Of Fat Freedoms and Wait Losses

You know you’re doomed when you can’t fit into your favourite pair of jeans. You thought that the chance do your own thing was the smartest career move you could have made. You thought it would make you the master of your self – you wake up/sleep when you please, you work when you have to, you move deadlines or appointments to suit your partner’s movie urges, you save commuting time, and, best of all, you get to eat great homemade food at regular intervals; heck, you even decide the time you want to spend in the gym. Of course, you miss the assured paycheck at the end of every month, but it’s the price you pay for your freedom. Azaad(i). Free. Independent?

Before you could even figure out what’s happening, your movements have become sluggish, your sleep requirement has increased, you’re doing late nights and late late mornings, and having three meals a day instead of your usual four. You don’t miss gym a single day, and munch more frequently than you ever did. You stay away from junk food and cake, but it’s summer and you can’t avoid the beer. Your trainer reassures you that it’ll all pare down soon but you know you’re not doing that extra set of 20 or the extra 30 min burn dance. You tell yourself that it won’t happen to you, ‘cause you’re a sensible, dedicated kid.

And it’s not just your waistline. Your brain, unused to inactivity, becomes a sponge like never before. It absorbs all the information from serial re-runs to documentaries on youtube; from the new book you’re reading to the dozens of magazine articles you skim through; television and films regain their non-guilty space. However, it refuses to, indeed does not need to, assimilate any of this. There are no hardlining deadlines (yet) and the brain is enjoying its free run. You let your mind wander into philosophy, but not the Kant or Kierkegaardian kind, rather the aimless free thinking of the jeans vs skirt kind. Okay, sometimes you do dwell on the optimist vs fool issue, you question your purpose on earth and re-evaluate your relationships.

Then, after a few more weeks have passed, you avoid the scales altogether, and plan to buy new tees that hide the evidence of your indulgence. You try to take solace in your imbalanced hormonal conditions, and blame the unrelenting weather. You feel great, you look fuller, and the family queues up to compliment your healthy, non-stick-ly ways. Suddenly, you walk in to a trial room during sale and realise that your sizes have changed. You become genuinely alarmed and decide to mull it over in the nice new coffee shop you saw on the ground floor. You promise yourself an aerobic lifestyle and are thrilled at the prospect of a new challenge.

But the challenge doesn’t really come. You wait. The tide turns, the clouds appear and thunder but nothing continues to happen. You imagine that brilliant spark you thought you had as you wait for your chance in the rain. It deserts you soon, just like the rain. You eventually dig into tikki and jalebi, savouring the losses of your wait.

Then your friends begin to notice the new chin, the thunder arm, the tummy that mis-leads questions on what you’re growing inside, the underwear outline on your old-figure-hugging-now-butt-hugging pants.  And the same beloved partner scoffs at your love handles and chastises every drop or morsel that enters or exits your system. Your credit limits have diminished but you always knew the cost of keeping it single and independent. You still believe you’ll stay afloat. Till one day, your two-and-a-half year old niece, who has not only just learnt to talk intelligibly but also to swim, grabs your handles precociously, looks up at you and laughingly utters – you’re fat.

No More Tears: The Advantages of FB Therapy

There was a time when a good cry could solve almost any problem. Touchy parents, touchier boyfriends, exasperating friends...a book that made you think too much, a song that reminded you of lost love, a film that had a sorry little kid... a directionless career, no money to buy that beer, a dysfunctional air-conditioner...headaches, fevers, pms, or just plain irritation. Mothers on soppy operas or melodrama in films would always tell you to not hold back and lighten the "dil ka bojh". Rudimentary psychology. Sitting on even the most expensive couches in the world you would be counseled to do pretty much the same - let it out of your system. 

Then one day the bulwarks of capitalism invented retail therapy – and all you ever needed was a good buy (and of course a credit card). Sometimes a donut would do the trick, other times you needed a sexy little dress (which you would perhaps never wear). The amount you spent was inversely proportional to your bank balance, but it assuaged the emotions. Sooner (much sooner) than later, it made you pay a huge price. And, therefore, many many more tears.

Till the arrival of the digital age. So that smart mobile phone/tablet/computer you bought on your last binge could be turned into a cheaper, easier outlet. Let it out into the world…spread/share the misery, take solace in the agony of others, feel relieved when someone “likes” your status and adds her little two-bit… give some experienced advice of your own, post that sad number or that morbid Nietzsche quote…compare your pics and comment on how fat you look now till someone (preferable plural) tells you how beautifully anaemic you are…

Though the fate of the retail cries still remains uncertain, once you usher in the age of Facebook therapy, you will never rue the day you said goodbye to those headache inducing, puffy-eye giving, pillow wetting teary habits. 

