tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74202299831563201692024-03-14T08:34:51.932+05:30Aquatic StaticRantings of a freelance writer for tv. Started in a fit of unemployment-induced itchy fingers.Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.comBlogger357125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-1816621839490550332023-08-20T17:35:00.001+05:302023-08-20T17:37:21.215+05:30Exorcism<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Very gently, before he realises what he’s agreeing to, she has sought and received permission to lay him down and swing one leg across his torso so that he's safely scaffolded between her thighs. Then she lays her palms down on his bare chest.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Will you do something for me?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“What?” he asks, his face grimly professorial, wondering how this moment qualifies as a valid, logical experience.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Will you let me rest my hands on your heart? Will you close your eyes and listen - <i>really</i> listen - to what I’m about to say?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Hmm”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Is that a yes?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Yes, yes,” he says, annoyance already creeping into his body. She can feel it between her legs.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Ok, close your eyes. Listen.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The heat from her palms warms his chest. He draws comfort from it. He feels trapped.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“What if I’m not a mad woman? What if there's a world filled with people like me, who feel deeply and live by that? Where people rage when they’re angry and love when they’re truly ready to love? What if in that world, you are the mad man? What if your words & performances fall flat, lacking the weight of sentiment and truth? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“What if I’m not actually overthinking? Or underthinking? What if I am thinking the exact amount required for the moment? What if it’s ok to be this person? Not just ok, but rational, sensible and good? What if it's a superpower which allows me to see everything you struggle to understand? What if this way of being, and my appearance in your life, was designed to help you heal?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">His lips curl up into a smirk. He is indulging her, she knows. But her palms are warmer now.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Stay open, love. Just a little while longer.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">He stops smirking.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“You're missing out on the best of me when you discard me as a mad woman. Maybe mad women are who you need. I am proud of my madness, I cultivated it with love and fought to keep it alive. It allows me to see your heart, how hard you try, how tired you get sometimes and also how strong and steadfast you are. It allows me to see how fiercely you love your son.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Understand this - the part of me that unsettles you the most is what'll make me your faithful ally. Trust me, this is the woman you want to be loved by”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Her thighs tighten around him. He squirms.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Why does a woman showing you her full self, make you angry? When did me being me, become an offense to you? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“And what if it’s just <i>me</i>, love, showing up for <i>you</i>?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">He opens his eyes. He is angry. She knows she doesn’t have much time left. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Close your eyes. Just a little bit more.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">He shuts his eyes again. His jaw is rigid. She wants to hold his face in her palms and kiss him. But not yet. She can feel his heart beat in her hands.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“So listen. This could go two ways. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">You could choose to continue calling me crazy as though it were a disease. You could choose this moment to run out of patience with me. With us.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">OR you could choose to listen to that one, lonely voice inside you that wonders if I’m right. That maybe, just maybe, trusting this mad woman might bring you relief. Choose this and I promise to protect your heart with every fibre of my being.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“But if you pick option ‘a’...,” she relaxes her grip around his body, “then you’re free to go. We've reached the end of our time together.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">She lifts her hands off his chest. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“You can open your eyes.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">She touches his face gently. There are storms raging in him. She is nervous now. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“So what will it be, my love?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">He takes a long breath. She feels him rise and fall under her. He opens his mouth to answer.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="345" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-6zyo6XX6eM" width="415" youtube-src-id="-6zyo6XX6eM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-22533329785499808562022-09-26T08:07:00.001+05:302022-09-26T08:07:24.730+05:30For The Ugly Girl<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere there is someone for this ugly girl. Someone who speaks completes sentences containing feeling words and honest truths. <br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere there is someone who remembers to stop, breathe and listen. To her. <br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere there is someone who remembers how she said she was sad, she was sick, she needed time. Somewhere there is someone who wants to be unbroken before they reach for her. <br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Somewhere there is someone who sees her ugly and because of it, calls her beautiful. </span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-dae13e16-7fff-d330-b2c3-1bb8bb1ca2a3"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhf-63jQPvoIeIe5UKQy1qywyBMubUe6X5WGx28PW3xac112Fgh693E1829wGevmwWqTUUZevOsbtDIAK7vRLCt9mAt9Jp5M8DL9OzVh9agWy3x0jRTiZbxTrJDFIWK5eI1-wOHR45PGjQ_Z-6SX8u13gW26vsx7r5lxyvbHzDDOvMGtlqW40Ei_5W5" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="676" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhf-63jQPvoIeIe5UKQy1qywyBMubUe6X5WGx28PW3xac112Fgh693E1829wGevmwWqTUUZevOsbtDIAK7vRLCt9mAt9Jp5M8DL9OzVh9agWy3x0jRTiZbxTrJDFIWK5eI1-wOHR45PGjQ_Z-6SX8u13gW26vsx7r5lxyvbHzDDOvMGtlqW40Ei_5W5" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-5326157990283897952022-04-19T08:53:00.002+05:302022-04-19T08:53:44.922+05:30Study of Indian Cishet-Men Based on Dating Apps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
1. Inference One: Undiagnosed Problem with Alcohol & Gymming<br />
Men posing with boot-shaped beer mugs<br />
Men posing with 2 boot-shaped beer mugs<br />
Men posing with boot-shaped beer mugs against a backdrop of a boot-shaped-beer-mug neon sign.<br />
Men posing with muscles (their own & others')<br />
Men posing with sweat<br />
<br />
1. Inference Two: Aspirational Poachers<br />
Men posing with tiger on leash<br />
Men posing with white tiger on leash<br />
Men posing with dead tiger on wall<br />
Men posing with one leg on dead-tiger carpet<br />
<br />
2. Inference Three: Good Morning Afficionados<br />
Posters of red roses and 'Good Morning'<br />
Posters of yellow roses and 'Good Morning'<br />
Posters of 'Good Morning Life Is Too Short For *fill in the blanks*'<br />
<br />
3. Inference Four: Lovers of Simplicity<br />
Men who desire 'simplicity'<br />
Men who want 'non-judgemental' partners<br />
Men who want 'transparency'<br />
Men who use Hritik Roshan's face as profile pictures<br />
<br />
4. Inference Five: Seekers of Domestic Bliss<br />
Men who pose with unidentified children<br />
Men who pose with their own children<br />
Men who pose with their wife and children<br />
<br />
<br />
5. Inference Six: Highest Education<br />
Men from IIMs want clean nails<br />
Men from MIT want to fight misandry<br />
Men from IIT<br />
<br /></div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-16899429727413104162022-04-19T08:42:00.000+05:302022-04-19T08:42:00.912+05:30Ritual 2020 (Late edition)<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So 12 and something years ago, I decided this would be how I would live: </span><a href="https://aquaticstatic.blogspot.com/2009/12/ritual.html" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://aquaticstatic.blogspot.com/2009/12/ritual.html</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and then I forgot about it. Or, I went about living my life with this tucked away in the back of my mind, not really invoking it as life began to nudge me, tongue-in-cheek, into uncomfortable spaces rife with fun shit like crossroads and existential dilemmas.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-374673d9-7fff-086c-eaf9-72da87cf3d7d"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On my 43rd birthday this year, as wishes poured in, a dear friend called me courageous. In the last couple of years, I’ve been hearing versions of this characterisation and it’s left me confused. Because for much of my early life the word most used for me was ‘nice’. A safe and bland word said when people didn’t know how else to describe me. General decency and a compliant nature was what people associated me most with. Woohoo. What a </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">legacy</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. She was….nice.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bravery of any kind is not what I’ve ever felt on the inside. I am, if anything, an encyclopaedia of fears seen & unseen. Every worst case scenario is my reality. Everyday I make decisions to not pick them as I get ready to go out into the world. If that makes one brave, then ok, the Decade of No Fear did its job.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m 3 years late to the next decade - or at least blogging about it - but hey, the last one turned out alright so do I dare paint a dream for the next one? I’m 43 and the downhill express is picking up momentum. They make you fill up with hope for 40 and to be honest, if you’ve lived a relatively healthy life, it feels like anything is possible. At 43 shit gets real. The body slows, you’re working with people 20 years younger and no you cannot keep up with them. Or dream like them. Dreams change when you’re 43.