Shocks that I got today

Most recent: Just discovered that Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer are in an open marriage. I don't know if I am freaked out about this or happy (considering my, er, less than congenial feelings about their marriage). I also discovered recently that I would find her, Amanda Palmer, quite a kickass personality if not for my predispositions. Nothing doing there, I guess, since I only came to know who she was because he married her. I have known him longer. sigh. (Only in my head, people, only in my head! I swear, these days everything I say, feels like needs a disclaimer.)

More recent: There has come that horrible moment when you discover a fatal character defect in your partner/spouse and you cannot un-see it and you know that the world will never be the same again. I just put all the pieces of the puzzle together in my head. They were there lurking around at the back of my subconscious all this time and it just took one tv interview for all of it to click into place.

Shahrukh khan could possibly be a sociopath.

I love him. Don't get me wrong. The relationship exists. But something is broken. I came back from work and turned on the TV to find a rerun of Koffee with Karan playing, featuring Gauri Khan and Suzzanne Roshan. As the spoke about their respective courtships, Gauri tells of how she broke of their long relationship for a bit and almost didn't get married, and how she ran away to Bombay to get some space because SRK was getting too intense and possessive and she couldn't take it anymore and how he followed her to Bombay and hunted her down and then would pretty much stalk her wherever she went until she relented. Or something to that effect. Now this is not a new story. We've all heard this from the man's mouth and it probably sounded romantic. But coming from the mouth of a woman and her now matter of fact jokingly narration of the incident gave me little chills. Lets face it ladies, we have all been in that situation at certain point of our lives. A little too intense and stalky a boyfriend who really needed a restraining order which the country's penal system doesn't have.  Also in the light of the very real danger to women and the current state of the country and its men, its a more sobering story. And she has been living with him for over 25 years!

That was the missing piece which clicked everything into place. If you watch the older interviews of SRK ( pre Dilwale) you will find an arrogant, rude and uber intelligent young man who doesn't suffer idiocy too well. Now watch any of his recent interviews. Its not the same person. The man is now a picture of humility who loves and loves and only loves. He has admitted to the fact that he used to be the typical delhi guy who could turn violent at the flip of a coin and some part of that still lives on.

My thing is people don't change that drastically. So what we see now must be the mother of all social engineering and acting. Again, this is not new. What is new is I just realized how brilliant and calculated it all is, so insidious that none of us noticed it. And how difficult it is to imagine the SRK of today as the same pre dilwale egoistic, slightly obsessive guy. That is why I find it slightly scary and sociopathic, that a man can be so cold and calculated and shrewed and can do a whole mass charming of fans so silently and insidiously that no one would notice.

What are the general signs of a sociopath? They are highly intelligent, and utterly selfcentered, yet completely capable of charming anyone if they find it necessary. Does that sound like someone we know?

QED

( I still love him tho. Something about the crazies that brings out the hots in me more. Talk about a deeply dysfunctional relationship)

Recent: I have been watching these Jay Z interviews and the rap meets performance arts videos and finding the man intelligent in a very rough and uneducated way and some of his raps very disturbingly captivating.

My youtube watch history is pretty frightening right now. sigh.

I shudder to say anything about the state of the world, the state of India, poverty, intellect and all the things which would either paint me as the right idiot for not being learned enough, or paint me as the type who has THOUGHTS on things. God forbid if I open my mouth and people realized that I do not read the newspapers, tho by some cruel planning on someone's part the daily papers are delivered every morning to MY desk of all places ( I have to move it to the unoccupied table very sadly. They should know that I don't read the papers by now. Only Bangalore times. I call it the porn papers).
I shudder more to say or think anything about the state of politics, poverty and any other P you can think of, for a simple reason:
I am a 27- year-old person, who earns a certain amount of money, who owns a computer, thinks in English, and the only poverty and misery I know is having to eat cereal or biscuits for a meal in dire situations. I have no spiritual beliefs and I have voted exactly once in my life. I have never had to think for a second about healthcare. And, if I choose, I am equiped  to read all those debates about it in the papers, because I'm not living it. Hence I have no right. Hence my mouth will remain shut.

