Friday, March 27, 2015

Yoda-Air-Ninjas | Breathe. Be.

I learnt anapana and vipassana meditation at the ten day Vipassana course (Sohna road, other locations as well) as S.N. Goenka ji taught it. Please register here and attend their course asap. 
 —
You are not your thoughts
You are not even the feeling preceding them
You are
-
I am.
I am not…
I am not not…
I am.
-
Be. Breathe, be.
Be, breathe be breathe be breathe be.
Be.
When in pain. Breathe. Be
When angry. Breathe. Be.
When happy. Breathe. Be
When blocked when sick when happy when waiting when tired when cranky when furious when overwhelmed underwhelmed alone transcendental
Breathe. Be.
How to be?
Sit cross legged. Lace your fingers, or place the cup of one hand in the cup of the other. (Presumably, you have at most two)
Close your eyes.
-
Notice your nose. Observe its component parts. Observe the upper lip, the entrance to the nasal passages, the said nasal passages, the flare of your nostrils as the air rushes out.
Place yoda-air-ninjas at the entrance to your nasal passageways. The yoda-air ninjaslove watching air go in and out of your nostrils all day.
Yoda-air-ninjas don’t mind their minds wandering. They always come back to watch air going in and out. They observe its changing temperature, whether it goes in and out of both nostrils together, or just one, or what.
They observe what the breath feels like on the upper lip and on the pink fleshy inside of yoda-air-ninja-spaceship-human-nose.
Do this everywhere. Do this all the time. When you want to smoke/bite your nails/rock back and forth. Focus on your breath.
Don’t regulate it, just observe it. Activate your yoda-air-ninjas. Anything eluding you will come back – that forgotten password, lost errand, fogged over inspiration, the right words. Everything.
Ten minutes in the morning. Group meditation every Sunday for one hour.
Use something like this as background music. Breathe hard if you start falling asleep. Feel free to move, stretch in between. With time, try to stay still for as long as you can, eventually leading up to an hour. 

Stayed tuned here
Namaskara.
Aqseer
mirrorworkss@gmail.com, mirrorworkss.wordpress.com
sodhiaqseer@gmail.com, aqseersodhi.blogspot.com

Monday, June 16, 2014

Clicks

Sometimes there's so much joy
It becomes hard to breathe

Because

Because will it last?
What if you don't remember how it feels?

Come home

Dear child

It comes, as fast as it goes.

---

Enjoy it while it lasts

Come back to yoursel(ves) once its dust

Musical dopamine #1

A few years ago, I wouldn't be caught dead listening to something with the unabashed pop feel of this track.

The original is poppier and busier, with a strangely Indian sounding sample by Gold Panda opening it.

Goldroom takes "You (Hahaha)" and elevates it to a whole other level by stripping away the Gold Panda sample, adding punchy basslines, tricky grooves, and a signature aural firework sound marking the chorus. So that when you hit 3:08 and the cannons go off, you know you're in nu disco land. 

And what a wonderful world it is.

The song is about learning to walk away, a lesson we could all could use. 
My favourite line is "choke when you see love grow" and “you were meant to be alone” which she says a thousand times as the song fades out.

The chorus is what will hook you, with the very unusual “hahahaha” preceding the matter of fact “I was right” and (too bad) “you fucked it up.”

Gentle, groovy beratement amplified by classic Goldroom. It couldn’t get any better.


Sunday, January 26, 2014

Phoenix

I'm sharing my story because I know it will resonate with a fair few people. What I have experienced over the past few months seems to be happening to people I know and love dearly - souls travel together, so I guess that makes sense. 

I went to law school because my career counsellor in class 10 said my power motivation and desire to help would be best served by doing law. Of course, once you get into the best law school in the country, you go. I went and fell in love, and made the most of this crazy, strangely blessed institution with its whacky inhabitants and high ideals. A lot of the time, I wanted to be studying just the liberal arts, like my sister in the States. Law school seemed worth it because of the people and the strength of the qualification. There was little dancing, and little-r introspection. There was a lot of living, exploring, pushing boundaries, forming an identity, trying to break it down, escapism in action, blind thrashing around. I love that I did what I did, no regrets. But I'm glad to have got past that stage. 

Law school was followed by a short stint at Google HK, the BEST place to work for sharp, driven and fun people. HK was very good for me, I spent quality time with myself, flaneuring, thinking, being. But that being was somewhat unconscious. And then I went to my dream NGO, the Centre for Social Justice, Ahmedabad where Gagan boss gave me the kind of project I always wanted to work on - moving towards the rule of law in 15 villages of Rajasthan and Gujarat. It was to be an intervention that would marry legal empowerment and socio-cultural change - perfect perfect perfect. My NGO was fantastic, I was travelling a LOT, met lovely people in Ahmedabad - everything was fine and yet something wasn't right. I had that feeling for a few months before shit really started hitting the fan. 