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Dare I make this a Decade of Love? Of loving and being loved? The core work remains the same as it did when I turned 30. To trust. I feel like I've let more and more people and ideas into my circles of trust recently and now just the last fence remains - the one around the most intimate parts of my heart, where I am my most woman, my most child, my most sacred and pristine. If I don’t do the work or delay things, this part will wither and rust. Nothing I do then, will be able to protect it. New awareness is beginning to flood me - I can’t protect this place by hiding it away. It just doesn’t work anymore. I have to dismantle the fence. Or else, whatever it protects will die. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Just like when I started the Decade of No Fear, I honestly don’t know how to make the Decade of Love work. I have no roadmap. I’m riddled with uncertainty and the wounds of the last many years loving people who didn’t love me back. Maybe I start with honouring all the love that comes at me. Maybe I start with not measuring love but allowing it to exist. I meet children & people everyday who make my heart burst with unbearable joy just by the mere fact of their existence. Maybe I start with believing that I can do that for someone too. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Maybe. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Let’s see.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWdSFzbP3Ff-mJ6198YLMJAYo86ragy7n7q2eg3ImKcimSabYxGJ8wKP0lQUPMJ8Xsj9SAqHfCQlxZsT3BYK1muxroL3jHBPYEAhxdGeSyKUChluHQAFxVT1kd4ZTfNDctOmOJghqwES8x9bEN7Q0UArKxip68ZFD_C_QXmX3NZBuJtggZTMSj7Na/s320/Cocentric%20heart.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="302" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">https://in.pinterest.com/pin/363102788682627235/</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWdSFzbP3Ff-mJ6198YLMJAYo86ragy7n7q2eg3ImKcimSabYxGJ8wKP0lQUPMJ8Xsj9SAqHfCQlxZsT3BYK1muxroL3jHBPYEAhxdGeSyKUChluHQAFxVT1kd4ZTfNDctOmOJghqwES8x9bEN7Q0UArKxip68ZFD_C_QXmX3NZBuJtggZTMSj7Na/s597/Cocentric%20heart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-19655663864265516182021-05-12T15:19:00.005+05:302021-05-12T15:19:51.265+05:30When The Smoke Clears<p> <i><a href="https://www.firstpost.com/india/when-the-smoke-clears-indias-covid-19-crisis-is-a-moment-for-reckoning-with-our-pathological-apathy-denial-9591931.html" target="_blank">This piece was commissioned by and first appeared in First Post</a></i></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">Very early into <span class="t-out-span" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><a class="covid-tooltip" href="https://www.asianpaints.com/healthshield?cid=DI_N18_DM_B&utm_source=news18&utm_medium=fixed&utm_campaign=RHS&utm_content=banner" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #df5b43; cursor: pointer; display: inline; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">COVID-19</a></span> ’s second wave and before the images of funeral pyres began to make international headlines, like so many of us, I too tried to arrange oxygen for someone I’d never met. The patient was alone at home with a nurse, in the middle of a lockdown, with an SPO2 level of 30 (later, we would learn all about SPO2 values as we performed our own triages). No assistance was reaching them. I was 15 km away, yet confident I could help. Having been cushioned by a lifetime of privilege, it never occurred to me that this was unfixable, until many enquiries later, I had to inform them that there was no oxygen to be had. Could she wait till the morning? The daughter, who was on the other side of the globe, sent a message to stop searching. I put the phone away and wept for a stranger who was about to lose her mother.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">Weeks on, anyone deemed non-essential to our city is locked in at home. Everyone except those who are running from pillar to post looking for beds, for <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">air</em>. Then the funereal photographs start coming in. A city engulfed in smoke and dust from mass cremations and burials. Pyres burn non-stop for weeks. We’ve never seen anything like it. People living near cremation grounds report that everything is covered in a grey film, an unholy scattering of ashes across a city stuck in an unending nightmare. The state refuses to count the dead but the smoke is everywhere. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">Or maybe, it is history wrapping her hands around our throats. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">You’ve been here before</em>, she screams as her grip tightens. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">This isn’t the first time you’ve witnessed institutional murder</em>.</p><div class="dm-player" cpeid="5df6e56e3e8c0962957f6a76" getupdatedvideo="false" owners="firstpost" pipatstart="true" showadonly="true" showclosebuttonpip="true" sort="recent" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 30px;"></div><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">But those of us who won big in the sweepstakes of caste and class have mastered the art of denial. We have anointed intellectuals and ‘thought leaders’ to construct dangerous mythologies. Headlines, full page advertisements, op-eds in <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">The Washington Post</em> and <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">TIME</em> magazine, the Dutts, Dhumes and Mehtas. We have enabled not just one or two, but an army of sociopaths. We have made a business out of dismissing history’s smoke signals. The marketing of fake messiahs, the vice-like grip over police, media and the courts, the buying of bureaucrats, candidates and votes and the willful abdication of Constitutional duty as minorities are brutally culled. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Go further back</em>, history urges us<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">, follow the trail of your pathological apathy. </em>We watch vacantly as our farmlands get looted and workers betrayed. We look away as the brightest minds of our generation are locked away behind bars. We cheer as private profiteers hollow out public education and healthcare. But we always preserve our fragility. God forbid someone stored beef in their fridge.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">The thing with a million pyres is, when the smoke rises, no one can tell where exactly it came from. Was it the pregnant 25-year-old who breathed her last at the threshold of a hospital that had nothing left to give? Or a young Dalit girl, full of promise, burnt like trash in the middle of the night by thugs in uniform? Was it our father, mother, son or daughter? Or was it the young man ‘disappeared’ into the Kashmir night?.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">This is our moment of reckoning. We must ask why we turned away from self-evident truths. And why we rendered a million voices, unheard. In our deafness, we lost the ability to discern between right and wrong, the cruel and humane. Like religion and culture, we allowed the virus to be weaponised.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">Now the pyres burn as history engulfs us in unforgiving fury. She rages like a forest fire that consumes everything in its path. Let us hope it annihilates the hate that courses through our veins, rendering us criminally useless when we need each other the most. May the hatred in our belly, as poet Joopaka Subhadra called it, be extinguished so that we may breathe. What will it take to start afresh?</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">The defeat of one political party won’t be enough, nor will the toppling of the current regime. We will have to remove the rot from the system, from ourselves. These recent years of darkness have also put a spotlight on our greatest resource, the Indian Constitution. It offers hope in spirit and word and a roadmap out of this hell we have built on communal and caste hatred. It is remarkably compassionate in its essence and committed to equity at its core. And although it has been singed badly in the last few years, it hasn’t burned out yet.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">No, history isn’t the fumes that clog our lungs. It is the fire that burns in our hearts, urging us not to betray this moment in time. Those who merely wring their hands and despair will be pushed out of the way, making space for the children of Ambedkar to create new history. The Umars and Azads, the Nodeeps and Devanganas, the Sudhas and Sharjeels, the farmers, workers and nurses will claim this country. It is theirs to inherit. But make no mistake, the debris to clean up is ours.</p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Playfair Display", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;">When the smoke clears, let us hope to hear history’s whisper again, those words we long to hear: <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Don’t be afraid. There is still time</em>.</p><div><br /></div>Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-92131857049019872572021-05-12T15:18:00.004+05:302021-05-12T15:18:24.120+05:30A Pandemic Year for Women: For a community library and its members, what is lost and found in a lockdown<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><a href="https://www.firstpost.com/living/a-pandemic-year-for-women-for-a-community-library-and-its-members-what-is-lost-and-found-in-a-lockdown-9401821.html" target="_blank">This piece first appeared in and was commissioned by First Post</a>.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sanju is 12 going on 30. He walks into the library with a swagger that’s picked up from the older boys. I find it hugely irritating, “Just be 12 </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">na</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">!” I mumble to myself. Sanju’s fulltime job is being impressed with Sanju. He is consumed with his own brilliance: I’m so smart, I’m the best. I came first in class, I’m the best. I can read in English, I’m the best. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-2b3a47c8-7fff-68d2-9527-379b63ca12c1"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He demands too much attention and is regularly surprised to discover that the rules also apply to him. His high-pitched complaints about other library members are not endearing. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This kid requires energy. The kind that a decidedly single and childless-by-choice woman resents giving. But he loves the library and spends all his time there. He reads well, he teaches his younger siblings to submit perfect book reports and is always buzzing like a bee around this space. