Hen... pecker

Ok, so the keeda is running amok these days and since the avenues for expression are rather limited, I will resort to the English language and the words that make me think. 

Henpecked for one.

Henpecked is defined as, ‘(of a woman) continually criticize and order about (her husband or other male partner). Synonyms: browbeaten, downtrodden, bullied, dominated, nagged, subjugated, oppressed, repressed, intimidated, ground down, without a mind of one's own, tied to someone's apron strings, under someone's heel.

Living in a multicultural environment and conversing with people of different nationalities, most being non-native speakers of the English language I’m constantly amused by the words used by Indian speakers. Henpecked is common jargon used superciliously.

Quite different from ‘cuckolded’ which means ‘a man whose wife has sexual relations with other men’. While both words are derogatory towards a man, I would think henpecked is the lesser evil.

The female version of both words are ‘cockpecked’ (I know… I know! The wiring in my head is running amok with puns) and ‘cuckquean’. Quean incidentally means hussy or prostitute.  

Now comes the quintessential question… why aren’t these words commonplace?

Going by statistics, I’d think that these words should have a wider representation. Interesting isn’t it that when a woman is ‘cockpecked’ (aiyyo! this word, this word!) the man is considered the epitome of manhood, alpha if you please and when she is ‘cuckqueaned’, the man is simply being a man! Nature of the beast and all.

Interesting no, cock and cuck, peckered and queaned. How phallic the fallacy. 

Me no pause...

I was asked whether I would choose to be reborn as a woman if I believed in reincarnation and mindlessly I said, of course! What do you think!

As always motor mouth sprints like Bolt before the brain can actually assimilate rational thought.

Struggling with menstruating once in two months and then twice a month, chafed thighs, volatile mood swings, hot flushes, bloating like a decomposing corpse, copious weight gain… would I still answer with the same nonchalance?

I know I am on the brink of the dreaded menopause (yeah I said it and it’s not a dirty word, except when the men in question pause when you’re almost at the apogee) and I’m morphing into a creature I do not recognize.

While traditional stereotypes are not who I aspire to be, I mean, Sita and Esther… good for them but they do not titillate my twat, I’m pretty clear of who I do not want to be!

I do not want to be jaded and vitriolic, disenchanted and inorganic, defeated and bummed out as I grow older.

I do not want to believe that the flush of my youth has ended and I have to behave ‘like a lady’ and act my age, I mean, even my body is telling me that apparently.

I do not want to quit yearning for adrenaline rushes, sinful blushes and some action behind the bushes.

Then again, the very question gets my panties into a knot, being reborn as a woman. WTF. Interesting though, the religions that do believe in reincarnation edict that being born as a woman is some sort of a punishment as the souls refines itself through karma and towards nirvana.

Bad karma apparently leads a soul to be reborn as a woman and is an obstacle towards attaining moksha. Forget the panties, my gut just did a Korbut flip and include the bloody uterus percolating crimson too, it just jiggled like hooters sans silicon. You get the drift.

No matter how excruciating the cramp and agonizing this teetering on the brink of mania, I’d do this over and over again. Be a woman that is.

Not extolling the virtues of womanhood, penning this has been exhausting enough and one could give free reign to their bent imagination.

However I will say this, I love the fact that I can allow myself to feel deeply with the core my being and experience emotions that at times threaten to sear me as well as embalm. To girdle my loins with steel while sporting a gossamer garter. To walk away from the unnecessary drama and watch life go by as I chill with  some hooch. To nurture and nourish, protect and cherish and sponge away the blues of those who are mine.

Yup, coming back as a woman. God help us all. I'm on a roll...

Me no pause...

Hype Oh Crite...

Hypocrisy is considered by some to be the eighth cardinal sin of man. Being consistently evil is in some ways better than being inconsistently nice. Inconsistency is thought to be the hallmark of a man of weak character, of one who cannot decisively control his own actions - Mendel Adelman.

I confess I'm hypocritical too, a trait I'm trying my best to minimize.

The current been in the bonnet is the poor unsuspecting ‘bindi’, if I'd known it would cause so much trouble, I'd have tattooed one on my forehead by now. Bindi is a coloured dot worn on the centre of the forehead, originally by Hindus and Jains. Bindu is considered the point at which creation begins and may become unity. It is also described as ‘the scared symbol of the cosmos in its unmanifested state’ - Wikipedia.

When one of the girls who married into my family said she loves my bindi’s and used to wear them before she got married, I asked her what stops you now and she said ‘I’m not allowed to wear’. ALLOWED??? Seriously!!!! By who exactly and the poor girl mumbled something incoherently.