I wasn't eating or sleeping properly, my heart was sore, I felt alienated from my creative side, lonely (not alone), somewhat bored in a wonderful but somewhat limited city.. Going to the field (Lambadiya) with my wonderful colleagues was an unforgettable experience. I met the funnest, most grounded, motivated, brave and committed people - I could see the stars, we all had daal batti three times a day and laughed about our madness in working in such far flung areas.. we joked about the police and the rule of law (or its lack), how rule of law was suddenly a phrase that our colleagues had latched onto and were using in everyday life. I met a sarpanch with Bhagat Singh posters in his home; we rode long distances to conduct FGDs - engaging, among others, with tipsy and enraged villagers, garrulous old men, nubile young wives and excited children. 

I should have been so happy, doing what I thought I always wanted to do. 

I wasn't sad. I just wasn't happy. I wasn't feeling, when feeling was all I ever knew I had. The ability to feel, relate, get angry, empathize. 

When I could no longer concentrate on anything (at all), when I had to ask my junior colleague to help me out with tasks because the smallest thing had the potential to trigger a panic attack, when my self esteem had hit the kind of low I had last experienced as a confused teenager in school, when all I could think of during a training program was about jumping off the terrace - that's when my parents stepped in and I came back to Delhi.

We went to: a shrink, a healer, met some of my closest friends. My nani came over and stayed for a long time. There were good days and bad days. Most days were just days to get through. I tried going to court, working with a judge - wonderful office but I was just in no state to work, much less on something I didn't really want to do. I avoided my friends, treated myself and people around me like shit, stayed in bed for days, rejecting myself and my family. I had three false epiphanies, thinking I was over the hill and would stay strong. They turned into disappointment. 

I had all these questions (I'd always had them, but this time they were genuinely existential) about the purpose of life, social injustice, realizing your potential, your own true purpose etc. Life didn't seem worth living. I decided not to get out of bed until I was inspired to do something. 

And then one day I jumped out at the thought of taking pictures. All the time. And then suddenly I had a reason to live that was just about me. Not about my family or friends, but me, Aqseer. 

Slowly I started getting answers. Some from the healer, some from these incredible books that my aunt suggested (A New Earth, Journey of Souls, Many Lives Many Masters - full list below). Things started falling into place. I went to my guruji and danced after ages - and I felt so alive. And happy. And alive. I applied to Global Music Institute for vocal lessons on an impulse - just allowing my gut to guide me. The application process involved composing a song - and thus I got to fulfill an old dream - of singing and recording at least one song. I loved that process. Reading A New Earth and learning about karma helped me come to peace with my role in social justice - I accepted that wanting to work in the development sector was not a process based interest, but an ends based one - my concern with the greatest possible impact I could achieve - all ego. (Read A New Earth to understand what I mean by ego here.) 

And so I decided to focus on the PROCESS that I loved engaging in for its own sake. I started paying close attention to what I genuinely enjoyed doing. And that slow process of self discovery has lead me to - dance, vocal lessons, photography and healing practices. 

Love, and light to you. If you're not happy, do something about it. Create your reality, don't wait for life to happen to you. 

Read all of the below. And text if you want to talk. 

Aqseer

1)      A New Earth – Eckhart Tolle
2)      The Secret – Rhonda Byrne
3)      Let the Power be with You – Shivi Dua
4)      Journey of Souls – Michael Newton
5)      Autobiography of a Yogi – Padmahansa Yogananda
6)      Many Lives Many Masters, Miracles Happen – Brian Weiss
7)      Waiting for Autumn – Scott Blum
8)      The Celestine Prophecy, The Twelfth Insight – James Redfield
9)      Commentaries on Living - J.D. Krishnamurti
10)   The Grand Design - Stephen Hawking

