Quite a while ago, I had written in my blog, that all men are pigs. I had written it more as a gesture of jest than a really serious accusation. But posts by so many women on Blank Noise Project, especially those by Annie, Rohini, and Hemangini have now made me realize how disturbingly (and sadly) close to the truth I actually was.
What the fuck is wrong with this gender to which I belong?
Admittedly, I didn’t know this problem was so severe till I read so many of these accounts. First hand accounts of women who have been mal-treated by complete strangers. And I was ashamed. Of belonging to this species. I had always taken comfort in the fact that I have more “rights” being a man, more “freedom” being a man, but I had never realized the acute shortage of these very entities for a rather large number of women out there, traveling in buses, trains, becoming objects of public consumption every passing day.
I still take comfort in the fact that I am a guy. Perhaps because I don’t have the strength to imagine what most of these women have to go through. Or perhaps just because I have grown with those comforting thoughts, somehow fed into me, through years of “societal training”.
But all said and done, am I completely clean? Can I proudly claim that I have never ever done anything that might have hurt someone?
Well, not that I know of. I know this sounds like an excuse. Because it is one.
But I will confess nevertheless.
Yes, I have talked about women within a group of guys. Yes, there have been a few occasions when my eyes have rested perhaps a little longer than they should have, on a passing woman’s breasts. Yes there have been occasions when I have let out a sigh and imagined a little more than what I should have.
But I am still proud of the fact that my hands have never jumped around to “feel up” a girl. That as far as is physically possible, I leave space between myself and an unknown girl sitting next to me in a bus or a train. That to quite an extent, I do understand the difference between “looking” and “leering”. That I have never whistled, or passed any kind of comments, on unknown girls that I come across in streets (including those which are extremely "provocatively" dressed, so to say - refer earlier post). That the only thing I would like to do with an 8-year old girl, is to read her stories of princesses and fairies...
...And that perhaps, I am not (and never will be) as much of a pig as evidently a surprisingly high number of my co-species are..
Monday, March 13, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
Road-side romeos – are inside your house…
I read in Khaled Hossini’s debut novel that the worst crime you can commit is of theft; because every other crime is nothing but a variation of it.
The act of showing disrespect towards a woman (by teasing, molesting, whatever…) is no different. By moving that roving hand to touch an unsuspecting part of her anatomy, the criminal steals her right to feel safe, her right to be comfortable, her right to be normal, her right to be herself…
And our society certainly doesn’t help much either. The blame is usually (perhaps because it is more convenient?) imposed on provocative dresses, and the perpetrators of the act are exonerated as always.
What happens outside is one issue. But the worse form of this crime is what happens inside the four comfortable, apparently safe walls of a home. Cousins, uncles, in-laws, everyone, anyone could be those wolves lurking in the shadows, waiting for a careless moment to make their dangerous move. They aren’t outside, they are not somebody else’s problem. They are right here, with you, watching you, eyeing you, imagining you, ready to leave you with ill-shaped scars on your virgin psyche.
Out there, maybe you can ward them off with knives, judo tricks, blinding sprays, or other gizmos that our advanced world has to offer. What do you do for those whom you trust(ed)?
And with what stupid logic can the society protect these psychopaths who feed on kids as young as five-six years old? Provocative dressing? That won’t work. They probably have to come up with a better one that that.
How about “Being a girl is your fault”? How does that sound for a blame? Is that strong enough? Correct enough? Fair enough? Sensible enough?
How about some statistics, just to corroborate the gravity of the situation-
1. 77% of rapes are committed by someone known to the person raped. (Bureau of Justice Statistics)
2. Around the world at least I women in 3 has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused in her lifetime. Most often the abuser is a member of her own family. (John Hopkins School of Public Health)
3. 22% of females raped are under the age of 12 years; 32% are 12-17 years old; 29% 18-24 years old; 17% over 25 years old. 83% of those raped are under the age of 25 years old. (National Institute of Justice)
And the most disturbing reality of it all:
Only 2% of rapists are convicted and imprisoned (US Senate Judiciary Committee)
There must be something seriously wrong with the world that we live in. And we have to do something to fix this.
Social awareness?
Better legal procedures?