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At The Community Library Project (TCLP) in Delhi, all are welcome. No fee, no </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">kaghaz</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Read, think, take books home, surf the internet, attend workshops, make art, make friends. I sometimes wonder if the library matters as much to me, as it does to him. I wonder if he thinks about it when he goes back home, as much as I do. Despite our differences, we have one thing in common - the library is our anchor.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On 25rd March, 2020 at 8PM, everything is unmoored. A deadly plague has travelled around the world to reach us. Deadlier still is the lockdown imposed suddenly by the Indian state. We have barely 4 hours to prepare for a new reality. Alone in my south Delhi apartment, dread fills me from head to toe. I am afraid for myself and my elderly parents. My fridge is stocked. I call my domestic help and tell her not to come. And then I reconcile to waiting.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For thousands of families connected to our library, the next few days, weeks & months are a trainwreck and the losses pile up. Daily wage & job loss, evictions and then the food runs out. Sanju’s school is shut. I don’t know it then but his family decides to leave the city like millions of other working class people. Not everyone at the library has the luxury to wait. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the early days of the lockdown, my reality is virtual. If it weren’t for Twitter I wouldn’t know what’s happening outside the gated colony where I live. Op eds, breaking news and the endless march. Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. In what feels like forever, I have no real responsibilities. For now I have money in the bank and my landlord has said I could go six months without paying rent. I post this on Twitter, it goes viral - my landlord is a hero.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the days get hotter, I turn on my AC and refresh.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Social media is flooded with photos and videos of working class families making the unbelievably long journey. How much panic does one need to feel to set out on foot, for thousands of kilometers? Imagine knowing that no one in this city, not even the people whose homes you built, waste you collected or deliveries you made, would look after you in a crisis.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">May 2020. Many families from our library community are in deep distress. Children I’ve known for years are witnessing the unravelling of their lives. Everyone who works at TCLP receives an excel sheet of phone numbers. We each call at least 100 members to check how they are. We try and aswer their concerns as best as we can. Our librarians become hubs of information, we make videos about how to get tested for Covid in order to get on a </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">‘shramik</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">’ train or bus. Others connect with food relief organisations to distribute food packets in our areas and visit ration offices to find answers. We find every public service collapsing.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When one has never known material adversity before, a crisis like this is paralysing. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But as a library worker who is part of a collective, there is immense power as well. Library leaders search for ways to continue reaching readers. TCLP has never wanted to go digital but for the first time, it begins exploring online library resources that work in poor internet areas and don’t hog expensive data packs. Public school kids are ‘back to learning’ with Zoom classes. Ours will probably lose the year. They can’t lose their library too. We try to get as many members onto WhatsApp channels to send them read-alouds thrice a week. It is called </span><a href="https://www.thecommunitylibraryproject.org/duniya-sabki/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Duniya Sabki</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are in October now. I have no idea where Sanju is or if he’s receiving any read alouds. And I’m ashamed to say it’s because I haven’t thought about him in months. I’ve been swept up in the pandemic too. Family members have fallen sick with the virus, some seriously. Income streams have dried up. Everyday, we hear more stories of despair from the library. I’m too scared to hit refresh on social media. My library colleagues discuss what to do with all this frustration. We decide to build a ‘</span><a href="https://www.thecommunitylibraryproject.org/books/justice-doctrine/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Justice Doctrine</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">’ - a chronicle of our community’s distress, made of snippets of conversations we’ve had with each & every member-family. It is not just a place to park our rage, it is a scathing testament of how our systems failed us.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have taken up yoga but not baking sourdough. There is still food in my fridge and I have even confessed, with zero self-awareness, that “jhadoo-poncha is fun </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">yaar</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, so great for the glutes.” There’s another trip to the ration office. After November the free-ration scheme, meant for food-relief in the lockdown, will end. What will happen after that? The officials can’t answer. We are hurtling into the worst of the pandemic. November in Delhi is deadly. We hit an all-time high with new infections & deaths. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On 16th December 2020, I receive a Facebook message:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hello</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mam</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Give me reply</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I squint at the profile picture. No! It can’t be. Sanju! But not 12-going-on-30 Sanju. He looks like a proper teenager now. A bit more serious, with a more serious haircut and just the last dregs of boyishness on his face. He must be posing, pretending to be an older man, I think. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hello</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mam</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Give me reply just mam</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Call</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Karo</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mam</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And just like that, as if the months of deadly lockdown never happened, I feel that old familiar annoyance rise up again. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hello</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mama</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh sorry</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mam</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Purnima mam</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Give me reply</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I reply to him and apologise for not responding earlier. He asks if he can call me and another ‘mam’ sometime soon. I say yes of course. I want to know how he is, where he is. But then he vanishes again and the call never comes.</span></p><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">10 months after the lockdown began, TCLP’s libraries begin reopening. First at Khirki, then South Extension-Kotla and soon after, Gurgaon. As old members and new admissions begin streaming in, we exercise as much covid-control as we can. Our programs are running at half mast, we sanitise a lot and at any given time you can hear some adult saying “</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beta, mask theek se pehno...naak par.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sanju messages once more. I figure he’s seen all the photos of the new libraries on social media.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How are you mam?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This time I ask him: </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aap kahan ho? Aapka message dekh kar mai bahut khush hoon</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Library kab khulegi maam?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Khul gayi hai. Aap kab aaoge?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mai nahi aa sakta mam, gao me hoo</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh! Wapas kab aaoge?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pataa nahi mam.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know what to say to that. The 10-second delay is characteristically too much for impatient Sanju.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mam?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aap theek ho mam?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Haan, mai theek hoon. Aapko miss karti hoon. Saare ma’am aur sirs aapko miss karte hain.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ok mam.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ab mjhe jana hai mam.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">….</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The cursor blinks as if someone is typing furiously on the other end. But the message, when it finally comes from this boy whom I haven’t thought about in weeks, is short.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take care mam.</span></p><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">****</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-43439793738537108142020-07-06T22:09:00.012+05:302020-07-07T05:58:54.750+05:30I Did Not Ask For This Thank You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two months of intermittent fasting, watching what I eat and getting the-best-blood-reports-of-the-decade later, it is Monday night. My body is a temple and tonight we drink.<br />
<br />
This is my first beer in two months and oh, if I only had the words to describe how gloriously this cold, life-affirming liquid slides down into my interior.<br />
My head spins and I want to giggle at everything and nothing. This. Is life.<br />
<br />
Then the phone dings: Ma'am aap free ho? Call karoon?<br />
<br />
