And the power's out in the heart of man...

There is no electricity. The only sources of light in this room are my laptop screen and a gnarled candle. Outside, buildings are clad in black, and shapes are scurrying, searching, squealing. It reminds me of playing hide-and-seek in B block, squashed with my friends behind the water tank, trying not to give ourselves away. I wish I could still feel that kind of excitement over this push into darkness. Instead I keep waiting for the lights to come back on, for the fan to wake the air from its maddening langour, for my laptop battery to be charged.

As far as Sundays go, today was fairly productive. I got a pedicure, which at this point, is almost insufferably exciting. Then I worked on the Humjinsi website a bit, and started to write the Combat Law article. I also have to type up my proposal, but I'm so nervous about actually showing it to Mihir and Deepika that I keep putting it off. Of course, it's due tomorrow. Ick. If the rain keeps up like this, though, I doubt I'll be able to go to work tomorrow. According to Star News, Sandhurst Road is pretty badly flooded. In any case, Wadala and King's Circle are pretty badly hit, so it's highly doubtful that the Harbour line will be functional at all.

Anyway.

Sundays are my official vegetate-in-front-of-the-TV day. All the best BBC shows are on Sunday, so our relationship is as wonderful as ever. I watched two shows on Africa - the first looked at Ethiopia twenty years after the famine, more famous for begetting Live Aid than for its terrifying scope. I have tremendous respect for Michael Buerk, and as ever, the documentary was lump-in-the-throat-inducingly compelling. I've always enjoyed watching his work as he's an incredible writer, brimming with beauty, insight and unabashed humanity. The second show was "Geldof in Africa." This particular episode of the series was filmed in Uganda, and mostly focused on the Lord's Resistance Army, and their ruthless targetting of children - the girls are hunted as sex slaves, the boys as soldiers. It was interesting, but not surprisingly, very disturbing.

I also watched the match today. The last cricket match I watched was the disastrous World Cup Final between India and Australia. Today's game was a lot less interesting. We won, without much pomp or fanfare. It was a slow game, but at least we finished in style. Under the circumstances, anyway. I also laughed at myself when I remembered that I used to have an embarassingly intense crush on Dravid. I remember watching the Sahara Cup when I was all of 13, trying to peer between the bars of his helmet to discern the face of this potentially cute cricketer. The intital curiosity soon blossomed into a full-blown crush, replete with baseless glorification and sighing daydreams. In all these reveries, I imagined Daddy shooting an ad with him, which would give Rahul - yes, we were on a first name basis - the perfect chance to realise that I was his soulmate. Funnily enough, Dad did eventually shoot with him that year. He came home one evening, and informed me excitedly that this was the perfect chance for me to meet my hero. This turn of events turned my mind into a cesspool of panic and possibilities - It made so devastatingly happy that I couldn't go to the shoot.

I am pleased to say that my love waned quickly, but I must admit I still have a soft spot for him.
Man, I thought the electricity would be back by the time I finished my rambling. Oh well, at least my feet look fancy.

Man, when it rains, it pours...

Apart from the fact that it rained 37.1 inches in 24 hours on Tuesday, in the span of 12 hours I have been:

1) Offered a job by the directors of ICHRL as Asst. Unit Co-Ordinator of CASH (Campaign Against Sexual Harassment)
2) Shortlisted for a phone interview with Amnesty Intl. San Francisco
3) Shortlisted for a phone interview with Amnesty Intl. NYC for their "Fall Internship Against Violence Against Women" in their research department.

A few days ago, I was also informed that I had been shortlisted for an internship with AI Washington D.C.

Um. Assuming that I get any of these three internships, what the hell do I do? On one hand, making money will be fun. It'll also look pretty good on my CV that after 3 weeks of interning, ICHRL wanted me as a full-time employee. On the other, I could realise my lifelong dream of being involved with Amnesty. And God knows that'll look good for my grad school applications. Plus I'll be a lot closer to a lot of people I love and miss. But there'll be no money involved, and I'm not really sure I can afford that right now...

I have no idea if I should reply to their requests for phone interviews or not, for the simple reason that if I do get the chance to intern for AI, the temptation might be too much to resist...

It was like running red-hot pokers over Achilles' heel

Anuma and I went to dinner to Yoko's last night. I don't think the two of us have ever gone out together for a meal - it's pretty cool to be able to do that with my grandmother. That said, the evening was entirely enjoyable until the rickshaw ride back. Somehow the dreaded topic of marriage came up, and when she asked me if I had any plans, I said, "I don't know. I'm only 21." She remained silent for a few seconds, and then said I needed to stop being so averse to the idea of marriage. I replied - my quiet voice masking my irritation - that I wasn't against the idea of marriage at all, but that it was just too overwhelming for me to even consider at this stage.

