50 Shades of Seriously Messed up --- An Obituary of Literature....

After decades of war against male dominance, the insanely popular trilogy by E L James delivers a resounding slap on the face of every modern women of the 21^st century. What is worse is that women everywhere are greedily lapping it up. Today every book store shamelessly flaunts rows upon rows of these infuriating display of abysmal vocabulary – the “mommy porn” novels. India is no stranger to Mrs. E L James’ minting press either. It is astounding how the country which, not so long ago, went berserk at the very public peck on Shilpa Shetty’s cheeks at an STD campaign, is buzzing about  “Christian Grey flavoured popsicle”.

Born in a country where women are still required to first serve men their meals before retiring to the kitchen to their own plates, I have always believed in breaking free of the male chauvinistic norms. Therefore I believe I have the right to be appalled at the message that today’s women are sending to the world. The enormity of the success of the trilogy, in a way, reflects that women, in fact, are still fascinated by an alpha male who would love nothing better than to dominate every aspect of your life. Every teenager giggling over pages and pages of virginal Anastasia Steele’s accomplishments in the sack, are completely disregarding her total lack of reservation and grace.  The literature-lover in me is slowly dying a painful death at the outrageous comparisons that are being drawn between Mr. Grey and celebrated literary heroes like Austen’s Mr. Darcy and Bronte’s Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff!

So, what exactly are we, the modern women, trying to convey? That we still dream of being enslaved by a dark, handsome man; as long as he is a billionaire who whisks us off on a helicopter for a date? That we would in fact want the men in our lives to track our phone records and buy the companies that we work for, all in the name of concern? And on the very same day, tie us up and then torture us with numerous shudder-worthy tools for their pleasure? If every boy who was sexually abused grew up to be dominating stalkers who owned multinational companies, I imagine, India would be the richest country in the world! And of course the fact that Indian women would all be bearing marks of sexual abuse is of no consequence to anyone!

Who would have thought that the constipated glittery vampires with a penchant for abstinence would serve as the foundation on which Mrs. James (mother of two) would build her “red room of pain”?

This, in my eyes, marks the tragic demise of literature and feminism. May they rest in peace....!!!

Freedom to Ride....!

Public buses in India are a rather entertaining affair. That is assuming you can tolerate the nauseating stench emanating from the armpits of the pudgy passenger trying to wrestle you into making more room; or the incessant yowling of the kid next to you.

A public bus is the perfect place to observe mankind in its many shades. It is the place where a person predicts that he will never see his fellow passengers again, and so he is free to display his most primal instincts. He ignores the irritated ‘tisk’s that are directed at him. He pretends not to notice the glowering looks that gradually bore a hole into the back of his head. He does what his heart wills him to. He is at his most selfish—he has no inhibitions. A public bus is where he is truly a free man of a free country!

That is why he doesn’t think twice before elbowing all the contenders to secure that recently vacated seat, originally meant for the fairer sex. Then he promptly whisks out his cell-phone and starts speaking at a decibel which should be made illegal at a public place. His neighbours are forced to dig for their earphones and retreat into their happy place—the auditory oblivion that is brought on by the familiarity of their playlists. While in another corner of the bus, a lecher tries to discreetly fondle a young, defenseless girl too frightened and astonished to speak up.

During this summer vacation in my hometown, I was fortunate enough to spot a bus which was half empty. Five minutes in the bus and I realized that I had made a mistake. The bus was excruciatingly slow. While I wasn’t in a major hurry, the same couldn’t be said for a few others. One impatient bloke tried to motivate the driver by repeatedly telling him to speed up. In response, the driver slowed down even further to turn in his throne and release a couple of innovative expletives aimed at the poor chap. This shut him up quite effectively. At the next stop, a man got on. He was spraying into his phone about some very forgettable achievement. Judging by his enthusiasm, there was a very deaf person on the receiving end. This extravagant display led to another passenger, a lady, dialing an acquaintance. Thus began the battle of the century—who can talk the loudest and the longest! Can you really blame me for my relief when I could finally escape from this lavish display of uncouth behavior?

