Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Having been held at [finger]gunpoint by a a congirl formerly known as Rimi, it seems I must, at peril of life, feed you titbits of my obscenely uninteresting existence.

I am reading Tom Brown's Schooldays and so far all that has interested me of the book, of which I am now on the 6th chapter, having begun reading from chapter 5, is the fact that all these chummy Brits ever did at school was play football, drink beer, sing and have someone clean their shoes for them. I do not wish to read any further, and understandably so. Nobody offered me any beer at school.

I am rehearsing for a play. One of my co-actors takes the role seriously enough to be in character all the time. We play Dirt.

I have also been repeating the phrase "pantomime of shadow-puppetry" over and over and over in my head for the past 72 hours. Which might explain the 13th hour of my splitting headache.

It is my ambition to continue being effortlessly unfathomable to the populace. Humour me.

Thanking you, yours sincerely.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

I have just come back from a party to celebrate the 25th anniversary of a couple who have spent the greater part of their married life being involved with other people. Their together forever is certain, but meaningless.
Odd that marriage, a public display and free to all, gives way to the most secret of liaisons, an adulterous affair.

Because they won't break bread together, I gave them cake.

I am copioously drunk. if you will please excuse me.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

The Peep Show(down) / I Don't Want To *Do The TikiTiki* You

Now, look. I've been blogging for about over a year now, and everyone's been really kind. I swear I haven't got a single hatemail from any of you. I'm cleverly bypassing the fact that you don't find my e-mail anywhere on the blog, of course. But not even an IM telling me to go dump myself in the nearest ditch, or a threat to cut off my fingers so I may never verminate the sacred space that is the blogosphere. Can you believe that? Of course, there was this one anonymous commenter who took offence to what s/he called sexual innuendoes, and said I was trying to make people think I'm really hot [you guys know i'm 5 feet 2 inches and 63 kilos, right? I have 17 strands of visible grey on my head, and have lost count of the acne], and that if I didn't stop with all the sex talk - this was on a post titled "we're all doing eunuchs", I mean, we were, you know, for our Queer Studies term paper, we were researching the lives of hijras, more than one of us, I made that amply clear - then I would lose all my loved ones, and nobody would love me ever again, and I would die a lonely and proud maid. Something of the sort. We became friends after, I think, because s/he apologised and wrote about her/his love life, blessing me with a lifestyle superior to the one s/he had previously painted for me. Which made the sun shine anew.
Incidentally, if you're still around, anon, hullo there! You disappeared as swiftly as you had come! And when I say "come", I swear I mean the synonym for ''arrive''.
And now this. I've been informed today that talking about my uterus and relating on print a conversation [that actually happened] where the word 'labia' was mentioned, makes me sexually frustrated. This, by another friend, apparently concerned for my image. I mean, wuh? In a country where the best-selling sanitary napkin brand is called 'Whisper', and shopkeepers insist on wrapping the packs with newspaper so as to save from embarassment, presumably theirs because certainly not mine, I feel it is important to be able to joke about such things.
Dude. It's real, we have our periods. There's blood loss involved, and no, I'm not embarassed about it. When you're clutching at a hot water bottle, and can see your knuckles and every part of your body go white and cramp up with the pain, there's little else to do but be able to laugh about it.
While we're at it, here's a confession, o cultured indian male, who squirms on seeing the word labia being casually tossed about on a bharotiyo nari's blog, but has no qualms about renting videos to watch bharotiyo or other naris give blowjobs and have intercourse - I've got a t-shirt that has "i'm a vagina warrior" written on it in bold. Oh look, I used *that word*, and guess what, I've got a vagina too! So has your mother. And assuming all went well, you even came out of it. Astounding, huh? When I talk about body parts, or menstruation, it is NOT because I want to be cool, 'cuz hullo? menstrual pain is not cool, it is because it's high time that everyone realised and accepted these things as part of life. And that can happen only when we talk about it as casually as we would, uhm, cornflakes. Now there's going to be some unduly cerebral reader somewhere fabricating a sexual innuendo out of this. I just know there is.
I have no feminist agenda. Heck, I have no agenda of any sort whatsoever on this blog. I write because people keep asking me to update, this blog has for long been far removed from the more significant aspects of my life. I've never wanted to be taken seriously, and my posts have consistently been posts that one is not supposed to take to heart. It's a little alarming therefore, to learn that there are people who think deeply over my writing, and who take out time to draw their conclusions about my sex life from it. Tell me, how does describing an entirely true incident about the purchase and wear of jeans - by another individual, at that - indicate my sexual frustration? Go read that post. Come and tell me if you can make a mundane event like helping a friend button her jeans seem funny, and remain honest, without writing it the way I have. I'm not denying that I have a dirty sense of humour, but I don't see how that is anything to be ashamed of. I still have strangers come and tell me the blog makes them laugh. That's all I'm after, really. But no, OHMYGAWD, a quicksearch indicates SIX places where I've used the word 'SEX'!!!! What a devious, calculating pervert am I, really? Children, stay away. Close your eyes and get away from the pernicious presence of the Peep!!! Because no sex please, we're Indian.
I'm not saying all men do this, but I really want to know, what's it all about? When a woman is expected to behave in a certain manner, to talk about certain things in a certain fashion, and stay away from discussing things like sex [there, I said it again] and God forbid if she jokes about it! Of course, that's because she can't stop thinking about sex now, can she? Let's watch some girl-on-girl action while we discuss her problem, eh?
I've gone on about this long enough. If you think there won't be another post about my protruding belly, or my big behind, or even my bloated uterus, then you don't know me at all. Being able to talk and laugh about our problems, to make light of things that have a socially conditioned tag of taboo attached to them- it doesn't make me sexually frustrated. It shows that I am independent enough and educated enough to be able to discard such illogical tags, to be able to surpass irrational expectations of difference in behaviour between men and women. Don't get me wrong, I don't believe in creating a genderless society, there are reasons why men and women have been made differently, we do think and feel differently in a lot of ways - but that doesn't give any one sex the right to demand [or command] more liberality in thought and action than the other. I treat my friends not as male or female, but as friends. And so, when I interrupt a chat session with a male friend to tell him if I don't pee NOW I will wet my pants, it is not because I'm in dire need of a good lay. It is because if I don't pee NOW I will wet my pants.

