The Perils of Eve

This might be a bit of a generalization, but sometimes I wonder whether most men on this planet were born without any good sense. The moment they see a woman on the streets, is it absolutely necessary to stare pointedly at that female? What I find even more perplexing (and disgusting as well) is that a lot of these post-pubescent-yet-mentally-highly-hormonal males feel a compulsive desire to say something or the other to a female passing by.

Yes, I am talking about ‘Eve teasing’. For instance, just yesterday, while I was waiting at the Metro station for my train, this man walked by, and even after he’d passed the place where I was sitting, he turned back to blatantly stare at me. Now I’d been particularly bipolar all day, and being in the ‘annoyed-with-the-world’ phase back then, I’d given him an extremely filthy look that a friend of mine has labelled as the “You dare cross me and I will kill you” look. Suffice it to say, the man turned his head and scooted off as quickly as he could. I am known for my glares.

And today, while walking towards an auto stand on my way back home, a loafer-like man passed by and said quite audibly, “Hey sexy!” It’s just that, it isn’t very flattering to have scum-like men say things like that to you. Instances such as staring or saying things are apparently pretty common. In fact, once, while I was waiting at a crossing, this man riding a bicycle had actually zoomed past me saying something of the same sort. Strangely, I’d only become aware of (and the subject of) this since I started college.

At least I have only experienced the ‘tamer’ versions of such behaviour. Two friends of mine have been subjected to lewd comments and shockingly, just yesterday, they were followed on the way to college by a man who had walked ahead and waited for them on the road with his pants off. And no, this isn’t a mistake, you did read it right. It is hardly necessary to mention that my friends were given a rather rude shock to their systems early in the morning.

So many would say that only women who dress provocatively are subjected to these occurrences. To those people I would only point out again and again reports of simply dressed women, ranging from eight year old girls to old ladies, who have been the victims of much worse sexual harassment. My friends certainly do not dress indecently and those who have seen me would say the same about me. Sometimes I wonder if it is enough to glare or yell back at the perpetrator. I’d say that behaviour of this sort stems from frustration, and nothing else. It’s something rotten at the core of society... many men (I can’t in all fairness say ‘all’) just can’t accept empowered women or women who carry themselves with confidence. I’m not really being a feminist. I belong to the school of thought that isn’t fond of bus seats reserved for women. But then, I cannot stand chauvinism of any sort. Wouldn’t things be easier if both men and women accepted each other as equals, as two sides of the same coin? Perhaps I’m being idealistic, but well:

“You may say I’m a dreamer
But I'm not the only one.”

More Pictures!

So yes, I meant to post the pictures I had taken yesterday on the day itself, however I did not have net access. Gah. Oh well, here are two taken yesterday and one taken today. And yeah, I am on a photography spree. It has been AGES since I have had a workable camera and I am going to make the most of it!

This would be the view from the window of a classroom I was occupying. And no, I did pay attention in class; this was taken before class started. :P

This one is a little blurred since it was taken from a moving auto. But I sort of like the perspective. :)

I took this today. The view from the fourth floor balcony is lovely! :D

Aerial Chasm

I took this last afternoon... they were drifting over my head, waiting to be photographed. It is a pity that it was taken against the light and hence it looks darker than it actually was. Oh well, the good news is that my camera is back! Yayness!

Moving House

Date: 27.07.2008
Time: 10:10 p.m.

Moving house was always such a pain
Since I kept on disregarding the gain
Brought upon myself by throwing out the clutter
Which would be kept neatly piled, out by the gutter
Left to be picked up by someone in need
Of broken toys locked away from greed
Away from the neighbour’s eyes and mine
Till I decided to unwrap them and destroy the shine
That untouched items have until
They are used to give human fingers a thrill
A furtive pleasure of destroying what’s new
Stealing the touch reserved only for few.

It would irk me to have to open boxes of yore
The task was always such a tiresome chore!
Sorting out what I needed made so much look futile
All those purchases seeming painfully puerile
When out of a mound of impulsive moments I’d find
Only a dozen that would still appeal to my mind
A few pats on the back given aptly deserved
The rest, recklessness that needs to be curbed
As I move into a new home hitherto blameless and free
Unadorned with clumsiness or a neurotic spree
My mad designs yet to be unleashed as a drawing
On the fresh sheet of paper that is irresistibly alluring.

End: 10:40 p.m.

Beetle

Date: 25.07.2008
Time: 8:55 p.m.