When I narrated this to someone in the family, she says, “I hope you didn’t encourage her”.

I was ‘reminded’ that Protestant Christian women from my family and church in Mangalore do not and should not wear bindi’s as it is against our culture. Now that I am defying the traditions that I was so carefully brought up with, I should be mindful that I maybe encouraging other women in my family to follow suit and this is a cardinal sin (oh we have an entire glossary of sins that yours truly indulges in freely, if excommunication was allowed I’d be first in line for my ‘misdeeds’).

Twenty five blood vessels burst in my head simultaneously and before I could explode I was told, “You married out of the community so we don’t tell you anything but don’t encourage our girls to wear it, if her husband doesn’t like it, she shouldn’t”.

I’m astounded I’m still alive, really. The pressure in my cranium was immense and I asked the woman in question, “how can you even say that? Did you not tell me a week ago that you are not allowed to do the little things you like since your husband doesn’t ‘allow’ it? And did amnesia make its way into your being so quick… talk about double standards.”

Needless to say, our relationship is strained thinner than gossamer strings. I’m only lamenting on the many experiences we are shut ourselves from because of our hypocritical attitude. Women cry foul about subjugation when its themselves they are talking about but when its other women, especially younger women, ‘culture’ and ‘tradition’ are used like Damocles sword and chastity belts to reign them in.

We do not need anyone to clip our wings and shackle us, we do so ourselves dear fair sex, quit then the needless whining about 'equality', it's never going to adorn the portals of your abode as long as you are Janus faced.

When you say you're done with servility and would like some civility, can you please sit down, shut the f*ck up and practice consistency in speech and actions.

Oh come off it… hippo critters!

Symphony…

The end of the year is always a good time to do a recce on the year that passed and the crap I’ve done, the people I’ve pissed and wonder whether I could have done it any better, who did I miss!?!!?

 Fleetingly the challenges and obstacles of the year, the sometimes dignity of handling them with grace, streaks through the mind with Lady Godiva ish grandeur.

The word that’s doing the foxtrot in my head for now is ‘Symphony’. As defined in the dictionary, a symphony is “an elaborate musical composition for full orchestra, typically in four movements, at least one of which is traditionally in sonata form.”

This is a purely musical annotation of the word. A sonata is “a composition for an instrumental soloist, often with a piano accompaniment, typically in several movements with one or more in sonata form”.

Hmnnn… the elephant doing cartwheels in my cerebellum is wondering whether there has been any symphonic element during the year for yours truly.

So, four movements of a symphony are quite akin to the four seasons methinks: spring, summer, monsoon and winter. 

Also to the highs and lows of the year which each of these seasons denote.

Now remember that one of these movements, have to be a sonata... or playing solo. Which one of these have I been spanking the monkey at? 

I gaze unblinking until my eyes dilate better than you-know-what at a D&C procedure until the phosphenes twirl in my orbs in concentric circles.

The psychedelic moment passes and lucidity allows me to reconnoiter that there really hasn’t been one specific season that I’ve been cranking the shank, every individual period has had its fair share of sonatas.

And that is probably what keeps me sane. To be able to disconnect from the melee around me or the fracas in my mind and focus, if briefly on the evanescence and impermanence of it all. My father in law loved the phrase, ‘that too shall pass away’ and I’ve girded my loins (which explains my retroverted uterus) with it.

In the summers of the year when you flirt with the highest point in the bell curve or at winters when the dip reaches the nadir, all one needs is to take one step or maybe two, back and take a few deep breaths and introspect on how much energy one really needs to spend on the triviality that is not worth a tinkers damn in a few years, months or even days.

Now that we have established that the sonatas have been multitudinous, has the symphony been pleasing to the ear or jarred the senses. Did the orchestra have consonance and equilibrium. Did we play in tandem.

Again, those little buggers did the jig in my eyes as I stare at the screen blankly and now I see blue dots do the striptease. 

Fact is that the concinnity has been sporadic and random.

That is what this thingummy jig is after all isn’t it… of irregular cadences, the bass and the tenor going off key at times, the string quartet at loggerheads with the percussionists and the conductor throwing the baton in, only to sigh in resignation and bravely pick it up with hope that each person plays their part to the best of their abilities.

That we will celebrate the composition of different elements, even when the concerto doesn’t play to the audience, to be true to the self and not simply simper... phony.

