Sore

(Feb 2007)

Do not touch me
For I am sore
Do not speak
Your voice hurts my ears
Just be here
Go
I cant live with
Or without you.

Familiar Air

(written in january 2007)

The air is familiar,
Fans on.
Summer setting in
Boards time.

Sky blue,

More clouds,
Same smell- temperature,
Humidity.

Thin layer of
Sweat.
Separation, farewell
Flowers in the Valley.

It may rain in the evenings
Wind tells me now.
I'm tuned to this part of
Earth.

I remember, as a child,
This same air
In Trichy and Mettupalayam
Heat degree varying.

City

written mid december 2006

There is no wholesome plant here
There is no learning
No passion.
Being with the dead kills me.

There aren't enough trees
Not enough shade
Dry dust and plastic.

My tears are not water enough
to give life to this
Nor my anger or frustration.

The only thing thats constant
is the blue sky above. So

I wish to be a bird that finds freedom in the blocks
I wish to be the clouds again
I wish to be the trees, my friends and the ever moving breeze.

I see machines everywhere
They never walk alone
But they are.

There is no freedom or intelligence.

I need water and sunshine,
I need leaves, insects, streams, lakes,
I need Home.

Cloud no. 3

For no specifiable reason I feel sure.
Something tells me the improbable is possible
And real.

I am not one who believes without proof
I am a scientist
Yet I'm sure.

When logic is questioned so strongly by intuition
What do i trust
And act on?

A passing thought...

The brain stews some ingredients

When the time is right, the aroma emerges...

Thoughts are like passing clouds...

It strikes me that respect is a rare feeling amongst people.

The way men look at women...I mean both perspective and actually looking...
It has always bothered me that everyone seems to accept this.

'Thats the way it is'

Language is full of patriarchal references.

Chivalry is a polite mockery that most people neither understand nor intend.

Well, one can perhaps accept a generalisation that women aren't as muscular as men and also that they are far more organised and good at seeing things through than men be it at home, with children or in 10th grade where every year, 'girls outshine boys'. But somehow, these qualities are never taken seriously. When an intelligent woman states that she is could be more capable of ruling this world than many a silly man, she is termed a feminist and dismissed.

But i digress.

Language. I tend to read into language and the hidden connotations of some striking words...
I was examining 'chick' the other day. Firstly it sounds as if the woman is some bird brained silly object, then to my great joy i discovered that its roots were in Europe where chice or come such French word and i associated it with the Spanish chiquetta. (Forgive my spellings if they're wrong)

Both these words suggest fragility and soft innocence. Perhaps when the 'lady feels demure and shy' this would be an appropriate personal endearment.
But how is it used? 'Hey dude! Check out that chick! Is she hot or what...'
That's nice. Full of respect, isn't it.
This usage reduces a woman from an individual to her appearance.

[....................................................And one can safely say that when a girl 'checks out a guy' (as is supposed to be natural), she wouldn't so vehemently die for him on the spot! Of course it differs from girl to girl but they are definitely more likely to call the men they're in love with, unbearably attractive, not the any-many guy they see.

(As a disclaimer, not all men are open about their finding a woman attractive, but none of them will deny that their eyes roam a lot more.) ..........................................................................................................................]

Babe is another such word.

Anyone who has the guts to call me either one, wishes to burn in hell. More than being liked, I need respect. Respect me and hate me and I'll still respect you and even love you as a living thing as I do everything else. The moment I'm disrespected, the guilty becomes beneath my dignity to associate with, egoistic as that may sound.

But by respect i don't mean the 'Good morning ma'am' crap. (Thats just formality that some people are taught to expect.) I mean the dignity of being a person as a whole. One who has feelings, brains, idiosyncrasies and strength of character apart from a physical manifestation of a body.

If only i could disappear so that others would give more importance to the invisible.
Many times I wish I were a tree or a bird just to escape the looks and comments i receive. To be so far removed from anything human and male... I wonder whether anyone talks of trees and birds with the kind of derogation they attribute to women.

Perhaps, and people will say so, i take this all too seriously. Perhaps its just part of being young. But if the young don't respect each other, how on earth will grown ups? We do grow into them you know. And with age only comes more filth and corruption into the mind. Its pretty obvious that only intellectual understanding of many things sometimes occurs with time. But it remains conceptual. Habits are formed. And one finds it too difficult to change one's ways after a point.

So what can i do, since i can't disappear, nor become a tree or bird...
I had fantasies of a soft blue cotton burkha to wear in public, when i feel reduced or threatened. When it is forced on women as a culture, perhaps it reduces them, but if its a choice I make, am I reducing myself?

