Discontent and Musings

Nothing fills the heart of this writer to the brim more than a love lost, nothing makes her hand quiver with anticipation more than a conflict of thoughts. The state of a citys affair in disarray, or the ignorance or turpitude ways of an acquaintance are what burn through my body and stirs my soul. Discontent then is the Mordor of my Middle earth. It’s this dark, morbid place which fuels the chariots of words and bridges the distances with sentences.  I must admit it has been a while since I was there, and hence the dip in my writing curve. But how must one orchestrate a conscious trip to this land of the discontent? To do so is fraught with peril.  On one hand as the writing suffers you are prompted to delve into the dark murky waters to resurrect the black genius, on the other hand, bidding goodbye to the happy place consciously is perhaps contrary to rationality, with the return not eminent, it is a risk a writer often takes. But this conscious journey can not always be willed, and what must then a writer do? In such grey times the writer expresses her discontent with the absence of discontent.

The Burden of Being Obtuse

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There are weddings and then there are marriages. The difference you ask? There is a big one of course. Wedding is the party that entails expenditures totaling to thousands of Euros or lacs of Rupees. Marriage though, is what the real deal is. But yet noone talks about that. What is discussed is shopping-trousseau-clothes-jewels and things of the like. Kind of makes me wonder, isn’t this focus a tad bit myopic?

The number of times I have been asked “ how are the wedding preparations going” and the number of times I have shrugged in response, has psyched me out enough to write this apparently.  I thought it was only the Indian culture that was obsessed with nuptial planning but turns out, it’s the most of the civilized world.

"It is the preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else that prevents us from living freely and nobly.”

― Bertrand Russell

Truer words were not written, I’d say. Yet, we ensnare ourselves in this filigree of things that must be acquired before a marriage can take place. Gifts, clothes, precious stones to adorn oneself. Sometimes, this is acquired to appease the boys parents (as may be in India – in the form of dowry) and sometimes to  symbolize ones’ status in the society ( the more lavish the more sublimely you’re perceived). Yes the society expects that the worth of a family will be defined by how much money they spend on their wards wedding. And we fuel this grotesqueness. If you buy your son or daughter one diamond less, it doesn't mean you love them less. It means a) you are not sustaining the warped traditions of the society and b) you are also bringing to your ward a culture where material gains mean nothing- which is a world we want to live in. One parent my think that it is their duty to spend as much as they can, but this is a duty only if the ward is a spolit rich brat and wants Armani designed nightwear. The first situation I feel can’t be rationalized with. It required radical social and cultural changes, which is not the scope of this writing. However, it is the second form of ostentatiousness- conscious, voluntarily and pretentious that perhaps can be argued with and I guess dealt with through a forum such as this.

A marriage is not defined by the money spent on the wedding. A marriage is rather sustained by happy memories- trust and other such virtues. None of which are up for sale in a store.

Wearing silk and diamonds perhaps may bring momentary happiness, for a total of 10 minutes, it may dazzle the society, but then that sparkle fades. All that is left then is the heavy stone. The burden of being obtuse.

Encountering Fear

As I am counting down the days till I reach Delhi, I am enveloped with a feeling of dread. When I read about the girl from Guwahati being attacked, my mind took me back to a few years, to Mumbai, where another girl was attacked by a mob of men on New Years Eve. A shiver runs down my spine every time I think about these incidents. I can feel the gnawing helplessness, the agonizing and paralyzing fear that numbs your peripheries. Has this happened to me, you wonder? No.

But I am in an Indian girl (woman?) and this is what my nightmares are made of.

I haven’t lived in India for three years now.  Living without the fear that someone will come around and purposefully ram into you to get a feel of your bosom, comes slowly. Even now, when I walk down the streets of Madrid at night by myself, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me.  It’s summer now, and careless abandon is in the air. Girls wear whatever they damn well please, and admire the warm spirit of the city at 11 pm. This can indeed be uplifting. The independence, the ability to wear whatever you want when its 40 degrees outside, the safety that no one curious eyes will undress you as you cross the road, it can be uplifting. But only till the moment you realize, this is not reality. My reality is my country, which scares the living day light out of me for being a woman. And that will stay with me for eternity. 

Growing up in Delhi, a girl learns that she can not go out by herself at night. . For those of us who do not have boyfriends, brothers and fathers handy, this can be a problem. Ofcourse, some of us do venture out anyway. To hell with the world, we think. The few times that I had the temerity to do this, I remember sitting in the drivers seat of my car, at a signal, silently urging the gods of the colour green to beckon the signal. I looked to my left and there was a car full of men, looking in my direction, smiling, laughing even, and smirking. No they didn’t do anything; no they didn’t say anything that I could hear since the widows were forced closed. But my heart pounded, and as the signal turned green, I sped across the road, looking in the rear view mirror time and time again. Making your way home at night, Delhi Girl, you know, is worthy of an accolade. The adrenaline is nothing short of what you would have generated in a battle. 