This week.

It's been emotional.

And it isn't over yet.

Damn.

Note to self

Its 6.41 in the morning. I haven't slept yet. Or more like, I slept for a spurt of 15 mins at about 3, but woke myself back up to finish watching a movie. I am two toothless and its not hurting as much as I thought it would, but the day is still young. Oh, I'm also home, in Calcutta.
And I seem to be convinced suddenly, more than ever that I don't want to keep on doing what I am doing. I need to take some risks, make some preparations and jump into things which actually interest me. Things that  I think are cool. Workwise. Somehow, the last year seems to be a bit of a waste, intellectual stimulation wise. But I have a feeling that I will have to hold out a little longer.
There is a battle going on between my wanting to do other things and my crippling self doubt about not having enough skills and not enough talent, aided by the fear that I don't have the talent to develop those skills. But its time again to state to myself here, that I need to shut up and do what feels right and exciting to me.
Because the life inside my head isn't what it used to be.

Mood has been altered because I went through my bookmarks and found this. Strange how two French artists can produce such mind altering yet different reactions in me.

I think about drawing everyday. Yet I never do it. And when I do force myself to put pencil or pen to paper, the creation that is resultant is always stilted, and all the worlds that I ambition to create in my head falls into dust of the realization that I really have no skill. If I manage to convince myself that skill can be acquired, and I force myself to stare at the daunting mountain of the white page, I am faced with a monster which is impossible to surmount with sheer bullheadedness: A severe lack of imagination. Sometimes my dreams of being another Moebius or working in the concept art department of Weta Workshop or Massive Black are in the danger of disintegrating because of reality forcing itself in. And if they disintegrate what am I let with? I am nothing if not for my day dreams. These are the things that make me stick with a day job and not just give it all up (screw subsistence) and just do whatever. These are the things which tide me through the crippling loneliness of adulthood and not having too many friends.
Yet, I fear the dream is breaking. I don't do nearly enough to make the dream stick together. And one day all that I'll be left with is dust. And that day is not far off.

Discovery of the real joy of reading

There was some jacking about today about Post Modernism. Now that sounds extremely pretentious but trust me it is not. I don't know anything about Modernism or Post Modernism or for that matter Post Post Modernism other than the fact that these words exists, and there are complicated theories about it which people who are very intelligent and like to dabble with intelligence as a gentlemanly passtime talk about them in casual conversations over a bottle of wine and sweetly scented candles. I am obviously not one of them. I'd love to be one of them, for the simple reason everybody else wants to be one of them. Who doesn't want to be more intelligent?
The thing about knowledge and learning when it comes to me is that I don't retain anything. My mind is the proverbial sieve that a people talk about. I read, then I think that I know something and then I systematically proceed to forget to retain anything of what I have taken in. I have been trying to go through my college text books for the past couple of months and I believed, as I read them, that I was understanding a lot more than when I haphazardly read some of the material when I was supposed to be cramming for examinations. But I just don't remember. I remember odd things from them. But facts and figures still elude my memory.
Post Modernism and different -isms, I have vague ideas about, and I should probably read more about it since in my line of work, its a sacrilege not to be conversant with different schools of thought and basic Art History. But I'm afraid that I am an abject failure in this and always shall be because of my lack of retention of anything.
I believe I will just stop the pretension of wanting to remember things and just read for the pleasure of the experience of reading, which is: the momentary illusion of believing that I'm learning something. Not remembering should just be looked upon as an added advantage. I can keep going back to the material again and again and be equally excited about reading it as I was the first time I read it. Who knows? Maybe upon the millionth read, the sieve will finally clog up and I might be lucky enough to be left with a massively gross hairball of accumulated knowledge.