It's a kid from the library where I work. I've known this boy - young man - since he was what, 12? He's 17 now and a musician. A rapper with his best friend. They whip out 'flows' at lightening speed, they flood social media with their 'Coming Soon', 'Coming Real Soon', 'It's Coming, We Promise' posts every second day. The boys are gifted, they 'spin rhymes' that make me cool by association. Their raps possess an ease that makes me both proud and jealous. No one would guess it but they record their tracks by scavenging for quiet nooks in the chaos of their locality.<br />
Our library used to be that but then came the pandemic.<br />
<br />
Ugh but I'm so happily inebriated. I don't want to talk to kids.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am aapne Sidharth-Garima ka naam suna hai?"<br />
Nope. I've not heard of Sidharth-Garima. Is that one person or two?<br />
"Ma'am unhone Ramleela ke gaane likhe the."<br />
Lyricists for a Sanjay Leela Bhansali film. Hm.<br />
"Ma'am unka phone tha."<br />
<br />
Ok ok, I'm up. I'm listening dammit.<br />
The boys, whose work has spread wide enough for us to no longer have any kind of reliable contact-tracing, have been approached by famous Bollywood composers. The bigshots have lyrics that need to be transformed into a 'flow'. They've heard the boys' music (where? how? what is this miracle?) and would like them to try.<br />
<br />
For some reason, the boys decide to call me - their only link to the glamorous world of cinema, I guess, myself having been a worldfamous screenwriter for documentary films that no one watches. "Kya karein ma'am?' What shall we do?<br />
<br />
My buzz fizzles to piss. If the past twenty years have taught me anything, it's that young, hungry & talented artists without 'godfathers' rarely catch a break in show business. The boys tell me they've been promised 'credit' but no money. Of course, what a fucking cliche.<br />
I'm paralysed. I don't know what to say. As an 'elder' who believes in their talent and is incapable of being objective about their work, I want to tell them to tell the Bollywood bigshots to fuck off if they can't pay. But I also know that calls like these don't come everyday. And as I struggle to give them the right advice I'm confronted by my past coming back at me in waves. It's as if the 20-year-old Me is standing in front of me, asking if she should take that unpaid internship to get a foot in the door or let it go because money matters and her work has value.<br />
Both choices are wrong. Both choices are right. Especially when you're staring down the barrel of opportunity.<br />
<br />
You only get one shot.<br />
Or do you?<br />
And my insides scream: <i>THIS IS WHY I CHOSE NOT TO BE A PARENT!</i><br />
It's too big. A young person handing me the reins of their life-changing decisions and saying: 'Tell us. We'll do what you say.'<br />
<i>I DON'T WANT THIS JOB.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I tell them to ask for more details (never be afraid to ask questions about a project, even if it's to Jesus himself) and get them to commit to 'credit' in writing on email. I tell them to walk that thin line between expressing keen interest in the job and holding firm for better terms. It took me decades to learn this. I know these boys will not be able to do it very deftly. They sound unsure on the other side, almost prepared to lose the job. Part of me wishes they'd ignore me. This could potentially be a huge opportunity (if it isn't a total scam), one that boys without studios don't often get. Will my advice steal their chance? Or will it remind them of their worth so that when success comes calling, it is real and rewarding.<br />
<br />
I put the phone down wearily. My beer has made it to my kidneys and well past it.<br />
Be grateful for that singular second when the chilled brew first hits your throat. No sip will ever taste the same. All I know is: Life is hard and I never want to be 17 again.<br />
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-37400880213661936712020-07-04T09:01:00.000+05:302020-07-06T16:36:11.622+05:30If It Smells Like Hope<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am experiencing a surge of goodwill, hope, bonhomie and the urge to create.<br />
And even though people all around me are dying left, right & centre, today it feels like I will not join their ranks.<br />
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This hope smells like privilege & dumb luck.</div>
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-78951350971923924782020-06-16T07:36:00.000+05:302020-06-16T07:36:27.584+05:30The Roaches Are Here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At around 1.45am I stumble out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I turn the light switch on before I enter, like I always do (it gives whatever djinns and animals roaming inside fair warning that a human is approaching). I open the door and the biggest cockroach I have ever seen walks out. He (I assume...they?) freezes. I freeze. I'm startled but not scared. Despite being bitten by wasps and regularly cleaning lizard poop off my floors I'm not easily freaked out by anything besides rats.<br />
My reason for freezing is I'm polite. I'd like to give the cockroach a chance to gather its wits and make its next move.<br />
<br />
At this point, I should mention I haven't really had a human in my home for a couple of weeks. It takes me a while to tell myself that having roaches in the house is not good. In fact I haven't seen one in my house since 2016. I scroll through my database of insect knowledge - why exactly are cockroaches bad? They don't bite or chew through stuff. They don't carry life-threatening viruses (well...they might). Why am I supposed to take my chappal off and squash this guy?<br />
<br />
I really don't want to take my chappal off and squash this guy. The cockroach-chappal-squash move is something we've all grown up with and somewhere it's become the automatic Darwinian response of south asians to all pests. But who said that's the only way to deal with cockroaches? What if we let them walk away? What would happen?<br />
<br />
I must google this, I think, as the cockroach remains frozen, contemplating its power move. I must also add 'Cockroach killer' to my shopping list although I'm not decided whether to use it or not. Have I mentioned that no human besides me has entered my home in weeks?<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago I was attacked by a swarm of wasps. It's not their fault, I'd barged in on them quite suddenly as they were building their nest on disputed property. According to the Indian constitution, I have rights over this building. According to natural law, the Indian constitution can go suck it. It was painful as sin. My arm and back swelled up to theatrical proportions and everything was very tragic looking (and feeling) for a week. The wasps got it worse. The ones that stung me died. The rest had to deal with me for the next 2 weeks as I set upon a daily routine of breaking whatever nest they'd built through the day.<br />
Wasps are exceedingly persistent. To the point of being, in my opinion, stupid af. They will build no matter what. Like robots programmed to execute code with no regard for value of labour or consequence. Despite the fact that I break their construction <i>every single day</i> they return to rebuild. I've taken hits too. The glass lampshade they decided to construct on got smashed to bits because of my indelicate stick manoeuvres. As of today, they continue to build through the morning. At around noon, most of them will disperse (lunch break?) leaving one poor sod behind (to guard the fortress?). I will then sneak up with my stick (curtain rod) and poke at the nest until it falls. That poor guard wasp, the shit it must have to listen to every afternoon when the others return to find their hard work undone. GO SOMEWHERE ELSE, YOU FOOLS! I want to scream every single day. Do you think I <i>enjoy</i> destroying your homes and your chance to build a future, I yell at them like a serial gaslighter. But they never listen. It doesn't matter I guess. Soon the nesting season will be over and the problem will take care of itself.<br />
<br />
Roaches, I can tell even without googling, are not seasonal. I suppose at some point I'll have to do something violent to them. I'm still standing outside the bathroom, waiting for Big Guy to decide where he wants to go. Just go anywhere please, I won't do anything to you tonight, I plead. I really need to go to the toilet. The bastard doesn't care (does he know what I did to the wasps? Is this revenge?) so I stomp my foot. Perhaps its Darwinian response is to scuttle when it feels the south asian chappal approaching. It makes a beeline for the living room. For now there is truce.<br />
<br />
It's summer in a pandemic. The wasps will soon leave. The roaches are here.<br />
<br />
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-7212241525424152852020-04-28T20:54:00.001+05:302020-04-28T21:06:00.656+05:30Hat Tip To My Anxiety<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'll say this in praise of my anxiety - it'll try everything once.<br />
It's always got one eye out looking for comfort.<br />
<br />
Before the lockdown we would take walks, my anxiety and I. Now it's all downward dog this, chaturanga that. Breathe breathe breathe that newly purified air you muthaloving human, my anxiety chants.<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
Enough blood to the skull resolves the tightness.<br />
We allow ourselves to become cliches.<br />
We won't read the books we said we would and we won't stay awake as late as we'd hoped.<br />
<br />
Cook once, clean twice, binge watch. Then turn them into monuments of functionality.<br />
<br />
Things my anxiety doesn't know.<br />
What this post is about it until the first sentence is written.<br />
That it will eat 3 lunches in one day or nap from 2 to 6pm.<br />
Or that this task will be abandoned in 3...2...1.<br />
<br />
Making money? We don't do that anymore.<br />
Write more than 3 lines at a time? We don't do that anymore.<br />
Plan? Laugh. Out. Loud.<br />
<br />
It's annoying, this brain-fart prose.<br />
My anxiety shortens things. Sentences, breath, ambition. This blog post.<br />
Enjoy.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-87209491335993660262018-07-15T11:18:00.000+05:302018-07-15T11:18:40.210+05:30Older<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Aren’t
we supposed to get wiser as we get older? I must’ve missed the memo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
The
abiding takeaway from this whole advancing towards middle age thing has been:
confusion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I long for the certainty of my early 20s, when this was absolutely
good and that was definitely wrong. When <i>of course</i> art trumped the artist and
hell yes, we'd yell bloody murder if someone assaulted or cheated on us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Now?
