RAPE ME, RAPE ME, SAY THAT YOU'LL RAPE ME?

I was hounded with calls, inundated with emails and chased down with Facebook messages after the 16^th of December. The incident called for an uprising, voices of the youth to enter the seemingly deaf ears of lawmakers. What did you want me to say? That it is sad what happened to that young girl who died trying to fight for her life after being brutally raped by men who have still not been put to immediate death? For ranting against a nation that claims to now have fast track courts but whose jails are still home to the most cruel sexual perpetrators whose fate still lies in the hands of the indecisive, election dominated law? The scales have tilted my love. And not in our favour.

Then why did I think of writing now? The reason was staring at me in the face when I saw a someone on Facebook write stuff like “Will sacking Shiela Dixit and coming on the streets solve anything? Will sacking the commissioner really help? We need to change from within.” Or some such utter elitist nonsense.  This was followed by the news, a few debates and that was it. I had to write it down.  A 5-year old little girl gets kidnapped and brutally raped and you ask why people are protesting? Her childhood has been snatched away from her, she’ll never be the same again, her parents are dying of guilt, anger and probably need a lifetime of counseling. That’s why. To top it all a cop gives her parents 2000 bucks to shut up and not involve the public.

Elite India, wake the hell up. These are real people. This was a chilling incident and unfortunately this baby has lived to recount this story and replay it in her head a billion times over. When she goes to school, college, when she starts dating, when a boy first touches, kisses or holds her close. She’s going to never feel the way we did the first time all those things happened to us. And no amount of counseling is going to change that. I think that’s enough reason to protest. Enough reason to demand an explanation and action. Why should the Commissioner resign? Because no inspector will ever offer money like that if orders don’t come from a higher authority. That is how bureaucratic the system is.  He shouldn’t be suspended. He needs to be jailed for abetment.

But all these are just opinions. What really got my goat is the Indian celebrity community. Shabana Azmi was on air on a debate that was being watched by millions across the nation. And here’s what she says, “Death sentence? Absolutely not. How can we fight barbarianism with barbarianism?” This is when I lost it. Hello Mrs. I-wear-a 20,000 buck silk saree- to –a-Gareebi-hataao-andolan, this is not Cuffe Parade.

 I used to be friends with close family friends of hers. 2 girls who lived in the diplomatic area in Delhi and I know for a fact that they used to be chauffeur driven to St.Stephen’s College every single day because the parents did not ‘trust Delhi’s public transport’. Good Morning Azmi, every other normal Delhi kid takes the ‘University Special bus.’ Every single day.  

This attitude is not new to our society. Here’s the thing. It may not be blatant rape but think of the number of times a man walks all over you and you don’t even know it. I wrote an article once about how a man should take the check at a restaurant especially when taking a girl out. It was misconstrued as being backward. You stupid women, it’s not like I can’t afford it. But what I’m trying to get at is that you don’t want a man in your life. You want a gentleman. A concept that should not just be restricted to the boundaries of men in uniform or some such. Women took offence because they felt I was undermining them. Honey, take offence where it matters. When your boyfriend says he’s at work when he’s actually cheating on you. Or when he insults you. Or abuses you. Or puts you down, lowers your confidence levels or even expects you to cut back on your career and dreams to accommodate his. You won’t believe the number of men I’ve met who are totally pro the last bit. What is rape at the end of it all? It’s a man’s way of asserting domination over a woman in a way that will take a while to leave her memory. Irreparable damage. And here we are, a country with lawmakers who are debating over what level of rape should be given what degree of punishment.  Now THAT is offensive. What are you trying to say? That forcefully pinning me down, stripping my clothes off and forcing yourself onto me is not worthy of capital punishment? Oh I’m sorry, for that it’s just jail. You’ll need to insert foreign objects into me to make your way to the gallows. So great, for now you’re safe. It’s just 5am wake up calls and watery daal for you for a few years.  Incredible India  indeed.