Suffering from deep jealousy of not being in conversational popularity with people who I think are veritable celebrities and over all famous persons. In other words, there is a deep envy that there are people who I know who are friendly and conversational with people who I read and are semi famous. I just get ignored or (oldest grudge in my book of hurts) get labelled and shooed off as spam.

(Please excuse this. Its the middle of the night. And I am a stalker.)

This is what I am totally digging right now. Its Greg Rucka and its one of the best webcoms iv seen in some time now.

http://www.ineffableaether.com/

I was just watching the geek and sundry channel, and one of the vlogs talked about geeking out on the simpsons or something to that effect.
It just occured to me that I like that show a lot. Its amazingly written. But the art isn't something which I immediately think about the moment someone brings up beautiful and memorable comic art. It is entirely a content  driven show. A writers show.
Similarly, I have this natural aversion to pokemon. I can't stand it. Actually that goes for most manga of anykind for me. Some how I cannot get my head wrapped around manga. The art just puts me off. I guess I can intellectually understand and appreciate it. But thats it. I am actually repelled by it, if it comes to instinctual choosing. 

I have developed certain favorites when it comes to tweeting. Warren Ellis is the current favorite. Its like I can keep listening to him grumble and rant forever. Such a bad tempered man. But also strangely harmless. Adorable.

The decision to write everyday isn't going so well. Yesterday was spent in a state of fugue, where I occupied one spot on the bed for the entirety of twenty four hours and then some, with a book, and then with a computer, I forget which, without wanting to talk to anyone. Today was brighter and shinier. So, I ventured out to meet M and walked around commercial street a bit.
I am still eating the gigantic quantities of pizza that was ordered yesterday, and which formed my lunch, evening snacks for the entire weekend. And I come away with

1) currently wearing a watch that is the most expensive thing I have ever owned in the way of apparel or accessories.

2) a stomach full of burger and no space for dinner which I fought for unnecessarily downstairs with the landlady.

Gah.

Hello. Its been two months since I've written anything here. I think I was posting more on the other blog (art stuff). Probably because its easier to do that when I'm working and doodling on the tablet in between and just posting stuff, than think and contemplate. So there is this sudden realization that this is more of a contemplation blog. No one really reads it, it just makes me feel that I am doing something, with a vague chance of someone reading it, but not really. The other blog has become a habit. This blog is a much older habit. One which has died and comeback, with a much lesser personality, one which is less braver and ambitious and cautious, if nothing else. But I do make resolutions here, some of which I never keep. Sometimes I write about things which interest me, and sometimes I relapse into writing about myself. My current resolution is to just write.
I will write more now on. Everyday. I promise. Even stupid inconsequential things. But the point is to write. Because I have some vague goals than needs to be achieved. And realization of what they are, is also a part of the goal. So that's what I want to do now.

Phone Angst

So I really want to buy a new phone. A smart one. And according to people, I'm being very dumb about it. What happened was that I started feeling very disconnected to people and my very sleep deprived brain convinced me that if I had Whatsapp on my phone, I would really be connected to others. Hence, a smart phone is required. Then I saw the TV commercials for the Nokia Lumia, and really loved the UI. Take a look:

Isn't it pretty? The design is clean, colorful. And yes, Android beats it in the apps department. Not many games and what have you. But it comes loaded with whatever communications shit you could possible want. And windows 8 office suite. Which, lets face it, is the best office software suit that is there right now. Whatever that is said of the apple and the other crap is just that. Crap. And all its communications are integrated in one place, comes fully loaded with facebook and twitter. Comes with IE but you can easily download whatever other browser you prefer (and lets face it, that's not really an option is it?). Plus, you get tons of music free from the nokia store for a YEAR. And its solidly built, because its nokia. you know its not namby pamby. and wont be destroyed because you dropped it once. 