Monday, April 29, 2013

What I have learnt since graduation


1.       The only way to live is to be present.
o   This is hard for me to do, so I got a tattoo to remind myself to embrace the here and now
o   By extension, FOMO is your biggest enemy
2.       The quality of longing (nostalgia) is bittersweet. It is a light and deep ache that dives in and out of your aura, touching recesses of your memory just enough to madden you, but not enough for the picture to become clear in your head, not enough to relive the memory. All our experience is ephemeral, there is nothing but this very moment, and look, there it goes, whizzing past your bemused face.
o   If you were happy in your now, you wouldn’t bother with memories of college. Save it.
3.       Your job should enable you to learn, create, maintain yourself, socialize and follow your passion, fulfil your purpose
4.       The way to find this job is to stop being a risk averse coward, to trust yourself, figure out your talents, skill set and marry it with your career goals, what you would like to be remembered for
5.       Don’t let your routine trick you. You might have a schedule and things you do at a set time on most days, but no two moments are alike and most of them are worth paying attention to. Or would be if you paid attention to them.
6.       Life is a step in the evolution of your soul. There is no ultimate purpose to life, because there is no way to answer the why of existence. If you say life is an elaborate test designed to identify super souls that resemble god, well, you still don’t know why these super souls need to exist at all
7.       Kids haven’t understood mortality and aren’t jaded enough to question the meaning of existence. They are good people to learn from
8.       Boredom (no internet helps), alone-ness and deadlines are the biggest drivers of creativity. Humans will do anything to give direction to the voices in our heads
9.       Moments of unity, oblivion, mindlessness are rare, and worth pursuing. You might chance upon them dancing a club, sitting on a rock facing the ocean, in the arms of a partner, on the back of a bike. When they come, they’re worth holding onto. But the hunt for oblivion shouldn’t turn into escapism
10.   Most intelligent beings suffer from existential angst. Not enough recognize or acknowledge this. It’s easier to blindly live from day to day, consuming but not creating, smoking cigarettes to mark the passage of time. We do not know how to be idle, and its killing us.
11.   The way to be idle is to calm down and meditate (four deep breaths or a look around with a real sense of wonder is all it takes), then do something productive with your time and energy. There is no excuse to be bored – there’s too much to learn, do, see, observe, eat, experience
12.   Alone is okay
13.   And the only way to be happy is to be self sufficient.  Test yourself. Can you handle being alone in a distant village without Facebook and dinner plans? Will you find yourself running around like a headless chicken, looking for stimuli and someone to share every stray thought with, or will you take the time to look at the stars and breathe in the cleaner air?
14.   This is not to say that loving or needing another person makes you weak. It takes strength to allow another person in and give them the chance to break your heart to smithereens. But making another person the centre of your universe and being dependent on them is a recipe for disaster. Ditto trying to fix someone else or their problems. Co-dependence is a nightmare and the biggest cause of insane phone bills. You are not worthy because you are great at helping people. You are worthy. Full stop.
15.   Being in love and loving someone is a decision and continuous work
16.   Everything that life throws you is a lesson in disguise. You could look at it that way and try to learn the lesson, or you could feel sorry for yourself and blame everyone and everything but yourself. Act like things will work out, and they will
17.   You are extraordinarily powerful in shaping the course of your life. Think something, manifest it, and it will happen. If it doesn’t, it is for a good reason. It’s up to you to figure out what that is.
o   The universe sends all the answers, stay on the ride.  
18.   There is no way to prove any of this. Belief systems, like M-theory, are ways of understanding the world and making the most of it. Believing that I am in control of my life, that it has a purpose and that sometimes it’s okay to surrender to what the universe is trying to do for me keeps me sane, even happy
19.   When you abuse your body in any way, you’re abusing yourself. Your body is not under-nourished or overfed, you are. Look in the mirror and say sorry, not to your body, to yourself. Why are you disrespecting yourself? How do you expect to be respected and loved when you can’t do the same for yourself? How do you expect to respect and love someone else when you can’t respect and love yourself?
20.   Sometimes, it’s good to let conflict happen. There would be very little if we could find some way to contain alterity or conflate identities, or make them irrelevant
21.   In the end, what matters is what you experienced, what you created, and the relationships you growed 


Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Rage

We’re ridiculous, honestly.

We expect people in power to do what is best for the people who aren’t.

Men, upper castes, the government, the rich, the educated, the liberals. Some of them will, most of them won’t.

Why would maulvis want women entering the sanctum sanctorum of their prized masjids, mucking up the interiors, lessening the pride, privilege and power associated with the restricted access?

Why would half naked priests want to let us into their temples and risk feeling as ordinary as us?

Why would the government want the population to be educated, strident and questioning? A resigned janta expecting no more than TV and a few annas thrown their way before elections is far more manageable.

If the government undertook community building initiatives, or tried to do anything long term about the Naxals, they would actually have to earn their votes instead of dividing them up; and isn’t that too much to expect them to sign up for voluntarily? 

EVERYONE takes shortcuts. People in power are no exception.

We, are to blame.

 For being naive. For thinking that people in power will check themselves. For expecting them to do what’s best for us. For helping sustain the status quo.

Family halls at Muslim restaurants, “aurat masjids”, sit at home when you’re bleeding from your vagina because you are impure, never mind that YOU WOULD NOT EXIST IF I DID NOT HAVE THE ABILITY TO MENSTRUATE YOU TURD, separate coaches for women, separate temples for dalits; we let them disenfranchise us, deprive us and then ghettoize us.

We then thank them properly for carving out reservations in a system so wracked with inequality and lack of opportunity that really, they should thank us for being the placid cattle that we have emulated this entire time. 

I have been to upwards of fifty BPL Muslim households in three states these past few months. A few things are the same. The interiors are clean, the exterior usually filthy, the woman is home, sometimes educated, capable of working, but not allowed to by her husband, who obviously would rather his children starve than allow his wife to do everyone the favour of making a little extra on the side. They know NOTHING, and I mean NOTHING about government schemes that are allegedly used as the carrots to buy their votes. They have given up on the public education system. They have no expectations of the government. They make do. They smile. THEY SMILE. THEY ARE NOT ANGRY.