We need to wake up to the fact that rape is rape. There is not lesser or greater. There are no degrees. If it’s proven, it calls for immediate action. You do not have the right to violate me.

Stay away. For all I want is Death for Rape.

WORK FROM HOME: 5 WAYS TO GET IT RIGHT

So I've started working with a startup and I think I've made the right decision. It's a bunch of really smart, crazy, illogical, erratic alcohol lovers. Perfect fit, I know. So I've started blogging for them as well and much as I love the product, I refused to blog on anything remotely technical or even connected to my field per say. I often find blogging for a company rather tedious and I didn't want it to be like that. I wanted to do what I was good at but something that also resonated with my workplace. So here's a link to my first piece with them. Tell me what you think and share away! 

http://www.wicfy.com/blog/work-from-home-5-ways-to-get-it-right/

In case you can't click on this, just copy paste the URL and check it out! 

Yep, the above is pretty much what my work space looks like and you know what? I love it. Not to forget you get free beer. Officially. 

MEANDERINGS

So here’s a thought- how about I be more regular with the blog? How about I not have to answer the barrage of questions that mainly revolve around why I’ve not been writing. How about me not writing about things that only worry me? Will that be so bad? Believe it or not, these are the questions I’ve been pondering over for the past many months. And I haven’t written a word as a result. That’s the thing about being branded as a writer, you can’t just get away with writing about absolutely nothing. There’s always the constant expectation that I should be pissed off about some random and sometimes no so random nonsense. I’ve decided to break away from the expectation that there needs to be a reason to what I write. So I’m planning tons of interesting things for the blog. I hope most of it turns out the way I hoped it would. Also I didn’t realize the number of people who read my trash. It’s pretty heart-warming and all that.

So what’s been up since August last year (woah)? Not much. Things have stayed pretty much stagnant since I moved back home. Wrote a little, thought a lot, travelled a bit, dated minuscule amounts but emerged absolutely refreshed and fabulous. I start work next week so I thought this was a good time to kick start a whole new chapter on the blog. The parents are watching ‘Scent of a Woman’ in the next room. I don’t know how that’s relevant but I love that movie. Just so you know. SO anyway, professionally, I hope I’ve made a wise decision. My  initial decision of quitting journalism for the lack of creative freedom still holds strong. I don’t think I’ve had stronger faith in the fact that most feature editors need to get a grip. Like, seriously. So when I apply I usually get the same jargon about how I may own a popular blog, but that doesn’t mean that I can write. Because clearly, this is an art blog and none of the content has any semblance to the written word. That explains the lack of freshness in most publications. This is when I also realized that the blog needs to diversify. So the new diversification plans would need a lift monetarily, for which one needs a regular income because freelancing is a lethal plan for someone as lazy as I.

Also, moving back home after 4 years is the same as moving to a new city. Pune is home, but it couldn’t seem more alien. Things have changed to the extent that I can’t fathom sometimes. But I’m learning to live with it, not that I have much of a choice. Century old buildings and places I considered landmarks are now being broken down for apartment buildings and malls. My tearful and emotional reaction to all this is of course a tad late because my friends have already gone through it all, leaving me to mope all by myself.  Walking down the same alleys is even stranger as half the trees don’t exist anymore. And holy mother of god, did I hear Honey Singh blaring out of an SUV the other day? Oh yes, I did. Right in the middle of my street, in a city that can’t tell Gurdaspur from Gurgaon. It’s all sunk right in thankfully.

My love life stays as amusing as ever. With hilariously failed dates and the even more hilarious wine and impersonation sessions that take place right after with my cronies. I can’t say I’m spoilt for choice but for someone as stubborn as myself, there can’t be a compromise. I’ve also learnt to live with the fact that I don’t want romance. I want Yash Chopra romance. I think many of us artsy types do. The hopeless, incorrigible romantics that we are.  And I love every bit of it. Poetry doesn’t seem to work as well as song compositions though. Or chocolate. Or perfume. Or  aroma oils. Or shoes….oooo SHOES! Ok I’m done.