Mmmmmm….ffffff…..eh - I don’t know…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Such
a gift. This aging.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I’m
in the last year of my 30s so technically – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">technically
– </i>I’m not old. But thanks to the magic of television, the Panic has
started. Not really of boobs sagging or fuses going pffft on the ovaries, but of
knowing that this is it. I am not Helen Mirren. I won’t be shooting gangsters at 70.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Nope.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I’m
going to be broke like a millennial. Gosh that made me feel younger for a
minute.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
will tell you this though. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
If we age correctly, it won’t be because things get less confusing. It’ll be
because they get more so. The cause – our humanity. We may have had all the education, all the cuddles and all the life-lessons handed down to us; we may try <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> hard not to be a little shit – but a little shit we will be. We will, at different points
in our lives, be both perpetrator and victim. We cannot
avoid it. Understanding that this is who we are, is hard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Into
the cracks of these existential catastrophes, we must dive. The waters are murky. There’s no way but to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> our way through the
contradictions. Turns out we sometimes lie, cheat and step over another for our
self-interest. Turns out, we can be weak. We won’t be the girl who
reports her abuser. We won’t be the guy who turns down a job in the tobacco
industry. Still. We are the girl who stood by someone’s depression, someone’s
cancer. We are the guy, who supported a colleague’s fight against workplace
harassment. We showed up for the tough stuff. We let someone down. We risked reputation for the greater good. Sometimes we weren't up for the fight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
We will grapple with how
both versions of self can exist side by side. We will realise that our lives aren't bigger than Life, that complex beast just beyond reach. <span style="font-size: 12pt;">When
we surface, we will feel good. Look ma, I learned this thing. Look ma, I </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">saw</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Not
so fast. We merely survived. We didn’t flippin’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">triumph</i> okay? Our cave wasn’t the only one. Our learning wasn’t
one-size-fits-all. We came out with the Shoulds still strapped to our backs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p>So here's the bad news, we might have to dive in again. And again. And again, until we discover the meaning in our contradictions: compassion. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p>Because really, there's no other way. We tried judgement, it didn't make us better. We tried debilitating criticism - the self-talk nearly killed us. We held ourselves & each other to impossible standards. We only caused hurt in the end.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p>With compassion we might be able to tell the difference between mistakes, ignorance and Trumpian evil. We might learn how to discern what deserves our anger and what doesn't. Compassion allows room for confusion. But more radically, confusion, allows room for compassion. And maybe that's why we age at all.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Because there sure as hell isn't any medal at the end of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEfxCP7S9BA0xq2H4oVF52fh6HMGRrVc8-1EWILfJ5qqRSlpKwTJvPAqc4QdhDfTiLamUFJbfNqFkgwVbTo-3tqLR_z-uYmJ5xe1K1eV0HdnGeP7SR2fgNZs4dGW7jC8NPMTX_IYdGSY/s1600/Deep+diving_Older.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="1200" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEfxCP7S9BA0xq2H4oVF52fh6HMGRrVc8-1EWILfJ5qqRSlpKwTJvPAqc4QdhDfTiLamUFJbfNqFkgwVbTo-3tqLR_z-uYmJ5xe1K1eV0HdnGeP7SR2fgNZs4dGW7jC8NPMTX_IYdGSY/s320/Deep+diving_Older.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: https://adelaidescuba.com.au/continue-dive-training/item/11-deep-diving.html</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
</div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-1275163634818704852018-03-27T18:17:00.001+05:302018-03-27T18:17:16.088+05:30The Greatest Threat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKP3HL96FkEUO3W9SUJzDBsmd0H-CmvHs5F2nE-M4qvRN1_NIZJ4Axwr4UBfU-irpDRWrJUHwTqMZ2Hms-F78FZ9U-ncPTVfZN73OMaVmwOTjC2SOD2XBGlsPR4ThM_4Z8JTpGORV0a-k/s1600/Elementary-100-sherlock-joan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="827" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKP3HL96FkEUO3W9SUJzDBsmd0H-CmvHs5F2nE-M4qvRN1_NIZJ4Axwr4UBfU-irpDRWrJUHwTqMZ2Hms-F78FZ9U-ncPTVfZN73OMaVmwOTjC2SOD2XBGlsPR4ThM_4Z8JTpGORV0a-k/s320/Elementary-100-sherlock-joan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<ul class="chat-wrap" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; font-family: "helvetica neue", helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; list-style: none; margin: 0px 0px 20px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<li class="odd user_1" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="label" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></li>
<li class="odd user_1" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="label" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></li>
<li class="odd user_1" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="label" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Sherlock:</span> <i>I am without peer. Without sane peer, anyway, which is functionally identical to being without peer, full stop. I can only extend so much of myself to a non-peer, which means I can only extend so much of myself to anyone. I've made progress, of course, but I don't know how much more growth there is within me. If I can never value a relationship properly, then, at what point do I stop trying to maintain them?</i></li>
<li class="odd user_1" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></li>
<li class="even user_2" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="label" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Meeting leader:</span><i> You haven't turned your back on the world yet.</i></li>
<li class="even user_2" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></li>
<li class="odd user_1" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="label" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Sherlock:</span> <i>But I am without peer. And that's the greatest threat to my sobriety.</i></li>
<li class="even user_" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></li>
<li class="even user_" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Elementary </li>
<li class="even user_" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">S02E21</li>
</ul>
</div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-67958569567512491232018-02-23T07:35:00.000+05:302018-02-23T08:11:32.011+05:30Six Ways To Sunday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>For you, you motherfucker</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
First was when you said<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’d never love<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never stay<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You fucked me one way to Sunday<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second was when you stayed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The night<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You fucked me two ways to Sunday<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Third was when you danced<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Closer<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then away<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You fucked me three ways to Sunday<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Fourth was when you kissed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me to life<o:p></o:p></div>
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Awake<o:p></o:p></div>
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You fucked me four ways to Sunday<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Fifth was when you left<o:p></o:p></div>
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Returned<o:p></o:p></div>
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Escaped<o:p></o:p></div>
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You fucked me five ways to Sunday<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Sixth was when you stubbed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Us out<br />
like a smoke<o:p></o:p></div>
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After you came six ways to Sunday</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">22 Feb, 2018<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/kancolle/images/7/79/Queen-middle-finger-gif.gif/revision/latest?cb=20151031112048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="499" height="192" src="https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/kancolle/images/7/79/Queen-middle-finger-gif.gif/revision/latest?cb=20151031112048" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-75485584323134490992018-01-27T11:48:00.000+05:302018-01-27T11:49:55.039+05:30Dance <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;">Dance around the empty page as if it were a
wild animal ready to lunge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Staying still is effective. Sometimes
climbing a tree. Sometimes trusting that it won’t care to devour you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Dance around the empty page like Ali. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Be masterful in technique and quick on your
feet. Anticipate, shuffle & weave. Your words, your swirling thoughts -
align them into one deft move. Wait until the moment’s right. Ding, ding, ding.
It could all be over in a flash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Dance around the empty page like an unsure
contestant on a reality show. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Carry your hopes & ambitions on your back. Don’t
let them weigh you down. Be light. Own the stage. You won’t know if it’s your
day until you’re in the spotlight. Hope like hell it is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Dance around the empty page like it’s a
ritual, dark art.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It might fold itself into precise linearity,
building itself up to be the sharpest of scalpels, designed to pierce your many
skins and make your insides spill out. It might hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Dance around the empty page like it’s home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Open secret doors that only you know exist. Search
fearlessly in hidden corners. Sashay & swing from the rafters. Know that
its beams will hold you. You are safe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://mohiniyattamdance.blogspot.in/2012/03/mudras-hand-gestures-in-mohiniyattamii.html" target="_blank">http://mohiniyattamdance.blogspot.in/2012/03/mudras-hand-gestures-in-mohiniyattamii.html</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-2282025982457231022018-01-27T10:48:00.002+05:302018-01-27T10:52:44.249+05:30Work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
One of the first
performance reviews I ever received as a professional was, “You bounce too
much.” I was 20 and this was my first job in a film production house. I had
three bosses, all men. I didn’t know then that feedback on my buoyancy qualified
as harassment. At the time, there weren’t too many companies doing the type of
work I valued. So I stuck around for 17 more years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s taken me
nearly two decades but I’ve grown from intern to the title of ‘Head of Content
& Creative Development’. My work is appreciated. I get due credit for every
deadline I meet and every product I turn in. I am given a chair at meetings,
where as the sole woman in the company I am often referred to as ‘Madam’. Meetings
usually begin with stories from my boss’s life. We are expected to either laugh
in solidarity or gasp in wonderment. At some point, he swivels his chair
towards me and says, “Toh Madam, kya karein iska?” What should we do about this
issue? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I then jump in
with all the enthusiasm of someone snorting the same stuff Sheryl Sandberg
does. I am flush with ideas on how to build and solidify teams, how to make
operations more efficient, how to resolve the financial holes we seem to find
ourselves in regularly. My boss’s eyes glaze over. I know he is far away now
and my voice is white noise. As my designation in this organisation becomes
loftier, its men develop increasingly creative ways to tune me out. Typically,
there is no real outcome to the endless meetings (why aren’t these men in a
hurry to go home? Why do they search for excuses to hang around in office? Are
they avoiding domestic duties? Do they equate being in office with being
useful?). Within weeks, we hit another crisis. I get called by my boss, “Madam,
we should have listened to you. Let’s have another meeting to discuss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the interim,
I continue being validated for the films I write. Regularly spaced pats on the
head and good-work-gold-stars keep me satiated even as other contributions are
summarily dismissed. I conclude that my ideas are bad. I’m an efficient workhorse
but I just don’t have the chops to lead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then I walk in
another door. This time as volunteer at a community project. It is led by a
woman, supported by a council, predominantly, of women. In the beginning I
decide to stick to my corner, be an efficient worker and go home with the
satisfaction of a day’s job well done. When I am given a seat at the table
within one short year I assume it’s because I show up and do what is asked. It
doesn’t occur to me that the project head thinks I can, well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">contribute</i>. But she does. She demands my
ideas, expects my leadership and extends support. She finds a 25<sup>th</sup>
hour in the day to consider my thoughts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I begin
haltingly, often filled with terror and flooded with a sense of inadequacy. Despite
that, things work out like I strategized. I marvel at the meetings we have. They
don’t begin with the mandatory stoking of egos I’m otherwise used to. People
stick to agendas. There is big idealistic talk but it’s mixed with practical
strategies. We hold each other accountable and we applaud each other’s
achievements. No one swivels their chair and calls me ‘Madam’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">We are busy
people juggling home, children, day jobs, passions and this work. We are often
tired from other parts of our lives in ways that I’ve not seen men be
(seriously, we need to stop being so tired all the time). Time, therefore, is a
precious commodity not be wasted, not even on self-doubt. Ideas are converted
into reality with great efficiency. I update my CV from workhorse to leader. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I often wonder
if these starkly different professional experiences are a function of gender
alone. After all, leadership styles differ and it may simply be that to me, one
individual is more impactful than the other. Yet, I see similar experiences
reflected, time and again, in the stories of other women and I realise they
aren’t just mine. I hear about women’s voices being muted, even as their labour
is consumed by male-majority groups. I observe women being invisiblized, when
they stretch beyond what they’re hired to do. Here we are, us women, ‘leaning
in’ to the point of falling on our faces and there’s barely a ripple in the
fabric of the dude-workspace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I used to
alternate between despair and shrill outcry. I used to want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">show</i> the man. Not any more.