Another recent and painfully memorable bus ride ended in thoroughly embarrassing me in front of an overloaded bus of strangers. It was the last day of vacations, and I had planned to make good on the promise I had made to my sister before the vacations started. I was taking her to Mani Square. The bus gradually filled up. By the time our stop approached we had to squeeze past passengers in order to reach the door. When we tried to get off of the bus, I realized that by bag’s zipper had somehow managed to get stuck to a neighboring passenger’s belt straps. No matter how much I pulled, it just won’t get free. Amazingly, the driver gave in to the others’ protests and drove on, with me still furiously yanking at the uncharacteristically calm gentleman’s belt! My sister, instead of helping me, dissolved into peals of laughter. Finally one stop later, the conductor decided to tear my bag free and let us off!    

Another strange incident comes to mind. Last year, in Bangalore, I was out one evening, with my friends. On the ride to one of the many malls, we came across a bizarre scene. A group of wasted boys had boarded the bus. By their mannerisms, they were clearly from the Northern States. Even though we have never had the Civil Wars, for some unfathomable reasons, the North and the South Indian states have always been sworn enemies. The boys got into some tiff with the conductor of the bus. From what I could gather, the differences between ‘North Indians’ and ‘South Indians’ were being thrown around rather rampantly. Finally the boys were asked to leave the bus. What stumped me was the event that followed. After the boys got off, a man who had absolutely nothing to do with the exchange walked to the door and spat at their retreating figures. He returned to his seat while mumbling some disgruntled remarks. We were left staring at each other trying to make sense of this.

Bus rides in Hyderabad are unique in their own way. The bus conductors, who can be very feisty at times, do not believe in returning change. They take the advice “Pay the EXACT fare” quite literally. Or maybe, they hope that the passengers are generous do-gooders on a mission involving heavy tips. The passengers have probably never been told that staring at strangers is rude. They don’t even look away when you catch them at it. So, it culminates in an uncomfortable staring contest.  

So far, my rare yet thought-provoking bus rides have taught me one thing. It is best to just sit tight and ignore the world if you want anything that can pass for a pleasant time. Otherwise, the myriad of sensations can be overwhelming!

the might of the silken thread...!

Every year on the day of Rakhi Purnima, we used to be regaled with the same story during our school assembly. We would recite the story in our head as the teacher assigned for that assembly recounted the adventures of Alexander, the Great, the Indian king- Puru and a strand of intervening thread that dictated the course of the story. The story itself was quite harmless—the anxious wife of Alexander, the Great presented King Puru with an auspicious thread (Rakhi), thus symbolizing the bond between a brother and a sister. This, in turn, saved the life of Alexander, the Great, who would, otherwise, probably have been responsible for raising the blood count on Puru’s conscience by one.

This story, for some mysterious reason, always ended with an unusual statement. We were always told that even though Rakhi has generally been shared between a brother and a sister, anyone with any amount of affection for another person could tie this particular auspicious knot.

By the time we were through with breakfast, the dining hall would be buzzing with anticipation of discovering who gets a Rakhi from whom. For girls, it was a popular way of warding off unwanted male attention. Oh, how the boys would avoid their crushes the entire day so that the poor fellows weren’t assigned the role of a brother by their objects of obsession! This always proved to be an infinite source of amusement for the rest of us. But then we would sober up soon enough and console those unfortunate chaps by reminding them that the girl might be implying that she considers him her knight in shining armour!

 Rakshabandhan used to be such a big deal! Never having a biological brother, and with my cousins living so far away, I had made many of my acquaintances my brother. Now, looking back, as I sit across from a dolefully empty schedule, staring back at me with pitiful eyes, I miss those days dearly.

Even though I am too far away and too old to tie a Rakhi on my many brothers’ wrists, here’s wishing every one of them a HAPPY RAKSHABANDHAN!!!