This is such a random post, but I guess that’s the state of mind I’m in. It’s not empire, but I’m getting there. Also major book ideas have been running through my brain. Finally. I won’t share much but what do you guys think of the idea? That’s all for now, it’s Saturday night and I have a life.  Nothing like ending a week like conversation and wine I always say.

Ok chal bye. 

AN ODE TO MY SINGLE SISTERS

I woke up this lazy morning and did the usual. Brushed  my teeth, strolled around the house sipping my morning tea, making my way to papa’s study. He didn’t have to go to work today. He sat by himself on the rocking chair reading the day’s papers. He usually yells out a piece of news that he finds interesting, he feels that the whole family should know what rocks the nation’s boat. Not this time though. He sat pensive and looked terrified, while still reading on in rapt concentration. This was no bomb blast, this was no flood or epidemic, not even a political catastrophe. This was the story of a young girl of 25 who lived in Mumbai. She was killed by the watchman of her building for resisting his lusty advances. Her throat was slit and when her boyfriend came home the next morning (he was at work all night), he found her swimming in a pool of blood. They were to be married this year.

Pune has some fantastic weather and  my usual morning swim was in order. So I slipped into my costume, over which I wore shorts and a green t-shirt. I was just about to leave the house when he walked up to me and asked ,Where do you think you’re going?”

 I looked at him quizzically, “For a swim. Like everyday.”

“Well no, you can’t. Go in the evening when the pool is a little crowded and don’t forget to take a bath robe. A towel wouldn’t do.”

I was clearly confused. After a little argument with him, he finally came out with it.

“That girl in Mumbai? She could have been you. And one can’t leave any stone unturned as far as safety is concerned.”

A single woman in this country deserves a gallantry award. She really does. When you’re just out of home, struggling to make ends meet, running a house, tackling tempestuous  bosses, unreasonable landlords,  travelling back home and still managing an active social life, you’re truly nothing short of a goddess. 

This one is for you, all you young single women, who struggle everyday to beat the harrowing glances and advances of perverse men, those of you who learn how to fix things around the house ,thereby negating the very need of a man, those of you who make successes out of yourselves despite not having the comforts of home and its people. You make the truest friends because you are well aware that in an alien city, your friends are always family. Having a man in your life makes little or no difference when it comes to your  daily war with everything outside your front door.

I got sick of all the above so I came home, which is why I look up to each one of you even more. Because maybe I wasn’t strong enough.  In Delhi, my roommate was stopped by 3 drunk men. While 2 of them held her back, the third forced her to watch him ejaculate. My roommate in Mumbai was pinned down by 8 men and brutally molested. Is this some sick way of telling us that we don’t have any business being independent and have the guts to have a career? I’ve always maintained that the Indian woman  may have moved from the bedroom to the boardroom, but only on paper. We’re still a vile nation, where our men still get away with anything and we should stop denying it.

This is the first time my thoughts are flowing with no real direction. Because that is just how  livid I am with this incident in Mumbai and the general state of women’s safety in this country of ours. And I don’think anyone gets it. If you live with your parents you don’t get it. If the only time you've lived away from home is to study, you don’t get it. So don’t even try.

And darling Mumbai, stop being so conceited, you’re getting as depraved and as nasty to your women as any other place. You should really stop boasting about how women can catch cabs at 3am in short skirts because you know what?  This is Mumbai, not Miami. 

To every single young working woman out there, you are a hero. You cry, you break down, you suffer, you may break your bones under a moving truck, but you can still  manage to stand right up, dust yourself and walk on to catch a cab to work the next day. It is outstanding and you have to walk on with immense pride and dignity. Be safe, take care.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm humbled as always to have ever been a part of your community. It has given my heart and soul all the strength it carries today.  

Yeh Tera Ghar, Yeh Mera Ghar

She walked in home drenched in the revelry of the night that had been. Reeking of whiskey and the warm yet comforting stench of tobacco. The doorbell rang about ten times, interspersed with her loud giggles and the sound of keys  struggling to get into the keyhole. I could hear her heels click against the tiled floor outside the door occasionally slipping in gay abandon, after which her palms thump the door repeatedly. “Open the door, Banana!”