Increasingly, there are all-male meetings without me, where I imagine chairs
swivel as folks discuss how madam has lost her edge doing ‘NGO hobbies’.
Meanwhile, I take my creative energy to new partners. We shake hands on
the promise that our talents won’t be wasted. We widen our circle of influence and
build new things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">When time comes
to review my performance, I know I will hold up well. I may even get extra
points for bouncing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p>*****</o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i>A version of this piece first appeared </i><i>in November 2017, </i><i>on The Ladies Compartment - a website that's mysteriously disappeared, which is good because it (my piece) was hacked to pieces by the editor.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKj6-yAnYJu8B8Ixt3fJHf3r9faV8kGdRvS5j61q6O60yfWPLM9dI4gqppNdnp9LF6GYemnmigfaNg440uWbVWrbvmBJMdc7Zl1IVnozp2DAnfYa7nqWhr0jRrWJqKOqpJj9yv5F_NxXE/s1600/CPyehHjVEAAkkql.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="800" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKj6-yAnYJu8B8Ixt3fJHf3r9faV8kGdRvS5j61q6O60yfWPLM9dI4gqppNdnp9LF6GYemnmigfaNg440uWbVWrbvmBJMdc7Zl1IVnozp2DAnfYa7nqWhr0jRrWJqKOqpJj9yv5F_NxXE/s320/CPyehHjVEAAkkql.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Schuyler Sisters from 'Hamilton'</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></span></div>
</div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-9197584044293691202017-12-02T17:13:00.000+05:302020-04-28T21:17:45.374+05:30This Blog Is Drunk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dws5e51onSrsNWpaNXlz-3k7L9dR3fOwuP7LaYVytskm7HOO3D1wEqX0XGLkstxQbBZdUu2IGwPbvHJaFcmiA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
"<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Oh, that's what we doing? We being childish, my n**ga?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">We just pointing and clicking and we not talking, my n**ga?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">You fixed your pussy-ass fingers to really block me, my n**ga?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Like you Mutombo, my n**ga? Like you don't know me, my n**ga?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Five years by your side and I'm just a button, my n**ga?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">You wanna push me, my n**ga? You wanna push me, my n**ga?"</span><br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "programme" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Issa Rae in Insecure (Season 2)</span></div>
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-5957215533078257282017-09-09T10:15:00.000+05:302017-09-09T15:05:13.725+05:30Rat Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning there was a rat in my kitchen. Until last night s/he was free to roam and break my 'Thought For The Day' coffee cups with impunity but now s/he was occupying a well ventilated 1 BHK trap in a corner. We both waited for release.<br />
But, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
The first time a rat visited a house I was solely in charge of, was in 2014. At the time, I was flush with the privileges of my birth and didn't want to engage with the rat issue (the way some people "just don't believe in politics"). But when there is no one else to prevent your home from becoming a cesspool of vermin, one grows up well before their time (or right on time, if you, like me, are in your mid to late thirties). The rat was in my house and so was I. We were alone together. <br />
<br />
Back then, it seems like a lifetime ago, I opted for bars of sweet-smelling rat poison. "Ghar ke baahar martey hain" seemed like the ideal final situation. I didn't stop to think about the violence of it all (someone once told me, "You eat meat. Don't pretend to be against murder" so I shrugged in agreement and from that day on, became a dangerous assassin). The poison worked well that first year and I didn't stress about rats anymore.<br />
<br />
In the second year, I found a rodent skeleton in the nether regions of a cabinet that I'd just removed from storage after 3 months. The skeleton and I stared back in horror at each other. I couldn't believe I had to deal it with myself. So I got myself a boyfriend (well, ok, the boyfriend already existed. He just happened to be in the house when the body was discovered). He came from a chaste upper-caste family and I could tell that extracting rat skeletons didn't jive with his vibe. So I wrapped a plastic bag around my hand and went in. And I mean <i>all</i> in. Because even though its little ratty soul had left its body, the body refused to unstick itself from the bottom of the drawer. Ladies and gentlemen, I tugged.<br />
<br />
Have you ever tugged at the mortal remains of a once-alive-with-hopes-&-dreams thing? I don't recommend it one bit. It puts you off your grub forever (yet somehow your weight keeps increasing). Once the body was disposed of, the boyfriend decided to overcome his yukkies and helped me clean the cabinet. He received a medal of valour that day. Then we broke up. Despite this, the rodents kept visiting.<br />
<br />
By now, social media had grown me a conscience and I decided that I could no longer kill rats, who bore no ill will towards me. I had to trap and release them like a compassionate Buddha (who ate meat by the way so shut up). This went against every ethic held by the entitled shit that lived inside me. She argued - why do <i>I</i> have to be brave all the time? Why do <i>I </i>have to be the one who cleans the toilet every single time? Why do <i>I </i>have to put all my hard earned money into house rent? The answer came swiftly from the annoyingly-smart-lady in my head - because you live alone and get to eat whole blocks of cheese without sharing.<br />
<br />
2017 was a new dawn. The monsoons arrived and with it, a new rodent. This time it was caught not by the noise it made in the kitchen, but was felled by its unfortunate taste in pop music. One morning I was listening to whatever Apple Music tells me I like and Ed Sheeran came on. As he warbled about loving the shape of me (stay tuned for the remix version 'Shape Of You - Time To Go On A Diet') a tiny rat nose peeked from behind the speakers. I saw it but didn't scream. I mean, how can you get scared by a rat who's clearly gettin' its groove on (or, if it's like the ex, getting off on vibrating surfaces). We waited for Sheeran to fade out and then I yelled. It ran. I set a trap that very evening before I left for my walk.<br />
<br />
One of the most under-reported benefits of cardio exercise is the courage it gives you to deal with vermin. When I returned from my jaunt I was practically reeking of irrational bravado. I opened the front door, saw the president of Sheeran's fan club trapped in my aluminium cage and right there decided that I was Sparta. I invoked the memory of my father (he's not dead, he just lives in a different house) as he'd set out on muggy evenings like this, trap in tow, off to look for shrubbery at a safe enough distance so the rat couldn't return.<br />
<br />
The rat and I went for a walk. Along the way, we met folks from the building who cheered me on with "Oh. Rat?" and "Ohohoho." Many gave us wide berth as they saw us approach (was it the rat or was it my unmarried-at-38 status? We will never know). I made it to a barren spot of land outside the colony. I opened the cage door and waited. The rat refused to leave. It didn't trust me and I couldn't blame it. It sat in the trap as I made hrrummpphing noises. Then I begged "Please rat, please go. I'm trying to be nice." Never underestimate the power of good manners. The rat bid me adieu and scampered off.<br />
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Which brings me to this morning. I woke at 4.30 am knowing there was a rat in a cage in the kitchen, where my breakfast also lives. But I felt none of the bravado of last time. <i>It must be PMS</i> I thought, sorely disappointed with myself. <i>Stop being an ass that rat is more terrified than you you've done this before imagine people who kill rats with their bare hands your privilege (or is it patriarchy?) has ruined you you can't even carry out the basic acts of survival</i>. For some strange reason, I put on an oven mitt and changed from my shorts into a salwar. That didn't help. I still didn't want to engage. Meanwhile the rat was getting restless. It must have been tired and scared and was probably regretting taking that gap year to go see the world. I had to make a decision.<br />