As I sit here writing this, I feel angry. Not that boiling rage which makes one want to throw stuff around but that kind of systematic low range rage, which makes you want to write this. I want to be able to talk to those men, that driver from a licensed motor training school who felt comfortable enough to graze my thigh while teaching me how to drive a car. I want to say yeah, I would like to slap him. But really, I want to know his psyche. What was he thinking? What made him do that? Was he pathological? Was it the first time he did something like that? Did he know it was wrong because I was uncomfortable? And ofcourse, the 17 year old me didn’t know what was going on and rationalized by saying hey, maybe it was a mistake. Well, if it happens every 5 minutes, it is sure as hell not a mistake.

I did tell the management and they refused to believe the word of this 17 year old girl. And I didn’t drive till I was 19 because I was afraid to take lessons. One day though I decided it was enough, and I picked up the old family car and my best friend and bumped away into the horizon, in second gear, with the hand break on. 

Maybe it was the guys background, maybe he wasn’t educated enough, I would tell myself thinking about what happened. Well, I was wiser atleast. Or Was I?

What about the gentleman in the business class seat on the flight to China? Did he think the small of my back was a mitten he could use to warm him hands on this warm August night as our flight took off? Was his unapologetic nature when I shrugged it off and ran with my bag to the back of the plane, induced by drugs and alcohol? Or was it just him thinking that a helpless looking girl tucked in on the window seat would make for a good story? I didn’t say anything to him either. I just sat in my new seat, mortified, thinking about what happened, writing a blog!  So I guess I vented by writing, and ofcourse I always book an aisle seat when flying now, but hey, everyone has baggage right?

How do we change this mentality? This brazen nature of accosting a woman and getting away with saying and doing anything. What do you call these men? Hooligans? Maybe the mob, yes. But the guy in the plane or the car guys? Are they just regular men like we know or there is something different about them?

I want to know. I have questions. Conjectures and guesses are not enough anymore. It is easy to say that he must be illiterate/ignorant/a criminal or other such justifications. So girls, next time you meet someone who whistles at you. Please stop him, and ask him. Why. What gave him the liberty to do this. Maybe we will get an answer. Maybe we won’t. But we need to try and get to the genesis of this behemoth of a nuisance.

I have many stories to tell, which would be the same as the stories of another Indian girl with only a few details changed. The man in the bus staring at your ankles, the man on that motorcycle shouting profanities in your direction, or those boys in that car, circling the street you and your friend are parked in, waiting for someone. That trepidation which makes you crouch down in your own car to lose the stalkers, the fear which makes you want to wear jeans when its 45 degrees outside, the dread which makes say, Girls, wake up. We need a revolution.

Words Revisited

Dull, is the sound in my head

The waves of the brain

That slow to a crawl instead

The inspiration fades,

 as the night lingers on

The glow of the candle,

Dances around the dark

My eyes want to close,

But the hands tremble on

They utter these words

I can’t discern

The letters form words

words weave sentences

while the heart pounds

gently in the body cavity

The magnetic force draws me in

The night descends, the light fades

The fingers cease to caress, the words.

The words are all there is.

The Mighty Unknown

I like not knowing,
What comes tomorrow
The obscurity, the questions
The uncertainty of tranquility
The probability of bliss
The dreams remain alive,
Not buried in the sand,
When nothing is certain
there isn’t any blueprint
What comforts me most
Is the prospect of adventure
new cities, love, muses
The possibilities that lie
in the mighty unknown.

Diatribe Delhi

I met an Indian girl at a Dussehra Dinner gathering last year in Madrid. She was new to the city and we got talking. When it came to topic of our hometowns in India, and I mentioned Delhi- her reaction blew me away. “Oh, you’re a Delhiite” (Pronounced Delhi-ite). Wow, are we such notorious creatures? I thought.

It’s only been two years and a few months since I ceased to be a resident of Delhi, but this holiday season, I feel more alienated than I’d ever felt before.
The years before I left Delhi weren’t exactly spent in a tizzy of love with the city, yet this time around I can unequivocally attest to the fact that as this city engulfs me in smog, meaningless traditions, blatant disregard for humanity in general and disrespect for women, I can’t wait to run away, again.
The cars are being towed away for being illegally parked on roadsides, but where are the parking lots? Can an action not be justified, if there is no other institutional alternative available? It’s easy to target young couples in parks, since catching actual criminal requires prowess (or intent) that eludes the police force. And what might I ask do I do with men who stare at women unabashedly? Stare back at them for a couple of minutes and they shy away like a little mouse. Such is their machismo. And ah! It’s the woman’s provocativeness that is the reason for such overtures said some lady of political dominance.
What about that fine lady with the high pitched voice, heels and a dark lipstick, who feels its her birthright to cut queues and barge in ahead of me? How many times must I draw out daggers so no one steals my spot in the queue?
And then, yes, the existential crisis of an unmarried girl of my age which is not fathomable to someone who is not an unmarried girl of my age.
I guess, us Delhiites realize these shortcomings, and in order to ameliorate the pain, must buy two cars each. Hello Traffic jams.
Delhi, you’ve failed to impress me. Yet again. Unfortunately, you’re like that family member who I can’t stand, but yet I must come back to. Bi-annually.
I’ll contend with being the occasional visitor. Or not.