And this gets me, every single time. Actually no, that’s a lie. It got to me today. I wasn’t angry this entire time.

Today, in the one room house of a young woman who supports her family of five by cleaning homes in far away “Mumbai”, TODAY, I felt anger. So far, not having encountered anything like what you see in Slumdog or read about in Shantaram, I was not convinced I was seeing the reality of living below the poverty line. I wanted to see desperate, undignified poverty. I was met with families that like buying clothes, and shoes, and dressing up, and cable, and jewellery, that like food and drink and a good time; but do all of this on infinitesimal budgets and live day to day.

Today, my twentieth day doing this work, today I felt anger. Felt something. Anger at their condition, anger that her father nearly reached his deathbed trying to get his house constructed under the great Awas Yojna named, obviously named, after Dear Departed Mrs. Gandhi, after whom the antarashtriya hawaiadda of the home of the 84 riots is also, oh so appropriately named.

And through the telling of this tale of her father’s debilitation, she smiles, checks her phone, talks to her nieces and nephews and despite repeated requests not to, gets up and makes five cups of tea. They cannot afford five cups of tea. They cannot afford one extra packet of milk a day; she was telling me that five minutes into the interview and making me the most amazing chai at the end of it. There is resignation, and bravery; courage and fortitude and generosity, but there is no anger that can be translated into action.

Why?

Because decades of incompetence and a uniquely patronizing attitude has, in a masterstroke, got us to expect nothing of the government. As long as there is a semblance of law and order, hell, a government, and some platitudes, some show of governance and better things to come, we are content.

As long as men buy us flowers and pretend to give a shit when we’re menstruating, pregnant or weeping, we are content.

Do not grope or rape us, kind masters, that is all we can ask of your uncontrollable sexual appetites and wild, wilful natures; we will gladly make ourselves scarce in public, and speak softly, remain invisible so as not to cause any strain to your sensory organs or sensibilities. Thank you ever so kindly for allowing us to breathe and get through a lifetime without our vaginas being torn asunder by your ever mighty penii that we dare not question, literally or figuratively lest you beat our brains out of our skulls. Thank you again for allowing me to go to school and giving me some milk when I was young so I could push your inheritor out of my body after producing five undesirable young girls that you can ill afford. In return for being allowed to live without being raped, and for the privilege of being yours, I will wear forty five marks of ownership, change my last name, give up my rights to property, sweep, dust, clean after you, cook for you, whatever you like master, whatever we can afford, stroke your ego, absorb your anger, tell myself you love me when you slap me so hard it leaves marks on my face, kill myself looking after the five girls and one, crown jewel of a son, collapse my family and friends with yours, forget my life before you were kind enough to take me off of my father’s hands and never, ever, threaten your virile and treacherous masculinity. Is that good enough sire? Or shall I throw some marital rape and all of my parent’s earnings in? Oh and vaginal douches and tightening creams, yes, of course, I will maintain my figure, vaginal elasticity and sweet breath for you. Of course, sire, of course.

I cannot speak for dalits, adivasis and minorities.

In our childish belief that those in power will do right by us, we have surrendered everything we had, our rage included.

Let’s get real. We’ve got to fight. Nothing is coming our way on a silver platter. Nor can we expect it to.

Silence

Addicted to stimuli, we stumble from thing to thing.

Get up, check phone, read on pot, listen to music while bathing, don’t leave yourself alone for one, solitary, second.

Because its terrifying.

Silence means facing the yawning chasms bursting with doubt,
           abandoned dreams threatening to show their faces,
                         thorny insecurities,
                                 shards of our shattered hearts, adrift on seas of self pity, sloshing around in the parts of our mind not inundated by hysterically pursued funnn, caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, hormones, MSG, visuals, graphics, text, pixels, backlight.

 **
Stimuli, stimuli, stimuli.

Escape;

escape;

escape.

*
Take a deep breath.

Close your eyes.
/
Get your thumbs off your smartphone.

Switch off the music.

Listen to your heart beating.

Don't be terrified. . You are all you have, and that's okay. You are imperfect and scared and lonely, and; enough. .

Look around. Its good to be alive - the world is a many splendoured, beautiful place and you are blessed.
-
Get some perspective. Stop chasing what you think you’re missing out on.

Live.

Feel.

Create.

Stop   running.

Aging

After a while,
The fat starts depositing around your neck
The mirror shows lines and marks, all over your face
There is scant hesitation in expressing need;
Or greed.
You have learnt to deal with rejection, it matters not.
You, my friend
Are now old,
Indifferent,
And ready to grow fat in peace.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Men are the answer

I was raised to be a feminist. It wasn't a conscious effort on my mother's part; in fact, when she sees me blustering with anger and frustration and going on about feminism today, she can't understand where those feelings come from. But that's how it is.

For the longest time, there was the silly refusal to wear pink clothes and act like a girl. There was the tough as nails I never cry act, there was the constant refusal to admit weakness or defeat around a guy. Then I grew up.