<br />
I decided to wait for the young man who collects the garbage. No, how could I? Wasn't that terribly exploitative? I will pay him. Yeah still doesn't make it better. I will request him nicely and if he refuses I will be okay with it. Acceptable, <i>you phuddu.</i> From 5am till 8.30 I hung by the door like never before (wondering when I will stop waiting for men like this and just get on with my life). At last, he appeared with his sunshiny happy face.<br />
'Psst'<br />
'Hello?'<br />
'Hello hello. Kaise hain?'<br />
'Good?'<br />
'Accha aapse kucch kaam thha. Aap manaa kar sakte ho. Mai pehle bhi kar chuki hoon lekin aaj bahut darr lag raha hai. Matlab pataa nahi kyun wohi cheez jo pehle daraati nahi thhi aaj dara rahi hai. Kabhi aapke saath aisa hua hai?'<br />
<br />
'...... kooda hai?'<br />
'Hahn. Lekin, ek second andar aiye...?'<br />
<br />
In an instant he went from sunshiny happy to 'am I going to be murdered by a dangerous assassin?' and I realised I needed to get to the point quickly. I confessed about the rat. I confessed my inadequacy. His face relaxed and the smile returned. Show me the rat, he said and strode into my kitchen. With a gallant sweep of un-mittened hand he scooped up the trap and exited the premises, my grateful cries of 'ghar se door chhodna....' trailing behind him.<br />
<br />
I returned to the kitchen to sweep up the debris of nibbled bread and rat poop. There was an air of lingering rodent in the air (Not literally. Like relationships, rats don't stink until they're dead). There was this feeling of having shared this space with an unwelcome roommate, now gone. The relief was yet to set in, I knew it would take some time. I felt nauseous and defeated, most un-spartan. I was grateful for the young man who helped me but also ashamed of my cowardice.<br />
<br />
Then the phone rang. It was the rat. Calling to tell me, in a hissing voice, "you can't get rid of me so easily...you know I'll be backkkk....sssss".<br />
No it wasn't. It was my mother. When I told her this story she got impatient and said, "Shut up. You think too much. We used to get rid of rats all the time. Besides, rats don't hiss."<br />
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-73096783924615571532017-08-24T06:49:00.000+05:302017-08-24T06:52:30.556+05:30Plagiarism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last night you were in a dream<br />
sitting at my desk writing furiously<br />
I leaned over your shoulder<br />
memorised the words, believing<br />
when I woke up they would be mine<br />
But something happened in the flash between sleep and waking<br />
You left with your sheaf of papers<br />
Dribbles of drying ink<br />
trailing in your wake<br />
Now I sit at my desk with wisps of words remaining<br />
I must sleep again and hope<br />
you visit once more</div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-2598257609903018212017-07-07T13:02:00.000+05:302017-07-08T08:07:51.746+05:307.07.17<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I made a thing. It's not a great thing but it's mine and after 17 years in the dungeons of broadcast TV, I felt like the soon-to-be Count of Monte Cristo.<br />
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Watch on that other blog of mine: <a href="https://aquaticstaticsings.wordpress.com/2017/07/07/7-07-17/">https://aquaticstaticsings.wordpress.com/2017/07/07/7-07-17/</a></div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-18993410691962679822017-06-23T08:53:00.000+05:302017-06-23T08:53:00.157+05:30Reading 'Kanna Panna'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A little sumpthin sumpthin I wrote about my experiences at the <a href="http://www.communitylibraryblog.com/nav/home" target="_blank">Community Library Project</a> got published recently.<br />
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Click away: <a href="http://blog.sexualityanddisability.org/2017/06/readaloud/">http://blog.sexualityanddisability.org/2017/06/readaloud/</a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5x7kqbAtpBs9CMYXEDvbKE31sVNP7AV_ZSOU_cvgPEwlsNKCbO9_uoesZfsiBWLCXaJSL2oHasdIm6Rg21c8g-p7LFElgHK48tSimKKx34UDukROJfVSOIbWqYHLrS0NZPM-xm1056uI/s1600/prblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="1140" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5x7kqbAtpBs9CMYXEDvbKE31sVNP7AV_ZSOU_cvgPEwlsNKCbO9_uoesZfsiBWLCXaJSL2oHasdIm6Rg21c8g-p7LFElgHK48tSimKKx34UDukROJfVSOIbWqYHLrS0NZPM-xm1056uI/s320/prblog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist: Alia Sinha (Courtesy: <a href="http://blog.sexualityanddisability.org/" target="_blank">Sexuality & Disability blog</a>)</td></tr>
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-31717268587410061352017-05-10T09:37:00.001+05:302017-05-10T09:37:34.233+05:30Hot & Bothered<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Any time Adam listens when Hannah is talking, it gets me...yeknow.<br />
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Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-52588806041256405452017-04-12T11:07:00.000+05:302017-04-12T11:57:05.753+05:30The Image of Saffiyah Khan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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First off let’s face it, this is
straight up hilarious - this Chihuahua of a man nipping at the ankles of human
decency. You can just about hear his ridiculous yelps (like our ruling party’s
goons but with an accent) growing more and more hysterical as the mistress of
bindi stares him down. “Should I swat him now?…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now?</i>” I imagine her wondering which Louis Vuitton handbag he leaped
out of. Bigot want a biscuit? </div>
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Look at her power stance – does she walk around like that, with her body
angled for battle, her back ramrod straight, chest out, neck stretched, face relaxed yet ready
to get into just about anybody’s face? Is this her normal life-condition<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7420229983156320169#_ftn1" name="_ftnref" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-ascii-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">*</span></span></span></a>? I slouch, always have. That’s my normal life-condition.
I have a weak core. My back is sick & tired of being sick & tired. </div>
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When I was 12 there were two Chihuahuas that would accost us on the way to our school bus stop. I
remember being terrified in anticipation before I stepped out of my house. I’d
pray they wouldn’t be let loose on the street that morning. If I saw them
scurrying to get at our ankles, I would panic and slouch-run across the
road. Maybe if I’d known, like Saffiyah does, that Chihuahuas live in handbags,
I wouldn’t have been so afraid.</div>
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By her own account, when the
image was taken, Saffiyah Khan was protecting another woman who’d been surrounded
“360” by the same yelping thugs. Reports have interpreted Khan’s demeanour as ‘unfazed’.
That’s bullshit if you ask me. She had to have been fazed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i> fazed. You don’t get to stand like that if you haven’t been similarly fazed time & time & time again. You get to a point where the
fucking Chihuahua has barked at you one too many times and you’re like fuck it,
if it even bares its toothpicky teeth in the direction of your ankles, you'll
swoop down, scoop it up and lob it into the stratosphere before its keepers
realise that their dildo-themed pet has gone missing. </div>
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One might ask, why didn’t you
swoop & scoop before? Why did you endure years of intimidation at the hands
of these canine hobbits? Can’t speak for Saffiyah but when I was 12 they seemed
bigger. Everyone at our bus stop was afraid of them, even the 16 year olds.