That's pretty much all I want from a phone. I don't want to be the tech geek of the year. Really, I don't. I'm not very tech savvy. I'm quite happy if you give me a laptop and an internet connection. I don't really need to fiddle with my phone all the time. And besides, I've been using my current one for the last three and a half years, and its going strong. There's nothing wrong with my phone. I just want a change. I got bored using one phone for almost four years. So, sue me. 

I don't need to hear guilt trips about thinking about it a lot before spending so much money on a phone. Because, a) Its 15k. b) I have that money to spend and I don't really spend on ANYTHING c) Why is it so wrong to be frivolous about something ONCE, when I am a scrooge about everything otherwise? I don't need the guilt trip. I do it all by myself. 

Sure, I need to buy myself a scanner and a desktop and a camera and god knows what else, in order to fulfill my long term goals, but why should i be non frivolous all the fucking time? The only frivolous thing I do, is buy books. And there too, I can never do the insanity that other people seem to be naturally gifted with. I just don't know how to spend like a maniac. 

But I didn't. I didn't buy the phone. I walked in and out of the store twice, got pissed at my companion's negativity and walked out, with no resolution in my mind, but a deep resentment.

I hate people. Really.

An album, a book, and a guitar

I've been meaning to write every day now. But something or the other kept distracting me. It is a safe bet between new things that I wanted to talk about and the deep lethargy which possesses me at equal intervals.
Well, enough is enough. This is the day I Write Things Down. When I pompously said that there were things which were exciting me, I meant there's just two.
Number one is this album:

I love how I can find things on social networking sites. Stalking has its strong points. I think it should be remarked upon the fact that I am marveling at one of the theoretical things that the social networking sites are actually supposed to do: share information, pictures, music, film, conversation, culture. It is so easy to read every one of the words I used there in the most negative and perverted one of their connotations. For example, I know for a fact that I found out about this particular album while noticing an ad posted in my feed and then going on to read the conversation that was probably private, going on underneath it. I barged in. Its unbelievably rude. But this is how things work for us all, isn't it? I guess I will go to hell for the simple fact that I still can't find myself to feel guilty about being curious and wanting to know things. For the better or for worse. 

I am listening to this for the third time today, from the moment I downloaded it. Actually no, I had started to listen to it on youtube even before it had finished downloading. And I think the thrill of it comes from the fact that I had heard bits of music arranged by this guy before and had been very impressed, and just excited to have a whole album full of songs just like them. 

His name is Mike Mcleary. Lucky Ali's brother-in-law. Guy who arranged the seminal "Sunoh", if the internet is to be believed. But I did not know that. I came to know of such a man as this and his work because I liked what he had done to "Khoya khoya chand" in Shaitan. Even though the music purist critics in The Hindu  and their ilk have ranted and raved at this being the sign of the sure decimation of all that is musical in the Great Indian Culture, perhaps I am too much of an anglicized child of the eighties and nineties to not appreciate the classy arrangements, sure fusion-ish, on the songs. Its like crack. You like old bollywood? you like the bass and the arrangements to come at you on the waves of great guitars and stuff and hit you on the head and make it bop? This is for you.

I then heard "Tum jo mil gaye ho" on the coke ad without knowing it was the same guy. And then I find that its on this track. I hit the download button almost involuntarily. And haven't stopped listening to it ever since.

Lets see if I can embed a music clip.... hmm apparently not. Well here's a video:

The second thing I was quite excited about was finding a new writer that I liked. Deepak Unnikrishnan. I read a short story in this:

Short story about an almost obscure rakshas in an anthology full of a variety of weeping and murdering Sitas. I loved the fact that I started reading the story and could not believe what I was reading. The feeling was quite like reading Gaiman, the same sense of magic, insidiously happening, I can go as far as that in describing it. I guess this is the reason any one of us love reading. Because some risks, like just randomly buying a book, can smack you in the forehead with unexpected magic. Not all the time ( I still remember buying both books by Anonymous and not being able to go past three pages. Worse than Twilight, which I managed two books). But these moment make it worth it.