I'm..fallible

Just finished this marvelous book by Val Brelinski, "The Girl Who Slept with God" and I couldn't have chosen a more opportune time to reading it.
Christmas has always been my favorite season. As a young girl brought up in the devout Protestant faith of my parents, Christmas was a season for love, for festivities, new clothes, presents, sweetmeats, family gatherings and above all, of faith.

Of the birth of the Lord, of new beginnings, of a better tomorrow, in short... of faith.

Val Brelinski with her utterly simple and evocative narrative describes a family that is extremely religious, not a scenario I identify myself with although there are some extremely judgmental passages about the shenanigans of the 'wicked world' and the sins that one can 'succumb' to. The teachings of a conservative church that most 'faithful' ascribe to, when it suits them of course.

The narrative draws you to a web of fallibility that each one of us subscribe to, as children, spouses and parents. Of the decisions we ascribe to thinking that we do so in the best interests of the family and how hopelessly selfish each one of them is.

There are passages in the book that make you want to exclaim with anger tinged with pain and there are those rebellious actions of a fourteen year old that urge you to simply say, 'atta girl!' You want to hammer the parents and wallop the girls at times and there are times when you simply resign yourself to the futility of all the dissent and wish we lived in a simpler world where God was your ally and not this fearsome creature who waits to punish you for every misdeed. Well God knows I'm past master at those!

The book brings back memories of personal defiance as a girl, of incredibly stupid resolutions as a parent and some pathetic behavior as a human that makes me hang my head in gut wrenching shame. Prostitutes may not confess to a priest but thank heavens I have a blog to sate this desire to expunge.

The book has a melancholic ending and you wish with every fiber of your being that its denouement was positive. And yet, though one of the protagonists is but ashes at age seventeen, the fourteen year old (alter ego?) chooses a simpler path although she's the mother of everything convoluted. She chooses to forgive, a grace that belies her age. Above all, she gives credence to that which she cannot see, but can feel.

This for me is the message of Christmas this year, that I'm fallible and will forever be and maybe that's ok... as long as I posses the honesty to accept that, the tenacity to ensure I minimize the damage and the forever faith that there is one person who is Infallible, to whom I can turn and rest my yoke when life turns dreary.

It's a new day, a new beginning and every Christmas is the harbinger of this faith, love and hope, HE's Infallible and I'm fallible.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

  

Of sooner's than later's...

While change is the only constant, thank you Heraclitus… I’m afflicted with vertigo and tinnitus at its velocity and vibrancy. The latter, I’d rather welcome. My paternal genes lean heavily towards presbycusis, I will get there sooner than later.

My little world is pulverized almost every day as a new dogma is lambasted into it. India is big into changing names of its famous, infamous, not so famous cities. I refuse to call the place where my umbilical cord disintegrated as Mumbai. My birth certificate states Bombay and Bombay it shall remain for me, until senility comes calling, which I have a sneaking suspicion, is also sooner than later.

Today, a post on Gandhi flanked by two young women made its way into a Whatsapp group with metoo emblazoned on the women. I’m super reactive, sensitive and umbrageous these days. Menopause will you bloody happen sooner!

Yeah so I expostulated, I thought it in bad taste and I’m unpleasantly miffed that I maybe part of a groupuscule that is tottering on the brink of extinction. How molecular this infinitesimal cerebellum, sigh!

Which triggered recent memories of posts, conversations and publications that I’ve been playing eyes wide shut to, because it splinterizes the dogmas and tenets that I’ve grown up with. Like Gandhi, being the Father of our Nation and his role in our freedom struggle. 

As children most fancy dress competitions were won by those who dressed like Gandhi, every year, same to same, Dorian Grayish. To say our parents and teachers lacked imagination is an understatement. I’m going to be ostracized, by the former and the latter, sooner than… you know the drill by now.

We had to learn three languages in school, English, Kannada and Hindi and all three had lessons on Gandhi and honestly it was overkill, the only reason I had some feelings for him, positive ones that is, was because October 2^nd , his birthday was a national holiday.

In law college, his book “The Law and the Lawyers” was prescribed as part of English as a subject and we were supposed to be inspired as ‘lawyer or a layman with the belief that the vocation of the lawyer is an honorable vocation requiring the highest standards of rectitude integrity and uprightness and that its practice is in no way inconsistent with the pursuit of truth.’ Says the blurb on the book.

It was a chore and most of us hated it. Once we were done with formal education, the only reminders of Gandhi were on our currency largely and I grew to quite like the fellow as an adult. I’d begun to appreciate his wily wisdom and slowly made peace with him. Later than sooner.