Then I read a little of the feminist theory I had grown up putting in practice. Then I looked around and found, to my amazement, that a lot of people were actually feminists or had feminist beliefs, but refused outright to associate with the school of thought.

Women seemed to have got what they wanted out of the movement, and were unwilling to risk being considered man-haters. They had the vote, and chivalry to boot. They had the right to call a man out on abuse, but also get to be bought flowers. What more could they ask for?

The men that weren't feminists tended to be confused, annoyed, furious or indifferent. Feminists were man hating crazy bitches who wanted female dominance at the cost of men's rights. We were the people pushing s. 498A, putting husbands and their entire families in jail on false counts, squeezing spouses for obscene amounts of money, manipulative women who refused to let husbands see their children.

Men's Rights Activists (MRAs) sprung up in the US. Websites and organizations like Save the Indian Family Foundation mushroomed in India. There was talk of abuse of the laws in favour of women in India and the destruction of the family system in the US.

The result? We have feminismS and feministS of various stripes, agreeing on little but the goal of fairness in gender relations. We have the MRAs in the US and their counterparts in India, some of whom think that their interests and those of feminists are mutually exclusive. We have the women who want nothing to do with the feminist question, and men who think that the cost of being a man is outweighed by its benefits. We have the Good Men Project and its kin.

What do these developments tell us?

A lot of men have ceased to think of themselves as un-gendered and have come to realise that their gender comes with its own baggage. A lot of men are trying to grapple with what some call a “post feminist” world, understanding how to negotiate unfamiliar terrain where usual gender cues no longer hold good.

The SlutWalk Bengaluru page has, of late, been inundated with angry comments by masculinists who want freedom from the role of a protector, who seethe at feminism and the great injustice of today’s world.

It is, therefore, now more important than ever for feminists to make a conscious effort to “ask the man question.” It is vital that feminists think about the repercussions of a particular legislative or policy demand on men as well as women. This is for a few reasons.

One is that any benefit to women that comes at the cost of unfairness to anyone else is undesirable and unethical. Moreover, in the long run, this unfairness will lead to greater hostility against women and feminists and a blanket refusal to be supportive of our agenda: something we are already seeing.

The other is motivated by self interest: feminism will not work if there are no men to adhere to it. bell hooks has said this in a more eloquent fashion than I can manage:

“Separatist ideology encourages us to believe that women alone can make feminist revolution - we cannot. Since men are the primary agents maintaining and supporting sexism and sexist oppression, they can be successfully eradicated only if men are compelled to assume responsibility for transforming their consciousness and the consciousness of society as a whole...”

My amendment to that quote would be that everyone is an agent in maintaining and supporting sexism; even if men at present have ostensibly more to lose from a drastic restructuring of our society along the lines of gender.

The last reason is that freeing men from mandated gender roles is already a rightful part of the feminist goal, as I see it. When sex became gender, feminism automatically became about more than just women. And so, in my view, feminism that is not concerned about men is not feminism.

And so feminism must proactively be concerned with men. To a large extent, it has been for quite a while. But the perception of feminism and men’s interests being mutually exclusive persists, and must gradually be eroded.

**

This post is titled “men are the answer.” I came to this conclusion when I first bumped into the Good Men Project and realised that while most women had had enough of and from feminism, it was men who were starting to wake up to their gendered existence and asking questions that could catalyze meaningful social evolution.

This opened up room for a lot of discussion and debate, of the realisation that societal mores hurt everyone, not just women; and that everyone had to gain from questioning these mores. With men questioning their own binds and seeing themselves as participants in this societal evolution, I figured things would move faster; and so far that belief seems to be well placed. There is also the obvious fact that in order to stop domestic violence or rape, you need to reach out to its perpetrators/silent supporters; thus making men “the answer” in the context of assault on women.

**

We need men to work with us, not only for us, but also for themselves, and a freer society in turn.

This Blog is part of the Men Say No Blogathon,* encouraging men to take up action against the violence faced by women.
More entries to the Blogathon can be read at www.mustbol.in/blogathon. Join further conversation on facebook.com/delhiyouth & twitter.com/mustbol


*I don’t agree with the name “Men Say No” because it plays on what it means to be a “real man,” which in turn buys straight into the kind of accepted stereotyping I try so hard to subvert.
However, I agree with the aim of this campaign, and this is a small step in furthering its goals.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Backpacks and Puris

I see myself linking the GMP a lot, and here’s another piece that resonated with me. http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/stillness/ I know I have the I-need-to-do-something-exciting-or-I-will-go-crazy syndrome, and it can be a huge drain on finances, productivity and the patience of those around me.

But I digress. I meant to write about the beauty of travelling. Apart from the usual getting to meet new people, eating strange food, seeing the sights jamboree; there is the absolutely liberating realisation that all you really need to negotiate the big bad world can be stuffed into one 20 litre backpack.

I mean, yeah, the clothes might surface with a bit of yesterday’s hurriedly eaten chocolate croissant on them, but meh.