 I also finally gave in and bought myself a guitar. It's nylon sting, flamenco, and I am discovering that its hurting my fingers more than a normal brass string would have. Here's to turning over misconceptions. I think if I had a normal guitar, by this time (i.e. after three days) my fingertip calluses would return and it would all be ok. But they are not. And it still hurts. But I love having the misguided dream of being able to play at least ten proper chords once again. This kind of idiocy I could do more of. 

                      

When I think of Orhan Pamuk, I don't think of a person. The type of his name appears in my mind. Is it strange that an author is just Typography in my head?

Little Tragedies

Little tragedies make up my life. They are like little explosions in my heart. I bleed a little, and then feel refreshed because of this. Perhaps my heart is a bit medieval in its conception of what makes up for good health because everyone knows that bleeding is not really a cure. Transfusion is. But a bleeding heart feels a little like purging. Wracking sobs and silent sniffles, and eyes tearing up in the perfect loneliness of looking around at the world and realizing that it is so big and I am so alone. It's quite magnificent. I feel surrounded by a gigantic and invisible drama, which I cannot see, but I can feel it enveloping and bearing down on me and feel its grandeur. All I can do is cry then.
Dusk comes. I am in the backseat of a car, my face pasted to the glass of the window looking at the enormous blue, and then purple, and the a inky lapiz sky, many cars, the grey tarmac flashing by like a video where the shutter has been left open for an interminable exposure. The wind buffets my face and my ears the moment I roll down the windows. Why do I feel like, if I were to just stand there, at the side of the highway, surrounded by rolling fields and the blue dome of the sky, I can actually touch reality and will finally be happy? Maybe if the car keeps on going, from the morning till night, and there after, never stopping. I will find the same thing. A feeling of completion which is just out of reach.
Dusk comes once more. I am in a room which has a large bed and off white walls, three white lights and a yellow one as bright as the sun. I can see the sea that is the bathroom from where I sit. I sit on the far end of the bed, backed by stacks and stacks of books, and look out into this kingdom, and wish I remembered what it was like to talk to people. What was it like to have friends? The ones whom you met everyday or every other day? Who filled your ears with life and conversations which did not require you to be a part of, yet enveloped you in a feeling where you didn't wonder at the size of the space inside your head so much.
The perfect loneliness of realizing that everyone already has someone to talk to, be with. Perfectly partnered. Perfectly understood. Bearing the gift of silent companionship, of just being.
I haven't experienced a physical touch of affection or fondness in forever now. And a casual touch now disconcerts me.
Calls to people you think can help you feel better reveals that their lives are not in the permanent black hole where time and everything stands still and stretches and stretches until nothing is left. There has not been a breakdown in infrastructure and the operation to fill the gap that you have left behind has been smooth and successful. It almost took no time at all.
The little tragedies that make up a life has now come out of the experiment, crystallized into a just a powerful sentence. I miss people. There is no music in my life. Art is silted.
What then is the great tragedy that these little tragedies are trying so hard to be?

New

Shows how easily I get bored of stuff I make. So the blog is once again in a brand new wrapper. But using the existing css programming they have. One day I will once again attempt to build my own template. Until then, this.