She seemed to understand, but just when I thought the conversation was over, she added, "Well, you know, when you decide you're ready, you're going to have to change. You have to learn how to adjust; you're a woman. Women are naturally soft. You have to learn to make sacrifices for your husband; a woman must learn to respect her culture." Through the entire spiel, I nervously played with the hem of my skirt, forcing myself to calmly ignore her. I took into consideration the values and beliefs she was brought up with, and decided that I would override her unwarranted advice by changing the topic. My plan failed miserably when she gifted me the final punch in the stomach, the words that single-handedly corroded the evening.

She said, "That's probably why you're single. You're too independent and assertive. You can't expect men to want someone like that."

I felt my body burn with the nascent fire of her insinuations, and amid the Linking Road traffic, I spewed my anger in astonishingly fluent Bengali. I spat out my firm belief in gender socialization; I questioned her glorification of a culture that encourages women to be submissive to win love. She protested by saying that she wasn't asking me to be submissive; she was just looking out for me. By then my wrath had escaped its confines, but not before gleefully giving them the finger. I said I didn't want to be in love with a man who'd want me to change. I said I didn't want to be married if it meant I had to give up my life. Yes, marriage entails comprises, but they have to come from both sides. I wanted equality in all spheres - Was that really such a bad thing?"I'm not ready to be unselfish." I yelled. "That's exactly why I can't even think of marriage right now. What's the point of getting into something that I know will make me miserable?"

My voice was shrill. Her silence was triumphant.

The conversation has been running through my head all day, cacophonous as an untuned violin, as I try to make some sense of it. I know that if it had to happen all over again, I'd react the same way, say the same things, fume over the same words. Why, then, do I feel so terribly shaky? If my beliefs are so invincible, why do I feel them being clawed by insecurity?

I'm afraid of the answers.

And, finally, Carly, in all her fuckingcuteness.  

I only know the people on the right. Except the three girls after Alex. 

I know. We're adorable. 

continued... 

Pictures that make me smile... 

Stupid fucking arghh....

Get ready for the Talibanisation of Mumbai. Tasting blood last night after the Maharashtra Assembly unanimously passed the controversial bill banning dance bars across the state, legislators want much more banned.On the list are: MMS, SMS, advertisements, massage parlours, TV channels, TV serials, discotheques, belly-dancing and pornographic material. The BJP’s Nagpur legislator, Devendra Phadnavis led the culture brigade, but insisted that the demands were not unwarranted. “We are not the Taliban, but there must be some decency,” he declared while participating in the discussion over the bill.Bad language It was interesting to see, however, legislators using words that even the speaker found objectionable and ordered to be removed from the records.

They referred to barowners as b****as (agents), and the public as c******s. Communist Party legislator Narsayya Aadam came down heavily against the police department for organising a function with item girl Isha Koppikar, in deputy chief minister R R Patil’s Sangli district.
Politicians involvedPatil, who introduced the bill in the Assembly, thanked the members for their unanimous support and declared that while he could not prove it in court, he had information that some politicians and police officers had also invested in the dance bars.‘‘I have information that the bar owners have collected about Rs 20 crore to challenge the ban and I am ready for the fight,” he said.The bill will now be presented to the state legislative council for discussion and approval. There are only two days left for the government to get the bill through as the monsoon session ends on Saturday.

*****************

What the hell is happening to this country?

Listen to the rhythm of the pouring rain...

Today I'm working from home, since I have to research/write up information to use in the pamphlets for the pride march. Apparently my definition of work includes blasting Belle and Sebastian, eating Nutella off a spoon and updating my blog.

I've done pretty well, though, under the circumstances. I woke up at 7, for some unknown reason, and since then I've already completed writing up the Myth/Fact pamphlet, the Heterosexual Privilege List, and the blurb on Section 377. It was a lot harder than I expected, to be honest - I'm so used to my liberal arts, SACOMSS, Queer McGill crew that it feels almost condescending to explicitly define "homophobia" and "heterosexism" and "intersectionality" and all those lovely sociology terms.I still have to document all the cases of violence and suicide among lesbian women from 2003-2005, though. That'll take me all afternoon, I'm sure.