Just when I decided he had merit and was proud, some of my country folk, pun intended, have swung the other way. Gandhi is an anti hero to them for acquiescing with demands that led to India’s partition. The millions of people who were killed during this division, apparently their blood is on his hands.

Now ask me why my ire is piqued! Like seriously!!! My India is hell bent on rewriting history and presenting new ‘facts’. I have only one thought, will this help my country to be a more aware, humane, intellectual, cohesive society? Will it pave the path for equality and justice and brother hood? Will defiling memories of leaders past bring to our future a new aurora?

I said only one thought a few sentences earlier, didn’t I? Ok I bent the truth… left. Read Gandhi’s autobiography “My Experiments with the Truth”.

I’m also wondering how many ‘truths’ will emerge to convert, covertly or overtly, to Fascism, sooner than later.

#metoo

If there’s one thing that everyone has an opinion on, and a right one these days, is metoo! 

Yeah ok I’m joining the bandwagon. I’ve been ‘bubbling’ with it for days now and if I don’t spit now I may just choke. Consider this a spoiler and stop reading right now.

What interests me is how, when metoo entered Indian society via Bollywood actresses accusing the respected bigwigs of the industry, it gathered momentum and women began posting their stories on public media.

In the beginning it had the support of women and I know many who spoke about abuse and how they suffered through it. Their trauma was discussed and their ire openly expressed. There were men who thought this was wrong too and circumscribed with the thinking too.

As more stories emerged the tables seemed to have turned, all the sympathy and bonhomie has left the room. I went that way too when I read a post published by a Bangalore male about the woman who, along with his ex, posted stories about him and his abusive ways, including his torturing his poor dog, no really, not the position!

I read through the post and his sincerity shone through especially since he has posted evidence of the events that unfolded. It did seem like a malicious and bitter woman besmirching the good name of this man. My band of girlfriends and I, were paralyzed with shock, not as much at the slander but the sexts the man has shared. Messages and pictures by women he met largely on Tinder and the many one night stands, threesomes, orgies he claims to have had, plus his sexual preferences including BDSM, which some women claimed to love. The messages, jeez… they read straight out of Literotica. I’m a believer that the stories on the website and Penthouse’s Letters to the Editor aren’t fiction at all! Fact is indeed stranger than fiction.

For a couple of days I was reeling with the shock of encountering a society I didn’t quite know existed (I am as stupid as I look, yup!) and we continued to talk about it on the group and the common consensus was that we’re old fossils and our attention shifted from metoo to WTF.

You’re still reading? You little rebel… I like you :P

Today a post made its way to many whatsapp groups by a woman apparently, who rubbishes the metoo claims and says, ‘A strong woman does not wait 30, 20, 10 years to speak up, she slaps him on the first "bad touch" and knocks him out...’

Which triggered my confession on my family group that I was molested as a 4 year old and it took me over 40 years to talk about it. The perpetrator is long dead, what is my motive in bringing this up now, and worse posting it?

My response, “I support the metoo movement. Well what I went through is history but what I now want is for no other girl including my daughter and all the daughters in this group or anywhere else to go through what I did. This movement isn’t against men but it is to show solidarity with other women who have been through abuse. It’s cathartic.

Also maybe as a warning to those who may think they can do this and get away with it. Not anymore. We will raise our voices from now and refuse to take abuse.”

Ok so I was a kid and hence not strong enough to raise my voice but once I grew up, I should be able to take action right then and not whine years later, correct?  NO. I don’t know if I’m that ‘strong’ person even now… I definitely wasn’t a couple of years ago (this isn’t to elicit sympathy... I’m getting there) but yes, I have hope now, more courage than I ever did and that is because I don’t feel alone anymore. I don’t feel like I will be judged for admitting that I’ve been a victim.

I don’t have to believe that I’m a woman and it comes with the territory and it’s better to avoid situations rather than complain about it. As I was growing up this was an adage that was the foundation of my upbringing and while I believe it’s better not to be in a position from where one can be f*ked, literally, I’d like to be able to make the choice and for it to be free.

Metoo isn’t only about women, there are many men who’ve been abused too, who are being abused ironically by the metoo movement too. Just because there are cases of it being used for extortion, I don’t believe we should rubbish the genuine cases. I’d flay anyone who abuses either of my kids, it isn’t about the gender.

Ultimately let’s be harbingers of a change in society that allows each of us decorum and freedom and the right to choose which, how and where and oh yeah… lets reserve judgement and lean towards empathy, not cos karma is a bitch but because that is what defines us.

You’re still reading? You may want to pour yourself a double large :D