Compelling Music

Today, I find myself enjoying music much more than I did in sometime. I don't ignore or dislike music at other times, but I find myself sometimes less enthused by it. Maybe its got something to do with the fact that there are expectations attached to the act of listening to music. There is always a judgement made about the type of music one listens to and tagging involved. I sometimes find myself doing it, until I remember some of the things I find myself enjoying at the oddest moments....
Anyway, there are people who turn up their noses at what is deemed popular music, and I agree with them in most cases, until I hate myself for humming Justin Beiber. Because I'm not supposed to like him. He's a whiny kid and his music is factory generated and empty. Nothing, wholesome and cottage industry like about it.
So, I stick with my most common defense. I love music. Of all sorts. Except for the ones which I don't.  But things I don't like tend to run to particular songs, not genres. And isn't there some sort of war going on about cutting edge  and the deconstruction of the definition of cutting edge meaning it has no definite genres?
So, in the recent acquisition of the iPod number 'n', I have been selecting music of suited to my present mood and feelings and listening to it for hours on end. This a fairly normal thing to do for everyone else. But I am a relative novice to it, since I had never mastered the habit of having headphones in my ears at all times. I'd rather have my eyes squinting into a book. I equate both these acts of habit in the same category. Anyway, when I was selecting the music that would go into the damned Pod, I came across Portishead in my collection. The entire discography. I seemed to remember that I had downloaded it on a whim, when I had just heard one song (predictably "glorybox"). I hadn't tried to suss out if I'd like their other songs or not, before acquiring everything they did. So, I did what I do when it comes to books I think I should read because I aught to know them, as opposed to being genuinely interested. I put the damn thing into the iPod, and let it surprise me on shuffle.
The thing is I tried. I really tried. And I completely abhor most of it. It is so jarring and not-music-like and i'm  afraid to use this word, "experimental", that I cannot find any common thing in it to make it embed itself in my mind. I made myself sit through about five of them, and tried very hard to stop myself from changing tracks as fast as my fingers could. But I really don't understand the music. Its too jarring, and non-musical. Somewhere in my head I have this notion that music should be melodic and well, musical. I can appreciate concept. In fact I think I have an unhealthy fascination for Concept. This is probably what leads me into listing things that I should listen to, even if I have no idea if they fit into my visceral idea of what music should be.
Still, I do listen to things that feels good to my ears. Hence I am not afraid of bopping my head to somethings which would be classified by the upturned-noses as deep and critically pink pop. I enjoy it. It makes me work. If its got a good bassline trip going, I'm there. I don't need it to be Victor Wooten. I'm satisfied with James Blunt- "1973".
Its like catholic guilt, this need to appear knowledgeable and different from the rest of the populace by what in our own heads must be this deep conviction in our exceptionally pure and perfect taste in music. Its just our need to have a place where we stand out in shining celebrity when lacking in anything resembling good looks or pompom cheering capacities ( yes I hated myself the moment I said that, so don't say anything). Hence the war of wants and needs continues. I want to bop my head. But I need to know if what I want is intellectually high end or not. Dammit. Anyway, I'm beyond caring.
I like this song:

I've always loved her a little, P!nk. Because she's pop. But bad ass. And did a fucking awesomely badass version of Bohemian Rhapsody. And can sing. And basically has a sense of humor. Add Nate Ruess into the equation. His voice has captured my current intellectual imagination. From the time I heard Fun's "Carry On". Its classic. Has a bit of Freddy Mercury's range and feel. But entirely unique me thinks. So both my wants and needs have been fulfilled. And the live version is powerful as well:

And to appease my visual side and my stalky side: a video reccomended by Craig Ferguson-

I love the story in the video. Its so stupidly funny and sweet. And the songs cool too.
So thats, my first ever music post. :|