Anyhow, you start to get far less finicky about trivialities like bathing everyday and having every hair on your head pinned neatly down. You don’t have to dress to impress anyone, you’re a strange person from a strange land who will attract strange looks no matter what you wear- so you might as well wear banana print boxers and kaftans with skulls hanging off of them.

You can make a fool of yourself and get away with it; as long as you’re not an obnoxious, disrespecting fool, you can get away with quite a bit. Everything is new and exciting, and even better- when you get back, you suddenly start to appreciate the quirks of your own people. Take for instance the strange way in which Indians will refuse a tenth helping of puris while simultaneously stuffing one in their mouths.

Finally, you realise that though the foreign is shiny and we need to learn so very much from them, as clichéd as it sounds, there’s nothing quite like home.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

"Ready" to be scarred?

This post is not about the cinematic merit of the movie “Ready.” Suffice to say that “Ready” is a hysterical assault on all human senses, including those we as a species haven’t developed yet.

But not only is this movie absolutely god awful, it is also profoundly disturbing. Unfortunately, I have yet to come across a review that criticizes the movie for being sexist and even racist in parts.

Some gems:
1) Paresh Rawal encounters a security guard of African origin. Ends the exchange with: “tujhe to dekhke desh ki nazar uttar jaye” (Looking at you is enough to ward off the evil eye for the entire nation)

2) Salman Khan responds to one of Asin’s infrequent dialogues with: “Pehli baar aurat ko kuch samajhdar kehte hue suna hai” (This is the first time I’ve ever heard a woman say something sensible)

3) During a drinking session with the gundas, Mr. Modi asks his wife to go ahead and eat without him. The gundas chuckle and inform him that as real men, they refuse to let their wives touch even a morsel of food before they’re done imbibing ethanol for the night.

4) Mr. Modi responds: “Auraton ki duniya bahut chotti hoti hai. Humse hi shuru aur khatam hoti hai. Isiliye unke saath acha bartav karna chahiye” (The lives of women revolve around us men. Their universe is very small; it begins with us and ends with us. That is why we must treat them well.)

5) Subsequently, the gundas rush off to their respective wives and very magnanimously inform them that they are free to eat the meals that they cook before the men drag their drunken selves to the table. (Note- this is a prime example of homosocial behaviour as discussed here- http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/bros-before-promises/)

There’s still more, but I think this is sample enough to prove that the scriptwriter(s) are off their rockers and more importantly, Salman Khan ought to have thought ten times before agreeing to the script.

The man is well aware of the influence he has over India’s millions, he knows that his sporting a stud in each ear will soon spark a nation-wide trend; and his latest offering is reinforcing the idea that belittling women is a legitimate sport. One of the few sports Indians naturally excel at.

Bravo, Salman. Way to exploit your influence.

(Note- the quotes from the movie haven't been reproduced verbatim, I had the misfortune of watching the movie on a bus ride and refuse to pay good money to be insulted all over again. However, I am ninety nine percent certain I've reproduced the content accurately, if not the exact words.)

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Idiot, insecure Indian men

A man is expected to be powerful and so is belittled for being unable to lift a bag or bolt a door. A woman isn’t, and so does not expect herself to be powerful. The rare specimen that does is met with astonishment or ridiculous behaviour.
Not many men can handle powerful women. I see no other explanation for the way my friend and I are met when we take our bikes out on Nagarbhavi roads. Yesterday, we had the pleasure of encountering two fat, ill behaved a#$#^&*(% on a Dio, if you please, coming within two centimetres of us, trailing, gesturing, even turning around and coming at us head on (in the wrong lane), hoping for... I don’t know, it is a mystery.

Realising that in customary style, I had gotten angry and sped off in the wrong direction after aforementioned buffoons, my friend frantically signalled and got me to turn around. We headed towards the mythical Enamor sale, this time on the right track, and were met, in addition to the usual bevy of stares and calls; by an idiot on a pulsar who felt he had to do one better. So not only did he tail us for a bit, he also came within two inches of us, and pulled a wheelie, right behind a big fat bus that could’ve slammed on its breaks at any second.
He then moved to one side of the road, stopped, looked at us expectantly, again, hoping for what? Perhaps some acknowledgment of his manliness or superiority, search me.

It doesn’t stop here. On this same day (that India won the World Cup, no less), this friend and I went to grab burgers at KFC and were met by a fool, OPENLY STARING at me with an expression of utter entitlement, like I was put there by the forces of the universe for his viewing pleasure. I turned and stared at him, and this only spurred him to make sneering faces at the other fool sitting across him. We ate our burgers and feeling his stare again, I turned to find him looking at me with that same infuriating mix of expressions on his face. So I said to him “Could you stop staring at me you **)#R$@)##? And of course, like the typical cowardly, lecherous Indian man, he immediately cowered, feigned utter and absolute ignorance and looked away.

