Listening To Her

This Blog is part of the Men Say No Blogathon, encouraging men to take up action against the violence faced by women. 

More entries to the Blogathon can be read at www.mustbol.in/blogathon. Join further conversation on facebook.com/delhiyouth & twitter.com/mustbol

If I were a boy even just for a day
I'd roll out of bed in the morning
And throw on what I wanted, and go...

This is one of Beyonce Knowles' best loved songs (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AWpsOqh8q0M&ob=av2e).

Drink beer with the guys

And chase after girls
I'd kick it with who I wanted
And I'd never get confronted for it
'Cause they stick up for me.

I like the song. I like it because of the lyrics. It's a woman trying to imagine herself in a man's shoes. The stanzas oscillate between what she understands a man generally is- his daily activities, the fun he has with friends, etc.; and how she sees him treating a woman- imagining herself as a more sensitive man than the one in front of her, than her partner.

I'd listen to her
'Cause I know how it hurts...

How he takes her for granted-

I'd put myself first
And make the rules as I go
'Cause I know that she'd be faithful
Waiting for me to come home, to come home

And a man she envisions, whose love is true and pure and selfless, because she being a woman has seen one side of the picture-

If I were a boy
I think I could understand
How it feels to love a girl
I swear I'd be a better man...

Somewhere it is also telling of the freedom and mobility that men enjoy a lot more by default, by virtue of their Gender identity. And then, how this freedom tends to make some men impatient, and some reckless- a quality that is taken for granted, and many a time celebrated as ideal male behaviour.

Yes there are many ways of interpreting a work of art. And this is my interpretation of this song. Because I think that although I've met a large number of men who respect women, there are still quite a few men, who I wish would step into a woman's shoes sometimes to understand just how she feels when he is derisive to her.

Taken for Granted

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

Today I overheard a conversation in the bus. The public bus I usually travel in.

A lady was telling her friend that she'd recently seen a man making a young boy get up from his seat, and have his wife sit there in his place. The boy was around 8-10 years old, she said. The man justified his act when she questioned him, saying that he was a senior official at the Transport Corporation which is running this bus.

I wouldn't say he was being courteous to the wife. I'd say he was being uncourteous to the little boy. That is, given the reason he did.

Firstly, why didn't he make an able-bodied full-grown adult get up? Why take advantage of an innocent child, to display his chivalry?

Though I'm treading in the area of commenting on a situation that I havn't witnessed myself, it didn't sound right.

In fact, there are many ways men try to be “gentlemen”, and I wish they didn't try so hard. Because many of them are associated with stereotypes of how they think women are. I've seen men who wouldn't share hard drinks with women. I still understand when people of two generations back do such a thing, but young men in their twenties- give me a break!

And then there's lifting heavy objects. Elderly men offer to do such things for young women. And then there's the issue of intelligence- I've heard about male electricians and plumbers telling lady clients, “Saab aayenge toh baat karenge” (Let's have a detailed discussion when Sir comes home), before explaining the problem that has occured.

I do appreciate the genuine courtesy of men who help. But really, I think we should take another look at the ideas at the back of our heads around what is masculine and feminine. Alongside, perhaps many men would stop twisting these ideas to throw their weight around- just like the public bus incident mentioned above.

Given all the discussions found in popular media, about traits of men and women that attract partners for each, I'd once asked my cousin, what are the things a girl might do, that will irritate boys around her. And he said, it really comes down to the individual girl and boy concerned, the situation, the time, the space- how can you generalise?

And it made sense to me. There are no fixed answers to what and who and how men or women are. There shouldn't be. Because it leads to hollow assumptions, and expectations that in the end bind individuals and restrict personalities. And it lets one sex assume it's the protector, or the more powerful one over the other- however that plays out in behaviour.

Melodic Medicine

Said I loved you but I lied,
This is more than love I feel inside...

Passing thought

Just as I pass my birth anniversary every year, I cross my death anniversary too. I just don't know when!

Automan Empire

The capital city has many empires. Apart from the known bureaucrats, politicians, legal administrators, land developers, corporate media, and some more, one in particular has been bugging me for a few years now. It is of the auto-drivers (automen, coz there's probably one female driver among millions- one I'd read of in the news ages back).

They come in many forms, and mostly beastly. Once in a blue moon I'll come across a driver who is willing to put his meter down- something whose charge was increased 2 years back. Or one who'll drop you to your destination two steps away after you've paid, coz they want to reaching comfortably. If prices of basic essentials increased, they did for all of us, not just for them. If their licenses are steeply priced, why should the passenger suffer? They should go to the government on behalf of their union- why harass us passengers??