I rush across the house, look through the peephole, open our bright blue door. There she stands. All dressed in a thin black shrug, her blue heels, her eyes just the right tinge of pink filled with a flurry of excitement and coquettishness, telling tales of what went on at ‘Bonobo’ that night.  She darts inside, only to flop on the couch and remove another bottle of wine which I look at disapprovingly but eventually share. She then hugs me and tells me it is all going to pan out the way I imagined it would, no matter what or who stands in my way. I’m touched and I extend my arms for her to fall right into them. We’re not into long pensive hugs with the same sex. So she is upright again. We talk into the remaining part of the night, until we feel the sun shining through our French windows, imploring us to call it a day.

The next day is heavy on both our heads. The world swirls in our apartment along with the sugar in our freshly beaten coffee. Back on the couch we were. She looks at me with those dreary, tired eyes and says “Banana, just so you know, all those things I said last night? Well they’re all true. I’m here ok?” Umm, awkward silence time.

“I know you are. Let’s go get some lunch?”

“Sure. Just dress properly ok. I know we live next to a trash can,  you don’t have to look like one.”

“Bugger off, I’ll be ready in 10.”

Roommates. I can’t even begin to describe what they’ve meant to me over the years. After an initial hiccup with two who used to use my bed for nefarious doings behind my back, I’ve had all the luck with the rest. They become a part of you that can’t really be detached. Atleast mine haven’t been able to. Back in Delhi, I was healing a broken heart. Here in Bombay I was resurrecting a flailing career.  The few moments of  happiness and contentment in both places, would never have seen the light of day had it not been for the lovely women I shared my home with. Cheems saw me through the depths of listlessness and disillusion. She did what any true friend would do for another friend getting over her biggest break up- introduce the victim to new steaming hot men with an IQ of -2, the one thing Delhi can triumphantly boast of.  A few months later, the favour was duly returned when she was boyfriendless and had her head stuck in a tub of ice-cream. I call it the Ostrich effect and as women we truly believe it is the solution to all out break ups, till the time the nasty vindictive temptress starts making her way round your waistline.

 Bombay was a whole different ball game. My bond with Pee emanated from my utmost disgust with a philistine city that seemed to lack a soul. She was the first person I had an intelligent conversation with and that was enough reason for me to share a home with her. Simple as that. Her drunken nights followed by my nocuous workdays kept up the entertainment quotient, most of which was expended on a bottle of wine. And the cycle continued.  In a city where most people experience  their dreams come alive, I watched mine slip through my consciousness. I stopped writing and as I sat in a corner of my room watching my books and my diary collecting dust, I imagined them gently weeping.

I would watch Pee come back home every night discussing feverishly her advertising ideas, pitches, who said what, what art meant to her, whose work she could kill for and whose the industry could well do without. As I listened to her, I realized I had lost that passion, my passion. I had nothing to say, nothing to compare myself to, no benchmarks to set myself against. For the first time in a long time, I felt uninspired. Death for a writer.

Pee finally sat me down and spoke to me about how I needed to get my mojo back. “Honey  you stopped loving yourself ages ago. From what I hear, you were quite the ballsy b**** and had boys by their you -know –whats. Where did all that go? And why the hell do I have to know you know when you’re this depressing?” Only someone really close can talk to you like that and get away with it. It was at that instant that I decided to stop moping, pick myself up and follow my heart. Vikram had moved in by then and the ‘let’s get banana moving’ campaign was on full swing. With long debates and discussions into the wee hours of the morning to reading every single one of my articles to even getting my culinary-artistic high with Masterchef every night, I seemed to have atleast a few happy memories to look back at.