UGH. My hatred of this variety of the Indian man deepens by the day, this man who is never in short supply, always goggle eyed, unabashed and deeply depraved.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Flamenco at Siri Fort

Jose Porcel, two lovely ladies whose names I'm not acquainted with (go figure) and lets see.... two vocalists, one male, one female; a flute/harmonica player, a percussionist of some description received a standing ovation yesterday (16 Feb, 2011) for an endearing, enthralling, energetic Flamenco performance. Oh excuse me, Ballet Flamenco.

To be honest, I'm not very clear on where the Ballet came in. Perhaps Flamenco does not traditionally tell stories, and some the broad themes of the "items" (I'd so much rather they be called pieces) performed yesterday can be attributed to a Ballet influence.

I couldn't say.

What I can say though, is this. Jose Porcel is an incredible, incredible, incredible performer. He is cocky, cock sure, flamboyant, fiery and you can see he's giving you everything he's got. But I'm not a fan of the technique. I could very easily be very wrong, but the contrast between the clean, flowing lines of the female performers and the dervish like frenzy of Porcelo's act left me bewildered. It does not make sense to me that female Flamenco could be so beautiful and refined, and the male part so very undefined and composed of merely energy and footwork.

Oh, but the ladies. The synchronization was a bit off in places, which is a pity, because when they got that right, it was such a mesmerizing treat to watch. I love the arrogance and anger that underlies Flamenco. The bold lines, the graceful twirls, the lovely full skirts that these ladies breathe life into, making them rise with their pirouettes. The sleek, low bun that gives every turn of the neck greater definition and renders it clean and elegant. I could go on and on.

And good lord, the music. I have to say this- we could really learn something from the way that Porcel interacted with the musicians. For one, they were up front and centre, which, though it made focusing on the dancers a wee bit difficult, really enabled them to create a mehfil type atmosphere, and gave them equal respect.

Secondly, you could tell there was a lot of jugalbandi going on, a lot of interaction between the dancers and the musicians and that was just beautiful, because you saw an art form in a conversation with another art form.

Then there were the hoots and the exclamations from the musicians themselves. These came out of nowhere, and made the whole performance come alive and seem very accessible.

I have never witnessed a more relaxed and more audience friendly performance. The spectators were involved throughout, a bunch of emotive, gasping, clapping Indians responding to an equally emotive bunch of flamboyant Spaniards.

And the vocals. What power. I could feel tingles going up my spine and I thought, wow, this is what we share, two cultures going back centuries, with our unique and raw music that touches our souls directly. What amount of digital technology and tweaked vocals can give you that? That direct link to the emotions that are equally pure and raw?

Jose Porcel kissed Ambika Soni on each cheek, which elicited titters, giggling and gasps from the audience. Then the female vocalist stepped up and sang for about two minutes. She has this gorgeous, slightly husky, deepp deeepp deeep voice that she can hold for tens of seconds at impossible pitches.

There was clapping, there were cat calls, there was sweat flying off of the dancers, there were sharp head turns, and spotting, glares and gentle caresses, laughter and sighs, and good old Indian bureaucracy. Coming up for an encore, two of the musicians showed that they too can dance the Flamenco, and what more does an Indian audience appreciate than an unexpected shuffling of inexperienced feet, rendered with a touch of shyness and equally, a try this on for size attitude?


Lovely. Just lovely.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Desi music and Dilli's Men

I've been hearing Menwhopause and TAAQ on Delhi Radio and though I'm not sure whether Menwhopause every played at SF, TAAQ sure did (and won) and its a good feeling to be a part of an event that promotes excellent Indian music. (Woot!)

Also, Delhi's junta is full of contradictions. On the road, people have their fangs bared, their ears blocked, their eyes blinded; they're a hair's breadth from sending you spinning across the road and yet, and YET these same people are warm and largely friendly when on their own two feet.

Now, I can only talk about the men; because for some reason, it is men who cut your hair, men who help you park, men who give you directions, men who sell you food and water, but these guys are really quite chivalrous is their own way. There's the odd exception but in their own, earthy way, they try to make you laugh and help you park and treat you like a granddaughter or didi.

I know this is not what one usually hears about Delhi's men, but I have to say this; I've hard my share of oglers and gropers and exhibitionists and goggle eyed fools, but there are also courteous chaps who discretely steer clear of any shady business. Its quite charming really. And very Indian.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

This is life

A meal of cold chicken and left over pulao on a sunny gardened terrace, muddy, damp pants from sitting in the grass, a panting dog laying next to you with her paw on your thigh; tired from having begged for the chicken, licked the tiffin box, your hands and your feet and getting only some belly scratching and indistinct noises in return.

A little cotton fluff of a Maltese eyeing you, and your managing to lure him with pathetic attempts at gaining his interest. Trying to get this interest to remain steadfast even in the face of your stupidity and boring-ness, your silly grinning face, the pointless cooing, the inexplicable happiness at being around something so cute and content.