My mind wandered...I'll go monk! Shave off all my thick beautiful hair and really prove my point. Wear only one colour, blue (because I like it) and lead a simple life. Or move to the forest! (I would love that:)) Run away from man-kind...

Escapism or protecting myself?

Well, these thoughts I had yesterday. I wore the baggiest t-shirt my brother had, and his pants, hid my hair under a scarf and a clip and made my way to college. Apart form those who I'd shared my thoughts with, everyone else thought it was a style statement! Only those who knew, used word like…’ridiculous’, ‘weird’, and ‘crazy’. But it was directed probably more at my intentions than at my actual clothes.

One of them pointed out that this change is only going to draw more attention to me than to my character and serve no purpose ultimately. Good point. He added that if a generally expressive person, to become one with the crowd, quietens suddenly, that too would draw more attention than his/her usual behaviour.

But perhaps today was only ‘first day symptoms’. They will hopefully come around to accepting this change as normal, and stop noticing it. Then my purpose will be achieved…for then, no one will Ever refer to me, in baggy clothes as a chick or a babe! Instead, perhaps as ‘weird’ but I don’t mind being called something I perhaps already am.

But…

This move if I continue with it, contradicts what I myself keep saying; why should a woman change her ways to accommodate the faults in a man’s (Ok lets stop attacking men. Not all of them deserve this.) Society’s outlook?

Again the answer perhaps lies in the difference between the way of dressing as a rule laid down by a college and a personal choice. But am I reducing myself? Or protecting myself? Or letting ‘what others think affect me’ bother me though I usually dismiss it?

Let the questions wander and float. When the time comes the stew of thought will be ready and the aroma will rise again.

Walking Home

Walking Home

(story based on a dream written in 9th std)

It was just another day and she was returning from school. After a long ride, the bus reached the last stop. Several students got off along with her. She stood alone till the empty bus turned a corner and disappeared.

She started walking slowly along the side of the main road. She remembered her brother. He had gone for a camp with his class. She wondered what he’d be doing then.

Her brother was two years younger than herself but she trusted him like her best friend. She missed him now.

She turned the corner and it occurred to her that the streets were far less busy than usual. Everything seemed to be moving rather slowly. The men and women who walked in the park, seemed to be less in number than ordinary days. The watermelon seller at the corner of the park wore a strange, forbidding look. He seemed lost as his blood-shot eyes stared into mid-space. Maybe he’s drunk, she thought.

She dismissed the slowness of the atmosphere thinking that it was her perception after a fast day at school.

As she walked along, she noticed groups of men turn to walk behind her. They were dark skinned and wore their colourful lungis up. Their clothes were shabbily worn and frayed here and there. Their skin shone with sweat and was occasionally stained with paint or mud. And the way they walked, so carelessly, as if they owned the streets made her feel out of place.

They noticed her glancing at them a bit nervously and smiled at her; their pan-stained lips parting to expose crooked, yellow teeth. Behind them there were more such worker men. They whistled and sang songs. She remembered all the stories she had heard about the street men and walked on, quickening her pace.

Just then, like an answer to her prayer, she saw a man ahead of her. His hair was neatly cut and combed. He wore an impeccable white shirt, which seemed to have been ironed, and blue jeans. In his right hand he carried a black briefcase. Although she didn’t know him, she was relieved to see a civilized looking man.

She caught up with him trying not to make it so obvious that she was afraid of the worker-men behind her. She said hello and as he turned to face her, she saw a clean-shaven face smile at her in a half questioning and half delighted way. His face was sharply cut as if chiselled out of a rock. His jet-black eyes looked amused, surprised and shrewd all at the same time. His eyebrows were pitch-black and were lifted up in angles that matched the other angles that made his face.

As they walked she engaged him in a general conversation. But he sensed that she was nervous. He noticed that she frequently turned back in a fearful way, and realized she was scared of those men. Soon, he put her at ease and she was telling him all about herself. She felt completely comfortable with him.

“Yes, I’ve heard some pretty nasty things about these street men too, but lucky me,” he paused to smile at her, “I am not a pretty little girl!”

She laughed delightedly,” Do you really think I’m pretty? Some boy in my class called me a fat pig today!”

“How cruel of him! But don’t you worry, he’s probably just got and inferiority complex himself. What’s he like?”

“He’s nice to everyone else, not to me, but that’s only because I’m new here-“

“New? Where were you before?”

“Not in this country.” She stated and quickly changed the topic as she saw that she had reached her street to turn into.

“I turn here. Thankyou for- “

“I need to go this way too. “

“Really?”