In a world where single people living in alien cities, away from the warmth of home, is as common as a roadside tea stall, is it really that important who we live with? My roommates were my substitutes for family. They’ve hugged me when I’ve cried, they’ve pulled my hair back when I’ve puked (ok this was at 21. Totally allowed), they’ve stealthily put blankets over me, when in my sleep I’ve kicked mine off in Delhi’s biting winter, they’ve nursed me back to health when I’ve felt like a Somalian refugee. But most importantly, they’ve laughed with me and spread the kind of joy in my life which is quite irreplaceable. And yes, they will still need me and they will still feed me, when I’m 64.

What’s been the payback? Well, just the same. And I’d do it again. A million times over.

THIS, THAT AND THE OTHER

Ok so this time I am sorry for the hiatus. I have been busy but no so much that I should neglect this space and all its readers. Life in Bombay is all that they claim in the movies especially for someone who has just moved here. The traffic, the super fast life and of course the countless number of people with super shady lives. Its all here, spicy and scandalous, just the way I like it.

So there's also been work which has been the prime consumer of my time and working for a corporate for the first time in your life can be pretty unnerving. Media professionals are used to a certain style of work where nobody gives a shit as long as you deliver. But here its about how you behave, a certain decorum and you can't say fuck. But then I guess there is a trade-off especially when it comes to the compensation. It's more formal, though apparently my workplace is much more at ease than other corporates, my boss is understanding and my super boss reminds me of Devdas- the solemn kinds who when instigated can spew the kind of venom that could shake the pants out of a suicide bomber even.

I turned all of 25 yesterday, older and none the wiser might I add. There was all that there needed to be for the perfect birthday recipe-- sleeping the previous night at 5am, a scandalized sister, drunk friends, drunker parents, a newly engaged roommate, her bewildered fiance, lots of entertainment and some really bad rice wine in a very pretty bottle. This was followed by the next very groggy morning, finding M and Pee sound asleep in my bathroom and a home that looked as ravaged as a Delhi night club post a drunken brawl. There were emergency clean ups that happened before the arrival of Reena Didi, who we're all shit scared of. She's our Bong bombshell badass maid who is a woman on a mission—a mission to clean every corner of every room and then yell at us for messing it all up. We'd die without her but luckily, she doesn't read my blog, so she'll never actually see this. Reena Didi gave me a bunch of birthday flowers in the morning , I mean when was the last time your bai did that? So you get the drift right?

Dinner was with Talli at Global Fusion. If you like it raw, this is the place for you. The sashimi is to die for and the prices are very reasonable. Its a long drawn decadent affair so please fast the whole day before to head there.

This is all I wanted to say really. There will be a more tangible, not so mindless post sometime soon. Thanks for all the birthday love I got on Twitter from people I didn't know. Its a first for me, so its been a little overwhelming.

For all those who expected this to be another bitchy post, bugger off, I'm old.

I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND

Sorry for the delay. No wait, actually I am not. I have real life situations to deal with and they are not as flattering and attention gaining as this blog. They have in the past month included moving to a brand new city, getting a job and trying to make sense of a life that I never thought I would embark upon.

The year long sabbatical has ended and I am back to the incessantly badgering whims of a demanding boss, high levels of pollution, perpetual traffic and the lack of time for a vibrant social life---ah, life like I love it.. So I am here in Bombay putting up with my grandparents (Amma and Acha). They’ve been out of town and so I am left with the house all to myself for about 2 weeks, out of which I’ve already spent a week trying to rectify and beautify the kitchen which I nearly burnt down. Yes muffin making for Christmas can be quite a bitch.

I have nothing specific to write about. I hope to soon though. But what the most intriguing part is how I now realize what a big deal the past months have been. It never sunk in when I was in Bhopal, a city where the mist so delicately rests on the horizon of the city lake, where the sounds of Sufi music resonated in my ears and where life just lets you stand still and breathe. I couldn’t have asked for a better sabbatical. No one bothered me, no one cared about the whirlwind that had engulfed my life. I felt protected, secure and shielded from all else that was around me.