A beetle spoke to me today
It had nothing much to say
I was crawling through the grass below
When it stopped by to say hello
Looking at me with its many eyes
A mosaic made of greyish dyes
This beetle nodded and spoke of May
A time when it had stocked an array
Of scrumptious leaves that blew away
With the harrowing storm from across the bay,
Its tragic tale of morsels lost
And fear of the imminent winter’s frost
Moved me to prayers for one quick meal
Nice and juicy so that I’d feel
Its head being ground between my teeth
As it was freed from its imprisoning sheath
While I basked in the glory of the sun
And another banal battle won
Against those bugs that snivel and wail
About all the times their methods fail.

End: 9:18 p.m.

Bruises

Date: 23.07.2008
Time: 9:10 p.m.

Bruises are meant to be laughed at. Perhaps, run fingers over, or fingered at perversely to prick them into bleeding, but never to be caressed gently with the intention of caring for them, until they were healed. At least, that was what she’d grown up believing. Of course she’d beat up anyone who told her otherwise, and if it were a boy, she’d be especially mocking, and taunt the poor soul, accompanying her piercing words with wiggling eyebrows and rude finger gestures.

It had never occurred to her in all her fifteen years that there was such a thing called softness. Be tough. It was what kept her falling prey to the cliques surrounding her everywhere. She turned a tough hide on all the failings around her, as though trying her best to distance herself from a disease-dripped dressing of an adjacent inmate at a hospital she was unwillingly forced to live in. She began to shun herself the moment she noticed herself wrapped up in the very bandages she abhorred on her fellow human beings.

But then, bruises were always something she’d enjoy. It was a sort of pleasure to test her limits with pain, and the prolonged throbbing of her body every time she ensured an injury to herself. It made her cry out with joy – a feeling that was cloaked with a slight sense of guilt, as there were moments when she believed that she went against the very laws of nature, which told the living to recoil from what caused pain. She didn’t understand how anyone could turn away from the exhilaration of a wound, the rush that accompanied the sensation of agonising pain which could take control of her senses as easily as a gifted thespian holds an audience in awe.

It took effort, she told herself, to get to the point that she’d feel it, for she’d found out early in life that it took her longer to have physical sensations seep beyond her skin into the nerves that let her know that she lived. One day, when one of her peers had extended a hand to help her to her feet after a fall from a high wall, she’d scowled angrily, shaken the bewildered hand off and stalked off into the distance, her scraped knees bleeding, her limbs pulsating with painful bruises she’d worked so hard to get, and her pride wounded at being thought of as an object of pity – as a person who needed ‘help’.

And so, while she was lying on the crowded street, bleeding out before pedestrians shocked speechless by the sight of her mangled body, she felt the happiest she had been since she was born. She knew she wouldn’t die from it… that had never been her intention. It had been a stroke of luck to have been at that very spot in the first place. However, the thrill that choked her and made her deaf to the sounds of sirens blaring away as they made their growing closeness known and giving hope to those un-empathetic passers-by who wished to rob her of her pleasure, escalated her ecstasy to epic proportions. She revelled in her increased heartbeat, her shallow attempts as gasping for air, the tantalising splintered bone that stayed connected to her by a mere fraction of an inch, the searing pain in her abdomen as her body struggled to cope with displaced viscera and the mounting tension swelling within her as she tried to imagine the sight of herself.

The only thing that kept her from laughing out loud was having the wind knocked out of her by the impact that left her motionless on the street. The sound of the ambulance morphed into a high-pitched wail when she finally blacked out.

End: 9:50 p.m.

Cleaning Pays

My room has a pretty weird history. It has been my domain since I was in class VIII, before which it was my parents’. Now since I’d got possession of it, I’d pretty much done up the walls like any self-respecting teenager would, with lots and lots of posters, many of which were the fruits of my tinkering with Photoshop. My mother would say that the decor resembled that of a paan shop, while I would firmly shake my head and deny the rotten allegation, telling her that she needed to be more open-minded when it came to her walls.

One of my best friends who’d visited recently had remarked on the ‘compact’ nature of my room: how every thing tucked itself away when it wasn’t required. The sole reason for this is that I have a bunk bed (yes, laugh and call me a “child”, whatever!) that has a book-rack at its foot, a study table that can be pulled out of its head from one side, and a large number of drawers within itself, two of which also function as steps for a mini-ladder.

Being the extremely tidy person that I am, it isn’t a surprise that the contents of these two drawers hadn’t been er, “re-arranged” (I'm trying to be politically correct here!) in years. (I don’t let anyone but myself clean my room, not even my mother.) Now, I’d been on a bit of a cleaning spree of late, all in instalments of course, and the duration of which depended on my attention-span and level of laziness, and since I had nothing better to do today, I decided to clean up one of the drawers.