Training for women?
Or how about “Charity begins at home?”
The act of showing disrespect towards a woman (by teasing, molesting, whatever…) is no different. By moving that roving hand to touch an unsuspecting part of her anatomy, the criminal steals her right to feel safe, her right to be comfortable, her right to be normal, her right to be herself…
And our society certainly doesn’t help much either. The blame is usually (perhaps because it is more convenient?) imposed on provocative dresses, and the perpetrators of the act are exonerated as always.
What happens outside is one issue. But the worse form of this crime is what happens inside the four comfortable, apparently safe walls of a home. Cousins, uncles, in-laws, everyone, anyone could be those wolves lurking in the shadows, waiting for a careless moment to make their dangerous move. They aren’t outside, they are not somebody else’s problem. They are right here, with you, watching you, eyeing you, imagining you, ready to leave you with ill-shaped scars on your virgin psyche.
Out there, maybe you can ward them off with knives, judo tricks, blinding sprays, or other gizmos that our advanced world has to offer. What do you do for those whom you trust(ed)?
And with what stupid logic can the society protect these psychopaths who feed on kids as young as five-six years old? Provocative dressing? That won’t work. They probably have to come up with a better one that that.
How about “Being a girl is your fault”? How does that sound for a blame? Is that strong enough? Correct enough? Fair enough? Sensible enough?
How about some statistics, just to corroborate the gravity of the situation-
1. 77% of rapes are committed by someone known to the person raped. (Bureau of Justice Statistics)
2. Around the world at least I women in 3 has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused in her lifetime. Most often the abuser is a member of her own family. (John Hopkins School of Public Health)
3. 22% of females raped are under the age of 12 years; 32% are 12-17 years old; 29% 18-24 years old; 17% over 25 years old. 83% of those raped are under the age of 25 years old. (National Institute of Justice)
And the most disturbing reality of it all:
Only 2% of rapists are convicted and imprisoned (US Senate Judiciary Committee)
There must be something seriously wrong with the world that we live in. And we have to do something to fix this.
Social awareness?
Better legal procedures?
Training for women?
Or how about “Charity begins at home?”
Thursday, March 02, 2006
What’s...?
What’s happiness, if you have to enjoy it all alone?
What’s pain, if you never shared anyone else’s?
What’s charity, if you haven’t given everything you ever had?
What’s a gift, if you haven’t known that giving is better than taking?
What’s a loss, if you are still left with memories?
What’s a memory, if it doesn’t make you cry?
What’s a tear, if you have kept it safe till now?
What’s a smile, if you haven’t wasted it on someone?
What’s a dream, if you haven’t known what nightmares are?
What’s patience, if you have never waited long enough?
What's failure, if you can afford to forget about it?
What’s victory, if you have never lost anything worth loving?
What’s love, if you have never hurt yourself?
What's hate, if you never burned within?
What’s death, if you have completely figured out life?
And what’s life, if you know what to do with it?
What’s pain, if you never shared anyone else’s?
What’s charity, if you haven’t given everything you ever had?
What’s a gift, if you haven’t known that giving is better than taking?
What’s a loss, if you are still left with memories?
What’s a memory, if it doesn’t make you cry?
What’s a tear, if you have kept it safe till now?
What’s a smile, if you haven’t wasted it on someone?
What’s a dream, if you haven’t known what nightmares are?
What’s patience, if you have never waited long enough?
What's failure, if you can afford to forget about it?
What’s victory, if you have never lost anything worth loving?
What’s love, if you have never hurt yourself?
What's hate, if you never burned within?
What’s death, if you have completely figured out life?
And what’s life, if you know what to do with it?
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
What’s the point?
Why is it…
That there has to be a reason for everything?
That there has to be a meaning in everything we do?
That there should be a purpose for everything?
That there should be a point of every conversation, every dialogue, every monologue, every fucking word?
Who do we fool when we create reasons when there aren’t any?
What do we achieve when we have reached a result? When there was no need for a result?
Who do we prove to that we are right? When there is no reason to be right?
For whom is this done? What’s the pain point? What’s the pleasure zone? There must be something wrong going on right here that I am perhaps trying to fix. But again, what’s the need for that? Nothing will change if our world keeps on going the way it is.