I am exposed now. My thoughts, my life and most importantly, my vulnerabilities. It’s all out in the open, for all to see. They often ask me what has changed over the past few months, whether the media attention, the exposure, the lights, the accolades and the occasional outrage and all that noise has changed an intrinsic part of me. And as I sit here watching Amma cook and as I listen to Acha scream out expletives at Sachin for not scoring that century and as I just sink deeper into my couch with my book, I would have to say, NO. This is home, these are my people and as long as they see me as Shahana and not the Madrasan, I think I’ll get by. But this is as far as family and close friends are concerned (I have 4 of the latter so my expectation levels, as is clear, are rather low).

So what is it that I feel so insecure about? When was it that I realized that I was no longer cocooned?

I walked into the office on my first day of work, with a song in my heart, a spring in my step and all such drama, when all of a sudden my boss tells me “you know there are 3 people I have always wanted to meet—Arundhati Roy, Salman Rushdie and you. I look down shy and whimper a coy thank you, when in my mind I’m going like “So wait, rabid, pro – separatist with perpetually bad hair days and a bald post modernist with perpetually failed marriages. These are my choices?!” I look at him awkwardly and decide to get back to work. I know that I may spend 10 hours here at this workstation but I have a life and that life does include close people, whose value and significance in my life has stared at me, post the open letter. But there is another aspect that has unnerved me to a certain extent. The one question that most women have asked, a mystery they try to solve, a knot they attempt to undo with so much concentration that they come undone themselves. The one question that Carrie Bradshaw made a career out of—“What is he thinking?”

Most men I would meet ideally, would be those who’ve been relatively active on social media and on the internet in general and if you’re an urban yuppie Indian, 9 times out of 10, you’ve read the letter in question. And here is where the problem lies. There has been no real male interaction for about a year, so dating for me is as awkward as Amy Winehouse in Amma’s Satsang . Unless of course the man is confident enough to not judge, not have preconceived notions, not absolutely love or abhor what I wrote and someone who wants to know Shahana the person and not the phenomenon. In a world where meeting a half decent guy is as improbably as finding tandoori chicken in a Jain thaali, the open letter has far from helped my case. Conversations usually start with it and end with realizing that I am not crazy, rabid, am not Chengiz Khan’s love child and don’t own a weapon. Therefore I am no longer fun to be with and am no different from any other well brought up fauji kid with impeccable manners. Therefore sorry, the man might as well go fish in another pond.

Finding a scrupulous gentleman maybe a far call, I don’t deny that but at the end of the day the Madrasan tag has led to expectations that have crossed my level of comprehension. People often wonder why I haven’t written about this earlier, why I didn’t even give it a thought, hell, this one journalist even asked if the frenzy turned me asexual. Well, what can I say, big cities shove you into the cradle of controversy more than anything else. So the other day I told Cheems that I was contemplating a date with an old acquaintance, just coffee or a drink after work. How very corporate whore of me. She told me it’s been way too long and my mind, heart, soul and other anatomical areas may soon start resembling the Adam’s family home. So I went ahead like any other Indian girl about to meet an Indian boy--with my eyes closed and my mind on compromise mode.

I see him across the road and walk over to the other side. And for the next 3 hours all he spoke of was about how he agreed, disagreed and drew “socio- cultural, inferential references through post modern theorizing.” And this was just a starter. This Delhi University history honours discourse went on for a couple of hours after which he looked elated and satisfied and I looked like this : _____________. This was worse than I ever thought it could get, even worse than the time when this investment banker took me to an underground Iranian nightclub.

This is where I end. This is where I look at the mirror in the morning and ask myself if being known means being judged. Should I work on my body? Should I work on a pout? Should I giggle more? Must I have straight hair? I don’t know but I do know that some women aren’t meant to be tamed.

And it is here that I would like to think of Julia Roberts standing helpless before Hugh Grant and I remember her imploring him to consider her. I think of this one line after every failed evening with men who are too overwhelmed, angered or excited to meet me. It goes something like this:

“I am just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”