Over years, they’d acquired mythic status and the stories had been handed
down from seniors to juniors. ‘Did you know they bit so-and-so and they had to
amputate his foot?’ ‘Their owner is a tantric yogi. His dogs have secret
powers.’ (Ok that one I made up, such was the terror unleashed by these
unleashed beasts.) </div>
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Obviously I don’t know what Saffiyah Khan is really thinking
in these images but to me she has become the Monalisa of pussy power. She has
run out of fucks to give and this fuck-deficit has allowed her insight
into the Chihuahua’s handbag world. Sure it’s Vuitton (and that’s nothing to
scoff at) but it is, at the end of the day, a dank handbag, made even danker by
dwarf-dog sweat. Does Saffiyah Khan find this realisation amusing? Or did the
Chihuahua pee in the bag just a little, its stench reaching everyone’s nostrils?
Is that why Saffiyah is smiling? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m no longer haunted by the Chihuahua twins from my school
days but I have new challenges. The apartment where I live comes with
neighbours, whom I would term ‘distinctly asshole-ish’. I realized this the day
I moved, when the movers decided to use the elevator to transport a heavy sofa
up two floors. My neighbour stood at the entrance of the elevator and
threatened to let loose Jack – her 350 kilo vicious-looking dog. She knew the
men were terrified of Jack, they’d asked her to keep him leashed. But she
didn’t like ‘those men’ using ‘her lift’ and she let Jack loose. I slouch-stepped in and blocked
Jack in a friendly embrace. Jack was confused. The men laughed. He jumped again. I slouched
towards him again. This time Jack’s tail went insane, whiplashing his human-shaped asshole.
She yelled “JACK! No!!”. I held out my hand. Jack held out his paw. We shook
like adults who had no beef with each other. As we retreated to our corners, the men grinned and I thanked god that Jack didn’t live in a handbag.</div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Check out this beautiful Twitter thread: <br />
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en">
<div dir="ltr" lang="en">
Just a wee thread of women who truly don't have any time for your shit.<br />
<br />
1) Tess Asplund, Borlänge, Sweden - 2016 (Photo - David Lagerlöf) <a href="https://t.co/xjRmHfc3h5">pic.twitter.com/xjRmHfc3h5</a></div>
— Xas (@_Xas_) <a href="https://twitter.com/_Xas_/status/851275203170541568">April 10, 2017</a></blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script><br />
<div style="mso-element: footnote-list;">
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<br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
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<br />
<div id="ftn" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7420229983156320169#_ftnref" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-ascii-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">*</span></span></span></a> Incidentally,
her stance has been described as an “improbably calm stance – smiling, slumped
shoulders, hands in pockets” – I view the image very differently.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-45344965128439226762016-10-08T08:17:00.000+05:302016-10-08T08:17:12.047+05:30Pocket Change<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
every time we meet<br />
pieces of change fall from your pockets<br />
getting entangled in sheets<br />
dropping behind headboard<br />
slipping under mattress & into pillowcase<br />
when you leave I hunt for coins<br />
collecting them in a jar<br />
waiting for it to one day<br />
be full<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MH4Ib2NEjECGHlH40trlCxPHLF21EB6F4sTdR6c9alLNpVbqfak7ke9eP0xP7VFFO45Jlpr4WLgPWGunm1KDR3d6o0xcZcEVsTBKf4cnUWF7sqCS5H6rlxbAKRanaRaTIuuOU1khD2c/s1600/Jar-of-Money_Large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MH4Ib2NEjECGHlH40trlCxPHLF21EB6F4sTdR6c9alLNpVbqfak7ke9eP0xP7VFFO45Jlpr4WLgPWGunm1KDR3d6o0xcZcEVsTBKf4cnUWF7sqCS5H6rlxbAKRanaRaTIuuOU1khD2c/s200/Jar-of-Money_Large.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-55675422493764512812016-09-05T00:14:00.000+05:302016-09-05T00:20:39.410+05:30love letter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
you will never know because you've always been plastic and planted to the bottom of the fish bowl as i swim around you in tight circles in a way that makes you believe that that is my only ability - swimming round and round and round. you won't notice as my circles get bigger and the water more turbulent. you will be busy trying to stay rooted in an ever swirling world. i will swim larger and larger. until one day we both realise there is no glass. this isn't even a bowl. you will find that there's no need for a little plastic castle in the fluid vastness of the ocean. you might even search for me because what's a plastic castle without a fish bowl-dwelling fish? but try as you might to retrace each memory you will never know how it happened and when i became gone.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlIDUOTYrdsNkjCrLm0-ohiNYtB2u3l2KG8A81wl03YtJgYYSpjXCW1y8bjS7Rvj4OgCCJ9ThDIgRTBNt1Aoqv_MZBZjSuOITyuG5CiV2JzaMvBvdMnWGfFLCvASTA-8i9BbqeYC0Cw0/s1600/tumblr_mfx36oreV51qaw2jyo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDlIDUOTYrdsNkjCrLm0-ohiNYtB2u3l2KG8A81wl03YtJgYYSpjXCW1y8bjS7Rvj4OgCCJ9ThDIgRTBNt1Aoqv_MZBZjSuOITyuG5CiV2JzaMvBvdMnWGfFLCvASTA-8i9BbqeYC0Cw0/s320/tumblr_mfx36oreV51qaw2jyo1_500.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://harley-jay.tumblr.com/post/106865102476/facetiousfigment-little-plastic-castle-ani">http://harley-jay.tumblr.com/post/106865102476/facetiousfigment-little-plastic-castle-ani</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7420229983156320169.post-71410043937944402822016-08-27T08:33:00.000+05:302016-08-27T10:38:19.628+05:30No This Is Not Rape (Trigger Warning: Sensitive Material)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Mahmood Farooqi rape case has been immensely triggering for me.<br />
Not just because the facts are so similar to what happened to me about a decade ago but because of the unfortunate discourse that's followed Farooqi's sentencing to a minimum 7 yrs in prison.<br />
"Why didn't she resist?"<br />
"Why didn't she go to the police immediately?"<br />
"Is it rape if he goes down on her?"<br />
"Is it rape if it's less than 4 minutes long?"<br />
"Is it rape if she's white?"<br />
"Is it rape if he's bi-polar?"<br />
"Is it rape if he apologises?"<br />
"Is it rape if his politics is widely acknowledged as progressive?"<br />
<br />
There have been a string of rape apologies I've read under the guise of 'widening the debate' and 'inviting nuance', some by people I call friends.<br />
Each piece twists my insides because they take me back to a time when rape-apologies weren't things others said to me but things I said to myself.<br />
No, this is not rape because he's not inside me, I told myself as he pinned me to the bed. No, this is not rape because I've smoked a joint, I thought as I screamed stop for the nth time. No this is not rape because he's having a bipolar episode. No, this is not rape because I'm his houseguest. No, this is not rape because look! someone's broken through the door within minutes and lifted him off me. No, this is not rape because everyone in that house is pretending nothing happened. No this is not rape because he is widely loved and I must not destroy him.<br />
<br />
I told myself this isn't rape as I ran home and then stayed there, unable to come out for the next 7 days. I told myself it's not rape as I quit my job and sank into a confused state. It wasn't rape for the next two years that I went underground, receding from the world. It wasn't rape when I finally went to therapy and it wasn't rape that made me spontaneously start crying every time my boyfriend & I got intimate. It definitely wasn't rape that stirred it all up again eleven years later when the Farooqi case came up.<br />
Eleven years.<br />
<br />
All this time and for me, it wasn't rape at all. Until the woman Farooqi raped showed me it was. Because every forced sexual act is rape. Lack of consent is rape. Taking away a woman's agency and right to her own body, her own safety is rape. I must repeat this to myself every time doubt creeps in and I wonder if it was indeed rape. So must we all, repeatedly until we <i>get it</i>.<br />
<br />
Do read this Kafila piece, which succinctly breaks down the legal and feminist aspects of the case and judgement: <a href="https://kafila.org/2016/08/14/the-mahmood-farooqui-rape-conviction-a-landmark-verdict-j-devika-nivedita-menon/" target="_blank">https://kafila.org/2016/08/14/the-mahmood-farooqui-rape-conviction-a-landmark-verdict-j-devika-nivedita-menon/ </a></div>
Aquatic Statichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13012433579722596255noreply@blogger.com0