Charging whatever they want- like they've fixed the rates from spot to spot. They seem most demonic in times of need, like when you have to rush home during heavy menstrual bleeding, or an embarrassing malfunction of wardrobe, or simply at rush hour. And when you ask them why they didn't go by meter, they mumble something looking away. Or they blame traffic, or cry that they won't get passengers from your destination- like any of these is your headache.

They have the guts to laugh on your face when you threaten them with police complaints, and some tell you "not be seen in this area again"- deserved some mob violence that one. Talk about attitude!

The time taken in bargaining with them could get them much more business, and also otherwise add to the GDP, since others would get to work on time.

On the days the city went out marching against corruption, these guys confidently charged twice and thrice as much. Arre service to the nation!

What to do ji what to do?!!

Just a song, yet more!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OfsZyYPLoI

Watch the balloon swaying, and listen carefully to the first few notes.

Doesn't it sound exactly like a mood that is confused, yet eager? Somewhat like, I want to, but I don't want to... moving forth, moving back... like no, yes... like I-restricted-myself-but-on-second-thoughts.... Smart isn't it, the composition?

I never really cared about this song. But it came bounding up to me and became my earworm a few days ago, when I felt a void of someone who could take better control of a situation that I'd been handling, but felt I couldn't save from falling apart. (On hindsight, it wasn't really falling apart- I was growing up!)

Later I heard some more songs of Lady Antebellum. Wasn't impressed.

But there's something about this song- it's one of those things that match the silence of the night, the motion of an uninterrupted car.

And one of the best voices for the dead of the night, as well as when you're up with the lark- Lara Fabian's. The power of it! Her voice does so many things within me it's not funny!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFiUw9XdezU

I'll talk about some more brilliant music later. For now, see ya!

Coke Provokes an Idea

Coke studio has launched on Indian TV this month. I started watching it a few days after the launch, and that first episode pulled me back to every other episode that week.
Though my friends say that the original season was a lot better, and I do recall watching an enthralling performance of the Pakistani series, the fusion of forms is really something. The sounds bring together geographical terrains of diverse kinds, and mix moods in quite delightful ways. Another thing that impresses me is the visuals- the space is limited, the song has considerable length, and the challenge is to hold the viewer's attention. The way the images move with the tunes, at least hold my attention.
And while watching it one night, an analogy struck me.
One day many years later, maybe if I start a show which carefully blends humour from world over, I could call it- Joke Studio!
Kiddin! & Kudos to the wonderful singers!

Currently

When everything moves so fast and I walk through foamy ground, it is sheer joy...

Purple Day

Today I had my music vocal exam. In the morning, the most convenient kurta that came out was purple.
As I was leaving the house, the hole in my umbrella seemed to be getting bigger, so my mum brought me another, and it turned out to be... purple! (The previous one was blue).

As I sang, my eyes absent-mindedly trailed along the examiner's sari border at her feet. Red, I realised as the song got over. And omg! Purple sari!

The exam got over before I knew it. I came out of the room thinking, it was a shade better than last year. That shade must have been black, I joked to myself, referring to my salwar. Unlike last year, when my entire attire was a mix and match combo of purple kurta and salwar, the last exam, in which I'd blanked out on the songs and hence repeated this year.

There shouldn't be an exam for music, I pondered as I fried purple-pink onions back home. Just you and your teacher, then you and your audience, then you and your teacher again. Of course I knew the merits of the exam. For the moment I wanted to believe in a life without exams, and I'm still stiflling an urge to go holidaying in the Caribbean, since a holiday even inside my country isn't possible right now due to too many reasons to quote here.

As I walked to my music teacher's house, there was a kid on a cycle, her father behind her (couldn't believe they were out on this exercise in the blinding sun). She had on an orange shirt, and mismatching purple pants! With white polka dots of course...

I was rummaging through my wardrobe in the evening. Dinner invitation. Thankfully, I'd already worn the last two purple tops yesterday. Knowing me and my habit of wearing 5% of my wardrobe 95% of the time, I'd have ended my day with purple, and I'd have started imagining that my tomato juice screwdriver was a purple whirlpool at that moment when I got sick of it...

The Story of a Song

(This was written for a 1-min story telling competition)

Once upon a time there was a song. She loved to flow, just like brooks and rivulets and impulsive poetry.

Birds trilled her, baritones embraced her.

She breezed through hills, she whistled through city lanes. At times she felt caged by her own network of notes. At times, she was the laughter of an alien tongue, a delightful surprise. At times her notes would stand parallel, in attention. At times, they'd rush and roll into a crescendo. At times she spoke nothing.

The last occasion she strummed a heart string, her last “sighting”, reported this time by a little leaf on a bountiful tree, was one melon-yellow sunset. She stepped lightly into a fallen ray. It was perfect.