”Of course, and I would take the detour just to walk you home even if it wasn’t on my way.”

She blushed at his flattering tone and the sincerity in his dark eyes.

They turned and continued walking. She observed to her relief that the worker-men walked straight and forgot about her.

A few puppies trotted across the road in front of them. Their mother knew the girl well and didn’t growl as they walked closer to them. The girl gasped in awe as always when she saw the tiny creatures.

“Do you like puppies? I adore them so very much! They’re the cutest things on earth…” She went on talking to him now in an excited high pitched voice about how much she loved puppies and how she was thinking of getting one soon.

But suddenly she didn’t have his attention anymore. His black eyes were shelled thickly, the sharp edges of his face had turned rigid and a hard look came over his face. But she was so caught up in telling him all about her plans and her parent’s objections that she didn’t notice the change that had come over him.

He turned to her and eased his expression. But the tension didn’t leave his eyes. They soon reached her house and on the opposite side of the road, there was a small white car parked.

She stopped briefly. “Well, good bye then, and thank-” She had again vainly attempted to thank him for protecting her from those eve-teasing, indecent worker-men who weren’t even half as civilized as him. But just as she was speaking, she saw the queer way in which he was looking at the man in the driver’s seat.

He suddenly pulled up his sleeves, thrust his hand into the open window, grasped the man’s neck and with a steel hard grip, twisted his wrist. She heard a snap of the neck and stepped back horrified. Having done this, he dropped his briefcase, opened the door quickly, jerked him out violently and broke his hand bone as easily as one could break a long pencil. But he didn’t stop at this either. He broke his other hand and gave him a winding blow in the stomach. With this he calmly shoved him back into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

He straightened his back into a cool posture, pulled down his sleeves, smoothened the wrinkles on his shirt and picked up his briefcase. He then turned around to face her and she saw the smug satisfaction on his face. And in his eyes, an unnerving glint of violent, sadistic pleasure and excitement sparkled.

He had killed the man in broad daylight! And how casually! Without screams or bloodshed like the usual murderers that she had seen on television, but in such a neat and sophisticated manner. An icy chill spread into her blood and the bewilderment and shock of having seen a real life murder shook her.

What scared her most was that she had been walking with a psychotic murderer all this time! One, who didn’t even bear a trace of being afraid of being caught on his face. And worse than anything, she had trusted him to be the civilised one.

Terrified thoughts ran disorganised through her mind as she stepped fumblingly backward confused. He started to laugh crazily at her and she opened the gate to her house and ran in, in utter fright.

Neighbours and Water

(written 2-3 years ago)

They say that World War III will be due to water, but some people just don’t care.

I have a neighbour next to my house, and for four years, that I’ve been here, their tank has been overflowing every time there is supply of corporation water.

It’s one of those things that really irritate me. How can one know that they’re wasting water and not do anything about it? I have told them personally, asked my parents to convey the message, and even bothered them in early hours for some days continuously, to simply fix a valve!

A valve isn’t one of those expensive, high-tech kind of instrument that needs a lot of effort, energy or money to install. It is simple and easily available. They have three men in the house, two of them are engineers (ahem!), who could’ve easily done the job in five to ten minutes. And if they didn’t want to do it themselves, they can easily afford a plumber too.

But no, it appears that they just don’t want to!

Each time I approach them, I try to be polite, (for it is not advisable to damage relationships with neighbours), and tell them to install a ball valve. Once I even gave them a speech in their language, (the best I could), about how so many people on earth don’t even have access to clean drinking water, let alone for basic hygiene, and that it was so very wrong of them to waste the same precious resource this way!

After this too, I’ve tried talking to the ‘educated members’ of their family, the head of the family, and when this too didn’t work, I merely yelled about sinners, hell and dying of thirst through the window every time I heard the water overflow.

I don’t think they care at all! (And by the way, I wonder what this says about education.)

I’ve thought of sending them a false threat from BWSSB that they will not get water any more unless they get a valve fixed. Next, I thought of complaining to BWSSB about it, but my parents thought that they would not care either. What a system! Talk about abuse of subsidies! The poor in the slums have one common tap every few blocks and irregular water supply whereas the rich have a tap in every room that can run 24/7! Isn’t the whole point of subsidies lost?

But what on earth does one do about all this? Please do tell me.

Just yesterday morning as I woke up, I heard the loud pouring patter outside. I got so livid that I would’ve gone up on the terrace and started bombing them with the most vile curses I knew till they woke up! But fortunately my Dad stopped me. That wasn’t the way. I thought later about what else I could possibly do about it.

The pen had better be mightier than the sword.