendra Jain and journalist Manoj Raghuvanshi did not comfort her. She knew they would not stomach her diatribe against the “fascists”. She clearly wanted to leave, but was persuaded to hang around for some more time. So she stayed and heard Raghuvanshi slam “pseudo-secularists”.

- The discussion was no longer about fascism and terrorism. And Arundhati Roy had long left the hall.

Just some queries:

1.Why was Arundhati Roy’s name used in the headline?

2. Does anyone realise the irony of this: She kept her speech on Muslim persecution short. At the same venue a week earlier, Roy, along with Girish Karnad and many other intellectuals, had battled for Bangladeshi writer Taslima Nasreen. Now seated among a predominantly Muslim crowd, Roy described Taslima differently—“She is not a great writer. Don’t waste your energy on her”?

3. Is wanting to leave the same as having to flee?

Happy Women's Day, Bitch!

This article I wrote was published sometime in 2002, I think...have fun!

Say that you are a bitch. Why am I making you do this? Today? On International Women’s Day, when malnutrition and unborn female foetuses will be on the agenda, why am I asking you to celebrate the most derogatory term and make it your own? Only because I feel a subliminal desire to be a bitch, why must I project it on to you? Because, I seriously believe that there is some good in it. Of course, there are kinds and kinds of bitches, and if you do not find yourself in any of these it is time you took a good hard long look at whether you are a woman at all.

Yes, there are good bitches and bad ones. See where you fit in, okay?

The Gharelu Bitch

I don’t like her. But she is all over the place. In nice houses. On the TV screen. At the marketplace. The fancy malls. Draped in clothes that smell of new money and old attitudes, she is full of womanly concern. Of course, no one will ever call her a bitch. She starts as ‘aadarniya putri’, graduates to ‘susheel kanya’, then ‘pativrata’, with a veritable variety of ‘parivar ki laaj’, ‘ghar ki Lakshmi’, ‘aangan ki tulsi’, ‘sadaa suhaagan’, ‘sati savitri’, ‘mamata ki prateek’, ad nauseum. (The terms are all about being the ideal girl/woman.)

If you think I have been watching too many Hindi films, then you probably haven’t looked around you. This kind of woman rules like a dominatrix, while pretending to put on the façade of being an ideal woman, wife, widow.

While middle-class homes are full of them in their obvious state, there is a genuine hurly-burlyness in their lives that makes them mesh with their surroundings rather than trying to stand out. In the charmed circle, on the other hand, these women are too busy choosing the right silver ‘puja thalis’, the right sarees to portray their social position (the organdy must be so stiff that even when the wind billows, the creases do not move a bit), the right jewellery to convey their mental state (for the posh funeral a couple of discreet solitaires in the ears will do just fine, thank you). Now, it would be perfectly all right if this B kept all her nonsense to herself; instead she goes out of her way to convert others. No one notices that beneath the ‘pallu’-covered head is a shrewd mind calculating every currency note and cutlery that appears before her hawk eyes. And woe betide anyone who poses a challenge to this citadel. Who would challenge her? Ah, every other woman in her immediate environment.

And to think that we straightforward opinionated Bs get the flak whereas these real bulldozers romp through society as perfect ‘naaris’!

The Gucci Bitch

Muuaaah! That was an air kiss. I cannot hate this babe because she keeps me in mirth. She has got her act perfected, from the coiffure to the cough. Again, I would enjoy the streaked hair, the cleavage passing off as class, tarty sarong-like things being touted as designer wear, and the jewellery making a name for itself, quite literally, and the bags enough to hold some plastic money and visiting cards that speak of a synthetic and flimsy professional connection.

But the problems start when this B gets into overdrive. You know, the Ritu Beri syndrome. Tell the world you are important not by shouting, but by whispering sweetly. Honey works as no bee sting ever can. And if this creature has got something else on her mind, then she has made it, baby.

What do I have in mind? Oh, you know, the feng shui, vaastu, counting prayer beads on an airline ticker (seriously!), vipaasana, soul-enhancing route. And when she gets out of her thingies into a ‘salwaar-kameez’ (only Tahiliani or The Boys, please) ready to squat on the floor for the ‘havan’ that will take her straight into bitch heaven, boy, I know she is trouble for a whole lot of people.

I have nothing against those who lead two lives, but what happens is that they are artfully promoting a dozen versions of just one. And to think that the really multi-faceted women get beaten up for being mavericks by these mannequins!