I am happy to announce that this endeavour of mine resulted in me becoming richer by a hundred bucks as well as the happy owner of a silver pendant-like-thingy. And no, the money wasn’t paid to me by my exasperated mother who fainted every time she used to see my room in the recent past, just so that I’d tidy up. I found it hidden beneath folds of old memories, most of which I threw away heartlessly, in an envelope... probably gifted by a benevolent relative ages ago. I remember the silver thing (for lack of a better word) being given to me by my favourite aunt, back when I refused to wear even ear-rings. That probably explains why it lay forgotten in that drawer for so long.

This is almost as good a thing as being pleasantly surprised by small amounts of money in my jeans pockets when I wear them after ages. And yeah, for the first time in my life I agree that cleaning pays!

Aftertaste of Hate

Date: 11.07.2008
Time: 8:25 p.m.

Would you be so kind if I mentioned
How hate fills me every time I see those wretched smiles?
It is loathing of the deepest kind
As strong, and as abrupt as the
Manner in which I walk —
Staccato steps that are noiseless, yet which resound
Down sonic corridors as the sound
Fractures the peace of a hitherto happy afternoon.

Oh look how those asinine smiles
And pleasantries are exchanged!
It is a familiar sight and a familiar feeling;
Anger bubbles within my poisoned heart
Just as a giggle erupts in yours
Decayed with too much sugar
Much too sweet, much too light and much too
Done-up with candy to have place for anything bitter
Like the darker blend of chocolate.

Its taste is also unwelcome to your mouth
You shun it as soon as it touches those
Saccharine lips too lined with pity
There is that curvature of judgement passed
And wrinkling of the nose
As you denounce that unwelcome, unfamiliar and
Unsavoury crumb, spitting it out
And treading upon it too, unknowingly.

I walk away when I see this repeated
And return to be tread upon again
Once more for the love of what I hate
For it is too strong, too passionate
And too fascinating a feeling
For me to let go and walk away,
So, I stay.

My speech reveals not this hate
But if you notice my lidded eyes
The glaring animosity shall not escape your patronising glance
You will be stunned at first though
Unsure as to whether it was merely imagined,
A piercing glance that makes you lose confidence
In your exuberance and charm
You turn again to look, but
The moment has passed and I am
On guard against your suspicion
That I am not one of you.

I am silent for most of the morning
And also the afternoon, if permitted,
Labelled a quiet introvert to whom nobody speaks
It’s funny how no one notices
How dangerous this is — an observer
Whose intentions are never gauged and never known
By those who smile, sigh and pronounce judgement
On those ‘poorer’ souls who don’t conform
To the convention of a sunny disposition.

If disturbed by voices during such introspection
My anger melts into the bewildered look
Of one who was asleep in the last row
During a sleepy discourse and was interrupted,
Prodded awake by those who are
Much too concerned about the welfare of others,
I am surprised, and perhaps a little lost too.

But this hatred is precious, most precious!
It is the film which can neutrally filter afflictions
Through which I like to see the world…
Remove this ability of my heart and eyes
And I shall be like another of that shallow crowd,
Unable to demarcate what is ‘judgement’
And what is a mere observation
Dispassionate and without consequence of emotion
Oh but look! A contradiction of wording
Stops me from elaborating as I
Fall prey to my own twisted logic.

I sigh the sigh of futility now
Echoing the wasted effort of another day
Amidst the same horde that I despise
Yet don’t care the slightest bit about
Tiredness placates my passion for the day
As I sigh some more and roll the dark chocolate
Inside my mouth with my tongue —
The silvery wrapper listlessly discarded on the floor
While my painted tongue revels in the bitter aftertaste.

End: 9:55 p.m.

Colour of Warmth

Date: 09.07.2008
Time: 9:00 p.m.

How often it is that I’ve said
That my life lacks any colour!
I’ve seen only the bluish tint
Of cold fingernails and hands
Yet, embraced by the warmth of
A candle that I turn to
They remain no longer deathly cold.

The flame before me flickers often
As does the pall of darkness
Wandering gracefully, the shadows
Find new homes upon my walls
Each new form expresses
Another soulful little dance
Spreading its movement across a stone slab.

Would my hands burn
If I were to touch what is white hot?
It would be foolish indeed
To incense the incandescent!
Reverential fingers can only hover
And hope one day, to capture
The energy that moves the universe.

An eye held close shudders shut
When it nears brightness too strong
For its limited chambers to fathom,
Only its power is felt upon cold skin
Which warms up to it instantly
Almost as though it is ensnared
By the heat of a beloved’s body.

End: 9:10 p.m.