To...

I want to dance
I want to fly
I don't want to feel ashamed
Of whatever made me cry.

I want to laugh
Free and loud
I want to hear
A merrier crowd.

I want to unlock
My spirits and flow.
To trill really high
To whisper an echo.

I want to cross the fence
To stop the same mistake
One impossible step
I want to take.

I want to walk
To move and move.
The stillness of speed.
Nothing to prove.

To feel the breeze
Brush through my hair.
Place my dark secrets
In the sun's glare.

I want noise,
I want to run
I want to dare
Things I've never done.

I want to float
I want to feel
Throw away these chains
Every bond and deal.

I want to hum
With the grass.
To take in full
This road I pass...

Simple things

An incident I'd like to share, just in passing.

Yesterday I was standing next to a seat in the bus, where an old man (he looked ninety years old) in a ragged shawl was sitting. At a stop an old lady, also bent and hobbling and in a ragged sweater, came and stood next to me. The man looked up, and balancing himself on his stick to get up, said- "आइये अम्मा बेठ जाईये". She protested, and he said warmly- "इतना तो मैं कर ही सकता हूँ", and hobbled past. A girl of my age-group sat in front. Her attention was elsewhere as she talked on her phone. 

Unable to offer any help from my end, I tapped her shoulder, and as soon as she saw the elderly gent next to her, she smiled and got up. "बहुत मेहेरबानी", he said, as he accepted and settled down.

Quite energising, to see such pockets of the world, who have happiness growing from inside them.

What just happened?

All kinds of things happen in my city's buses. Those levitating buses with huge seats that really aren't suitable for our overpopulated country... they leave a nice giddy feeling in my head if I've traveled too much in them in a day.
That's one of the places where I've learnt that common sense is uncommon- the way people shift to let you through. Or maybe there really isn't space.
Anyway, so there was this guy today, who parks himself on the huge space on top of a front tyre- one of my favorite spots in these new buses actually. He leans back, and to my initial disbelief- zips up so comfortably as if nobody's around. The bus had few people today, and was nice and spacious. But thankfully there were people sitting in front of me, and I hoped he couldn't see me staring.
Crazy things happen. I would never doubt.

Bribe?

Passing by on a motorbike in heavy traffic- "pata nahi kiski baaton mein aa gayi hai- paisa khaya kya kia..."

Amongst flowers

Was scouting around in the garden at my boss's house (he works from home), trying to shovel out some good photographs of the buds this spring. After ages I felt the joy of falling on my knees in the mud, getting my hands dirty by this mud and not the grease of public bus handles. Mrs. Boss came and sat in a folding chair while I composed, displaced rose pots and figured out axes. 
As I picked up the pot, it felt the same weight as maybe, a two-yr old. Which reminds me, I have a 3yr old niece. Like you have to be nearer a phone tower to hear better on your cellphone, you need to be near her parents to hear what she says. Till she gets familiar with you of course. And my 8yr old-- till the age of 2 she was a silent observer and quietly naughty, and though everyone around got worried that she didn't talk, I knew there would come a time when people would wish they hadn't wished what they had, and that time sort of came. She talks, and talks, and sooo many questions... I love such kids. In fact, I like such grown ups as well. It's like this circulatory cellphone message I just got- friendship with a flower makes you fragrant, friendship with rain soaks you, friendship with the sun burns you. Whom one is amongst matters so much. And a balance in one's company matters so much. 

Flipping it

Will it help if the garbage bins in our country were fixed with sensors that yelp as we walk by? A sincere/studious looking DU-looking student at a bustop walks past a shiny steel trashcan, raised on a stand, two inches from her, and still throws her bus ticket down on her other side!

Backing

And then there was once this day when I was in a bus back from college, and it was backing out of a trapped lane.
The conductor tried to warn the driver- "dekh ke peechhe gadi hai!", to which the driver replied- "gadi hi toh hai, jahaaz nahi hai!"

Price

I was at a bookshop in an east-of-Delhi mall yesterday, waiting in line to the payment counter with my mom's birthday presents in hand. A counter stacked with books called "Mom is always right" (was i gifting that- well not really), and 300/- little fridge magnets on the wall behind it bearing images of Delhi and her idiosyncrasies.

I was still reading all the names of books around like a vacuum cleaner when suddenly my ear caught a young woman telling her husband- "But hum usko 200 rupees ka gift toh nahi de sakte!" And the husband went rushing back to the children's section behind me.

It was a bookshop, and there was a sale going on, and I hoped the couple wasn't talking about their own daughter, whom I think I saw behind me probing around in the stacks towards which the man ran.