The Gutsy Bitch

A friend sent me this. Take a look…

Three guys, a lady and myself were sitting at the bar talking about our professions. The first guy says, "I'm a YUPPIE, you know.... Young, Urban, Professional, Peaceful, Intelligent, Ecologist.”

The second guy says, "I'm a DINK, you know.... Double Income, No Kids.”

The third guy says, "I'm a RUB, you know...Rich, Urban, Biker.”

They turn to the woman and ask her, "What are you?"

She replies: "I'm a WIFE, you know.... Wash, Iron, Fuck…,Etcetera.”

Then, they suddenly look at me and immediately I said, “I'm a BITCH! What does a Bitch mean? Babe In Total Control Of Herself.”

She told me to tell you that next time somebody calls you a Bitch smile. And say thank you!

I know it isn’t easy. I must also confess that although I have been called all manner of names, this one has eluded me, and I feel cheated, even before this definition came my way. What was I seeking through it? Control of myself? Does that help in the real world, where you have to control the rest? I admit that is not big in my scheme of things. But I do feel the need for release, often from imagined shackles.

I was thrilled to bits about the news of a three-star hotel in Zurich that is exclusively for women. The staff is female, guests can walk in their dressing gowns, wardrobes are designed for feminine requirements, the mini-bar has health snacks, and as a report says, “Women are relieved that they can sit alone in the hotel’s restaurants without people making them feel as though they are looking for men.”

However independent we may be, in fact the more we are the greater the problems in this area, there is no escaping the male presence. Oh no, don’t misunderstand me. I love men. It is just that I find it difficult to like them. And if perchance you do chance upon such a specimen to like, rest assured he would think you love him and run away. And what does a real B do? She smiles and waves him goodbye, even if he does not turn to take a second look. That is my kind of bitch.

Are you one?

~FV

Shadows

Remorseless. Shadows. Chasing. Sun. Hundred. Suns. Erasing. None. Dipping. Into. Another. Horizon. Leaving. Darkness. Chasing. Hounds.

Picture 1: Came upon my shadow on the wall quite suddenly.

Picture 2: Made it look ghoulish, a metaphor for how sometimes what follows is not your own shadow.

Meera

For many days now, I have been humming “ek raadhaa, ek miiraa dono.n ne shyaam ko chaahaa”.

Ravindra Jain is probably among the most under-rated lyricists. He has beautifully expressed the longing of two kinds of love – one seeking fulfilment, the other sublimation. I still get completely bowled over by the line: “Ek jeet na maani, ek haar na maani”…

The picture here is of a doll, one among many, that my mother has made down the years. This was especially for me (there is also a peacock dancer, and Anarkali). These are not dolls you play with; you admire them. And god knows how many people have been gifted these. I dread to imagine their fate.

She is more generous. Or, creation is all that counts to her…she does not think of what is destroyed.

- - -

ek raadhaa, ek miiraa dono.n ne shyaam ko chaahaa

antar kyaa dono.n kii chaah me.n bolo

ik prem diivaanii, ik daras diivaanii

ek raadhaa, ek miiraa ...

raadhaa ne madhuban me.n Dhuu.NDhaa

miiraa ne man me.n paayaa

raadhaa jise kho baiThii

vo govind aur daras dikhaayaa

ek muralii ek paayal, ek pagalii, ek ghaayal

antar kyaa dono.n kii priit me.n bolo

ek suurat lubhaanii, ek muurat lubhaanii

ik prem diivaanii, ik daras diivaanii ...

miiraa ke prabhu giridhar naagar

raadhaa ke manamohan

raadhaa din {sh}R^i.ngaar kare

aur miiraa ban gayii jogan

ek raanii ek daasii, dono.n hari prem kii pyaasii

antar kyaa dono.n kii tR^ipti me.n bolo

ek jiit na maanii, ek haar na maanii

ik prem diivaanii, ik daras diivaanii ...

Music: Ravindra Jain; Lyrics: Ravindra Jain; Singer: Lata Mangeshkar; Film: Ram Teri Ganga Maili

How many miles to Fucking?

There is really such a town in Austria:

So as the forward I got asks…

Are the residents called Fuckers?

What are the mothers called?

What would you be learning at the Fucking High School?

Does the Fucking Hospital help you with anything else?

If your friend came from another town, he wouldn't be your Fucking friend.

And this report is hilarious:

PS: My comment pop-up window is not popping up, so thanks for the comments...will wait for the pop.