Excuse me while I powder my nose.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

I Will Remember This Day

As the day I stood in line for one and a half hours, in the presence of 500 rowdy driving school representatives - one of them breathing alcohol breath down my neck and trying to engage in polite chitchat - until I thought I would collapse from stomach cramps [here is where you give my uterus a standing ovation. Better late than never, as it were.] and decided to let money speak. I went up to one of the men behind one of the million counters and having contorted my face through the excruciating pain into some semblance of charm, I slipped him some money to let me get ahead of around 70 others waiting in line to get their driver's licenses. I have a valid excuse, I was getting late for class. I bribed a man to be able to make it on time for my Publishing course. Is Tintin Da in the building?

It worked. I'm not proud of it. I'm a little disgusted that it worked. Disgusted with myself, that is. But my driver's license will be renewed. For 20 years. And I will go back to having a license and never going near the steering wheel of a car. And, I made it to class on time.

Stop judging me. You'd do the same if you were sandwiched between men singing Pardesiya on your left and Crazy Kiya Rey to your right, while the one behind you reeked of alcohol and the one in front kept turning around and making snide comments about the contradiction in terms that is 'women drivers' to his friend across the room. Especially, if you had to do this twice on the same day. Uncannily enough, this also happened to be the day when all other women motorists requiring a license renewal chose to stay away. It shouldn't matter, I know, but it felt awkward being the only woman there the entire time.

Moving on, the faculty member whom we all love and who is loads of fun, now that most of us don't have to learn Old English declensions and more importantly, seeing as how he has stopped masquerading in our collective pre-exam nightmares as Grendel's mother- on enquiring about my next theatre production [read: acting fiasco], and being informed that it has been my lifelong wish to do jatra in Garchumuk, has expressed a desire to see me in "Kobore Kaadchhe Konkaal". It is a frightfully attractive proposition. :-] Our professors, ki volvo.

I haven't wished you guys, have I? Have a fabulous new year, all of you. I'm going to quote someone from the New Year's Eve party, and say, " I don't remember a thingle thing!" about the celebrations. *cough cough ahem*