Last two weeks have been a sort of a time warp. I have been going to work, working till I drop, coming back home and then actually dropping and then spending the nights in uncomfortable and disturbed sleep. I have been set unrealistic deadlines to create the Himalayas and I have been doing it too. As a result everything I have ever thought of doing to be actually creative have pretty much gone down the drain. My laundry basket is over flowing, my cupboard is emptying at a frightening rate and I fear one of these morning when I wake up from the deadly slumber I fall into post eleven pm, I will find painted stainless steel staring back at me instead of clothes and then I'll have to dig into filth of unspeakable nature.
I have collected a pile of books which I don't have the tenacity to read more than ten pages at a time, and they are collecting, yet the thirst to buy new books isn't abating. Something tells me that my grand plans of being the erudite blue stocking by the time I'm thirty will never be successful.
Its this job. Its tedious. Though people will correct me by saying that I have it better than a lot of IT based people who don't really do anything they love. But the thing is, just because designing is something creative and I like it doesn't really make my job any less tedious. The content. The content is what matters. Designing a mammoth 40 page website for an NGO which is likely not going to be seen by anyone other than the self-back-patting members of the client doesn't do anything to my ego. It's not really serving any purpose.. other than helping them play the power games that they love. And I guess I should say that I am sort of proud of the fact that I managed to redesign a monstrosity that it was before into something a little more palatable. But that's a short satisfaction.
I have been forced to take small joys like arranging my books, and buying a decently printed bed cover and milking it for all its worth.
My father had a short stop over in Bangalore on his way back from somewhere else. And I took him around, fed him. He bought me an iPod. Again. Same model as last time. Touch. Fourth Generation. And I have lost track of how many this one makes. I will touch all the wood and all the types of wood that is there to make this one not be lost to me. Its providing me with my current joy.
I have also developed a rather unfortunate internet habit. I run through 5GB of internet in 10 days and 10GB in about 15. Its really sick.
Well. I just got an illegal internet top up. So I'm off to the land of QI. So much for writing for pleasure.

Ode to Obsession: Alan Davies

In the past couple of months, this man has become a bit of an obsession with me. I have been hunting down pretty much everything he has ever done and watching the crap out of it. And if all fails, I've been going back to QI, where he's a fixture.
I don't quite know where the fascination lies. Well, he's unbelievably hot. And seems to get better looking as he ages. I don't really find him funny, and his intelligence is something of a debate and I do have a hard time comprehending his brand of wit. But I just can't seem to stop watching him.
This obsession has led me to discover truths about the internet which have largely been a part of the cyber urban legends and I never really believed to be true. The seedy underside. The troll central, the cesspool which only consists of human bacteria that breeds hate. I had never really come across places on the internet which was just out there to tear people into pieces. I've discovered that all that celebrities say about the internet is mostly true.
A very disconcerting thought.
But a toast to Mr. Alan Davies. We have been together for more than a month and still going strong. 

Bravery in the Rear View Mirror

I had gone to MG Road in the evening to meet a friend. And when I was done I couldn't get any transportation to get back home. Thankfully, where I live is relatively close, so I decided to walk. Walking in Bangalore at any given time is a rather risky business. People give you strange looks. And couple that with the time (it was past eight thirty in the evening) people seemed to be gawking much more than normal.
As I walked, I had an internal debate with myself. Was I being paranoid? Because it wasn't that late. There were people about. And post the Delhi rape case things seem more sinister than ever, especially for single women living in a different city where one doesn't even comprehend the language people speak. So I walked faster.
I had to cross a stretch of MG Road which is pretty deserted at any given point. Now I had seen street walkers hanging around there when I crossed it in autos before, but it never registered. But as I walked, I was suddenly near the area where they stand and conduct business. I only realized when a couple of guys on a bike loitering about there called after me with a "Can we help you Madam" or something to that effect. By this time I could see an auto going very slowly and stopping every two minutes with a lady coming in and out in intervals, and soon I saw the painted ladies of the night, standing fearlessly and in solitary intervals in front of me like islands of calm where men and autos hovered about, talking and trying to catch their attention.
I walked faster. Noticing more than ever now, that the roads were quite empty and deserted though it was the heart of the city. and I only sighed in relief when I was back in my own area, Where I saw a handful of families eating icecreams in cars.
And the realization hit me like a punch. I had just run as fast as my legs could carry past Bravery itself. What had I feared as I walked past that stretch of the road? Indecent propositions from men out to buy sex? Rape? Physical violence?
Those street walkers standing there, there is no real difference between me and them- they too are women. The difference is that I am a coward who runs away from these things and they look them in the eye and refuse to cower.
And society calls them the soiled women. Because they are braver than anything unsoiled ones like me will ever be.