So what’s the point of writing all this?
Other than letting out the confusion inside?
What else?
Why is it…?
That there has to be a reason for everything?
That there has to be a meaning in everything we do?
That there should be a purpose for everything?
That there should be a point of every conversation, every dialogue, every monologue, every fucking word?
Who do we fool when we create reasons when there aren’t any?
What do we achieve when we have reached a result? When there was no need for a result?
Who do we prove to that we are right? When there is no reason to be right?
For whom is this done? What’s the pain point? What’s the pleasure zone? There must be something wrong going on right here that I am perhaps trying to fix. But again, what’s the need for that? Nothing will change if our world keeps on going the way it is.
So what’s the point of writing all this?
Other than letting out the confusion inside?
What else?
Why is it…?
Friday, February 10, 2006
Shalimar the Clown
Rushdie’s writings seem to be more like a sleight of hand than a prowess of the mind… the way a magician conjures up rabbits out of hats, so does this author weave yards of magic through the looms of his unchained imagination. When he writes, ideas and stories merge into each other like twirling layers of chocolate in a four-flavor ice-cream.
And in Shalimar the Clown, he is at his best again. The story moves seamlessly from California to Kashmir via France as if Rushdie intends us to catch a non-stop roller coaster across the continents with the glorious scenery unfolding in front of our bewildered eyes.
The lead female character is aptly named “Kashmira”, and the author ensures that her life somehow proceeds in the same disturbing way as the beautiful land from which her name was derived.
The oft-recognized artistic imagery is evident right from the time he starts describing the sun-lit California:
“On those rare mornings when she awoke to cloud cover and a hint of moisture in the air she stretched sleepily in bed…
…But the clouds invariably burned off by noon and then there it was again, the dishonest nursery blue of the sky that made the world look childlike and pure, the loud impolite orb blaring at her like a man laughing too loudly in a restaurant.”
And then the truth about broken dreams in this promised land:
“The beautiful came to this city in huge pathetic herds, to suffer, to be humiliated, to see the powerful currency of their beauty devalued like the Russian ruble or Argentine peso…”
On the other hand, the disturbing reality of Kashmir could perhaps not have been depicted in better words than these:
“Who raped that lazy-eyed woman?
Who raped that grey-haired lazy-eyed woman as she screamed about snake vengeance?
Who raped that woman again?
Who raped that woman again?
Who raped that woman again?
Who raped that dead woman?
Who raped that dead woman again?”
Nothing but a series of questions that jump out at you from the pages, and the beauty of it all lies in the fact that these are questions no one wants to face.
That’s Shalimar the Clown for you.
And in Shalimar the Clown, he is at his best again. The story moves seamlessly from California to Kashmir via France as if Rushdie intends us to catch a non-stop roller coaster across the continents with the glorious scenery unfolding in front of our bewildered eyes.
The lead female character is aptly named “Kashmira”, and the author ensures that her life somehow proceeds in the same disturbing way as the beautiful land from which her name was derived.
The oft-recognized artistic imagery is evident right from the time he starts describing the sun-lit California:
“On those rare mornings when she awoke to cloud cover and a hint of moisture in the air she stretched sleepily in bed…
…But the clouds invariably burned off by noon and then there it was again, the dishonest nursery blue of the sky that made the world look childlike and pure, the loud impolite orb blaring at her like a man laughing too loudly in a restaurant.”
And then the truth about broken dreams in this promised land:
“The beautiful came to this city in huge pathetic herds, to suffer, to be humiliated, to see the powerful currency of their beauty devalued like the Russian ruble or Argentine peso…”
On the other hand, the disturbing reality of Kashmir could perhaps not have been depicted in better words than these:
“Who raped that lazy-eyed woman?
Who raped that grey-haired lazy-eyed woman as she screamed about snake vengeance?
Who raped that woman again?
Who raped that woman again?
Who raped that woman again?
Who raped that dead woman?
Who raped that dead woman again?”
Nothing but a series of questions that jump out at you from the pages, and the beauty of it all lies in the fact that these are questions no one wants to face.
That’s Shalimar the Clown for you.
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