Seeing the Lab and the Maltese run around, in the sun, following their mistress and occasionally darting glances at you. Hugging the big lab around her neck and thinking of days spent with Fluffy, my 5 year birthday present and faithful companion till she was rechristened Gudia and left for my grandmother's house.


This is what I want. A sunny winter day, a good file to read and work on, and two dogs to follow me around and keep me company.

Friday, January 28, 2011

On blaming the victims and feminism being an f word

Much has been said about these two fascinating phenomena and I am no closer to understanding either than I was a year ago. Lets start with the first-

We shifted to Dhaula Kuan recently and a lovely mother daughter couple made a house call to welcome us into the cold draughty fold of DK Is houses. They were both great fun to talk to and at one point, the ‘sation turned to the need for mace in these here parts. I made the appropriate gasping noises and asked why they said I should venture out only with a knife and a ready punch. The answer- recent rapes in the neighbourhood. The shocker- the lovely aunty wondering aloud “who asked that girl to come back late in a bus, usse call centre cab leni chahiye thi na”
I hate having to ask my guy friends to drop me home or having my parents waiting anxiously outside till I meet them; I hate having to live in fear and inconveniencing people because the men in this city are depraved and under policed. And I know that if I step out of these boundaries, the way I’d like to, I’ll be blamed if I am raped.
How is it that a woman who is brutalized is blamed for taking a bus instead of a cab? THAT is what you have to say to the RAPE of a young, innocent woman? That is the first thing that comes to your head? Not that that man was crazy and sick, but that this woman shouldn’t have tried to use a cheap and environmentally friendly means of mass transport to get home? Look at me, trying to glorify her choice. She could’ve been a hooker, high on cocaine, and even then, the first thing that ought to have been said was that that man was off his mind, not that this woman was asking for it.


This city, this country, we’re all crazy for letting this attitude prevail.

And what is with educated, privileged, low cut blouse wearing women trying their best to distance themselves from feminism? Yes, there are crazy feminists, yes I used to hate pink, yes some of us hate men, yes some of us are off our rockers. But this is an inclusive, vague, massively varied movement. You get to decide what feminism means for you. You get to make it sane, you get to make it inclusive and non prescriptive. Be a part of the movement that has given you the options you cherish and wouldn’t dream of living without. Stop free loading.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Alone, Alive

....... .

This is Karnataka

Yes, its been a while. Perhaps because I tend to make the monumental effort of logging in to blogger and writing only when I'm monumentally pissed off, which I am right now.

The incident, for your benefit-
Aqseer is cruising down the road on Juno at a leisurely 30 km an hour. Flicks on the indicator to take turn into hostel gate. Sees small maroon car in rear view mirror, within touching distance. Slows down so crazed man who is blind to indicators can overtake. Man starts honking LIKE A MANIAC. (Aqseer)Stops completely (Punjabi blood, plus it would have been dangerous to turn), drops jacket. Turns around and yells at the man, tells him to pick it up since he's blind to indicators and such. Says this in ENGLISH. Man replies in Kannada. Several people around start honking. Turns, parks, picks up jacket and man is mysteriously still there, blocking the road, yelling in Kannada. Yells- I DON'T SPEAK KANNADA.
Man yells- THIS IS KARNATAKA. I says- (I'm feeling a bit sheepish about this, but I guess thats what happens when you study THREE courses in constitutional law) What do you mean this is Karnataka, haven't you read the Constitution? Man says- (hehe) Laaiiars (lawyers). I say- just go away *@#@$##$#%^^^#$@. And he does.

I have now resolved never to learn Kannada. Good going, language chauvinists.

How much nicer it would be if you could put across the beauty of your language and that it would make you happy if we showed some love for the state in which we currently have the pleasure of residing. Maybe if you gently taught us some swear words (which is all anyone learning a new language wants to know), followed by some handy words like bega, jasti bega, kodi, madi etc. BUT NO. Fine. Yell at me.

I'd rather chop off each individual digit on my hands and fry em in a pan than learn your language.

:)

Thursday, December 2, 2010

All hail Juno

Not for the first time, I'm thanking my stars I have super cool parentals and grandparentals who let me get Juno. I read this interview of Gul Panag, and it struck me that she said riding a bike isn't so much about being cool, but much more about the independence and freedom that comes with.

I now know exactly what she means. Juno doesn't yell at me for ten more rupees. Juno doesn't play terrible songs very very loudly, or smoke stinky bidis. Juno doesn't guzzle more fuel early in the morning, or around siesta time, or late at night. Juno isn't fussy. Juno will not try to kill/kidnap/rape me.

Of course riding a bike comes with its own share of miseries. But at least you're in control.

So many women in college are coming and asking me little questions about Juno. Its awesome. I really do think that your height is the only thing that can come in the way of being 100% comfortable on a bike. Not your weight or your strength. Men ride bikes because they think they can, they're cocky about it.

They're not necessarily always stronger, they don't necessarily have fighter pilot reflexes. They're just cocky, they think they belong on a bike. And their feet reach the ground. That is all you are needing, I say.