Also, today might be my first meeting for the Bombay Pride march. Right now, though, it's pouring like there's no tomorrow which makes me wonder if they'll even hold the meeting. I hope it isn't cancelled - I'm very excited, but also very intimidated to meet these big, activist-y types whose names keep getting tossed around the office like Caesar's salad. Sometimes I feel silly being token straight girl, but most times, I just get very excited to be around so much passion and activism and acceptance and love and open-mindedness.

If they follow you
Don't look Back
Like Dylan in the Movies...

This album reminds me of walking around Montreal in the snow. And that's a wonderful thing.

My mind is on the brink.

It's barely 9 p.m and I'm knackered beyond belief. I'm not entirely sure why I've been having such a hard time sleeping nights, but it's beginning to take its toll on me. Also, today I made the grave mistake of taking the car to work. I thought it would be easier than taking a train, since it was raining really, really heavily. But! It took me an hour and a half each way, and every second of the three hours entailed incessant honking, pungent fumes and about 738573957 narrow brushes with death. By the time I got home, I had a splitting headache and a firm commitment to always take the train to work.

............

I deleted the rest of this post. Suffice to say all is resolved.

:)

My morality is frolicking in Ibiza.

I just got back from work a bit ago, and rushed into the shower. I always look like a wreck by the time I'm home. Just the other day I was saying to someone how I'm so glad ICHRL doesn't have a formal dress code. I'd gotten so used to all my friends in Montreal shopping for their pinstriped suits that I'd somehow forgotten how differently things work in Bombay. In the past two weeks, I've noticed that it isn't just an ICHRL thing - in most non-corporate, non-MNC offices, a kurta and a pair of jeans qualify as work attire. And then as I was wading through the decidedly disease-ridden pools around Bandra Station - fully equipped with rolled up jeans, furrowed brow, wrinkled nose and silent curses - it hit me that there was no option but to have a dress code on the more casual side. If you're travelling by public transport, like the vast majority of Bombay-ites do, there is simply no way to escape unscathed from the dusty chaos and shoving humidity of peak hour commutes. If your face isn't greasy, your hair will be dishevelled. If your hair isn't dishevelled, the bottom of your pants will be muddy. If the bottom of your pants aren't muddy, you'll have deceitful indifference etched into your face by men "accidentally" walking into you.

That said, I had an interesting, albeit slightly frustrating day. I went to the press conference for the release of the research done on bar dancers. Basically, the study was carried out with 500 bar dancers in the city, by a group of NGOs (including ICHRL) to investigate the truth of their circumstances. It was found that an overwhelming number of women were there of their own volition. They also reported very good relationships with their bosses; apparently, any man in the audience who attempts to harass the women in any way is thrown out. People tend to ignore the fact that bar dancers are NOT sex workers - not that I think prostitution should be criminalized, but that's a rant for another day.

While I'm not denying that the occupation is potentially exploitative, it IS possible for women to be empowered within that framework. Unlike a sizeable percentage of women in this country, the sexuality of bar dancers dares to traverse the reproductive duties of married life. They cross the threshold of the patriarchal home, and challenge its authority by often being the primary bread-winners. Yes, a lot of them are unable to get other jobs due to their illiteracy, but at the end of the day, it is their bodies, their lives, their decisions. Instead of applauding the efforts of these self-sufficient women, their labour is being belittled and criminalized.

Once again, I'm not trying to glorify the profession, or deny its problematic nature. But the point is, unless the dancers are under-age or coerced into the industry, there is no reason to ban these bars. And that's exactly what the study found - These women are not always the oppressed victims we imagine them to be. They have agency, and to believe otherwise is abhorrently patronising. Since the data triumphantly proves that the government's rhetoric about "trafficking" is hogwash, it is abundantly clear that this is a "cultural" issue. While the NGOs use concrete research to dispel myths , the government and its supporters have found an eternally masterful weapon in "morality." It is conveniently overlooked, of course, that Maharastrian culture has given birth to tamasha, lavni etc which can be fairly raunchy forms of dance.

If this ban goes through merely on charges of "vulgarity," what next?

Will they ban Bollywood, which is definitely as (if not more) -"vulgar" as bar dancing which is most often just an imitation of the movies anyway?

Will they desecrate Shiv Lingas that rest in Yonis?

Will they enforce dress codes on university students? Oh. Wait. They did already.

This ban will strip thousands of women and families of their income, 'causing unfathomable economic and emotional damage. It'll also be a victory for the "culture police" that seem to be ubiquitous in this state.

One last thing before I jump off my soapbox: I'd like to wish a rapid, but torturous death to the word "obscenity" and all its relatives. Thank you.

Making a whisper out of you...

I don't know why I do this to myself. Is this tendency towards self-destruction just the by-product of a slyly ingrained desperation? Is it created by my flamboyant insecurity? My fear that someone will look close and hard, and realise that everything about me is a facade whose construction puts the Taj Mahal to pitiful shame? Why must I manufacture feelings where there are none? Pretend to fall in love with someone whose words are merely words; lip service in its strictly idiomatic form?

I think about him not only out of convenience, but mostly out of boredom. I pull the bygone affections, careless words, pithy touches of the past to recreate an unlikely future. I see the neon signs scream "APOCRYPHAL!" and I blink them away like wind-weary travellers seeking refuge.

Most days, he smiles beatificially at me, urging me to be more. And so I pray for the requisite beauty, intelligence and wit to elevate me to his level. But as always, the recipient of my prayers for decimated inadequacies fails to deliver. So I try to kick the pedestal as hard as I can, but I fall flat on my face, while he feigns sympathy from his bejewelled throne.

I hate that he can just fucking waltz into my life, glib as old Hollywood, and hijack all traces of logic.

On Death and Dying.

Being the youngest in my family has instilled in me a profound fear of aging. It is neither a fear of grey hair and wrinkles, nor the common nightmare of becoming the token "crazy-old-lady-with-seventeen-cats."When people ask me where I see myself in ten years, I give them the conventional answer - husband, kids, career,dog named Major Major - but I always wonder if I will even be alive then, or worse, I wonder how many people I love will have been sucked into that unending vortex of darkness and uncertainty. While I do often mull over the not-so ridiculous possibility of growing old without a romantic companion, I am more concerned that with every televised Times Square countdown, with every abandoned calendar, I am closer to losing someone I love. Slowly, like prisoners on death row, or in quick succession, like the hundred beer bottles on that notorious wall.

The closest - and admittedly, it wasn't that close after all - I've come to dying was in an auto rickshaw in 2000, spiralling out of control on the monsoon-ravaged slope of Cozihom. As we crashed into a wall, I failed to see my sixteen-year-old life flash - in slow-motion or otherwise - in front of my eyes. No,my brain was on repeat and all it said was, "Holy shit, Auri. This is it. This is how you are going to die." Turns out I was wrong, and the accident left me with nothing but bruised ribs and hysterical laughter, a coping mechanism I'd used before.

I was nine years old the first time I ever had to deal with death. Persis Khambatta - no, not the model/actress renowned for her baldness, but a classmate of mine had died of a mysterious illness. Rumour had it that her body - nine, naive, naked - was placed on a large block of ice in a futile attempt to bring down her scorching fever. The next day, incidentally the Parsi New Year, Persis passed away. I remember being in Kanika's house when her mother, a teacher at our school, gravely broke the news to us. Not knowing how else to react, we giggled. Hysterically. Like the nine-year olds we were. Death had finally escaped John Lennon photographs to directly intervene in my life. In the following weeks, I began to truly understand mortality with its fragility, unpredictability, unfairness. I found myself crying in the midst of piano lessons, and evading sleep - that torturously lonely realm - to evade nightmares depicting the casualties of time. I still remember the exact moment at which I realised - in the bathroom, by the basin - that my parents were going to die at some point too. To date, I struggle to censor such thoughts, anaesthisizing them with the mundanity of every day life. Despite these efforts, I have spent many a sleepless night masochistically imagining unsavoury versions of the inevitable, set to the soundtrack of my pounding heart.

I guess it's fair to say that Persis' death affected me deeply. For years after, I felt enormously guilty for laughing at the news of my classmate's death. Thing is, I didn't really know Persis. I didn't even particularly like, or for that matter dislike, her. But being the person I am, I know that her birthday was on the 30th of November, making her exactly 13 days younger than me. Still, here I am at 21, livingbreathingthinking, while Persis will always be nine, frozen in photographs and indelible memories that undoubtedly haunt her family.

***********************************************************
On a lighter note, I had the strangest dream a few nights ago. Picture this: I am sitting on the edge of a swimming pool, with my legs dangling in the water. Suddenly, _______ appears from under water and as if it were the most normal thing in the world, begins to suck on my toes in a vaguely erotic manner. He asks me to jump into the pool, but even in the haziest of dreams, I am acutely aware of my hydrophobia. Then he dramatically leaps out of the water - fully clothed, dry as fat-free khakra - and sits beside me. We proceed to make out, and when I pull away, he is Kevin Spacey. I, more logically, am mortified.