Sexing the highway

“Dum hai to pass kar, nahin to bardaasht kar”

So I was coerced into going on our family road trip this summer to Uttarakhand. This was going to be the first time I would be driving through infamous UP. I had heard not-so-nice things about the condition of the roads, lawlessness, a strong patriarchal mentality and the Kumaon hills not as beautiful as the Himalayan in Himachal. Well, to a great extent all of the above are true. But since I went with very low expectations, I was pleasantly surprised, and admittedly had a good time.

I love driving – give me a decent car, good company, food and water, and I’ll be off. Of course, I have my pet issues, especially something most women experience on the road, and complain ad nauseum about – lack of adequate toilet facilities. Now, for all my pseudo-high maintenance, when I got to go I just find a place where there is at least a door and go (or bushes, sometimes rocks in the middle of a forest road). I know of many women who’d hold it in, get sick but just refuse to set foot into a petrol-pump or dhabha shelter. Men have it easier, and there can be no debate about this.

But this is beside the point. What I was made to feel explicitly aware on this road trip, was how uncommon it is for women drivers to zip across NH24 as brazenly and confidently as any man worth his salt. I was stared at, quite unabashedly, every time we stopped for directions or passed towns where it is not difficult for people to look closely into your car. There were occasions when I was not replied to when I sought directions, needing a suitable male family member to step in. And dare I overtake or outrun someone and they realise there’s a woman behind the wheel – they’d always come back to prove a point to this chit of a girl.

I’ve been told that in this land of manners, men do not engage with strange women in any way. Hah, I refuse to buy this argument. Men don’t want to be outdone, not at something they are supposed to be natural at. We paid a lot of attention to cars on the road, not just on the highway but through the hills from Kathgodam to Bhimtal to Nainital, and did not count women drivers to even raise the fingers of one hand. Moreover, at one juncture, someone passed a remark to the effect of calling my father and brother impotent. What shame – in the presence of two strong sikh men a woman was steering the wheel (maybe they didn’t notice that strong sikh-ness was running in the female gene of this family?).

Such is not the case around NH1 or NH8 where women drivers, sometimes in the most enviable of cars, are not an uncommon sight. The innumerable times that I have travelled through Haryana, Punjab, Chandigarh, Himachal never have I been looked at with such trepidation. Sure, people look up to my father in surprise that he “lets” his daughter drive through all sorts of roads in the plains or the hills, not to mention at all sorts of speeds. But, I have to arrogantly admit, many do look at me with awe when I fearlessly take the road.

However, my hunch is that even if my expertise and instinct on the road is acknowledged, it is done within the patriarchal domain. I drive like a man, not like a (wimpy, careless, carefree) woman. My father isn’t blameless either – when I got my licence he admonished me to not “drive like a girl”. My learning curve has been inflected by two men and therefore, I am told I drive aggressively and instinctively, a natural “like most men”, not defensively and meekly. I do not have my mother’s fearful inability, something that translates into my brother’s clinical driving, a reason why I am trusted with difficult stretches or when we need to make good time.

I don’t know what my “correct” response to this should be. The feminist in me exults when people look at me astonished when I give seasoned drivers a run for their money. I like being a lone female driver for miles, yet the same feminist in me wishes that there were many more. We may have to wait for the female auto revolution to usher in the highway loo movement.

Ragini no MMS

In the recently released film by Ekta Kapoor, Ragini MMS, the seemingly experimental form and content of new budget cinema, with focus on young adults and their (sexual) desires, fails to challenge the space of the “alternate”. The issue of morality continues to be the driving sub-text, not living up to the seemingly revolutionary potential of the title or of the film's publicity. The film is shot in grabbed footage style, reminiscent of Paranormal Activity, and addresses the issue of sex-taping and circulating by way of MMS. Other films like Dev D and LSD (by more experienced and nuanced directors) have shaken the received understanding of techno-sexuality, without offering a moral imperative, especially in the case of young adult female sexuality. Whereas Leni accesses and articulates her desire to perform sex and record it, Ragini is cast firmly in the victim mode. As a young female she is allowed to desire but not with satisfying consequences. Just as she gets into the act with her boyfriend paranormal activity begins to take over the house and they are locked in. In an attempt at kinky play she is literally handcuffed to the bed which makes her movement, and most importantly her escape, extremely challenging. Even after agreeing to a weekend of sexual fun with her boyfriend, she is coy about recording their most intimate moments and asks him to turn the handheld off. Little does she know that the entire house is bugged with video cameras, and it is only in the throes of possession that she realizes her boyfriend had set her up. He turns out to be a coward while she screams out her betrayal. she has to endure watching the boyfriend kill himself (he's possessed by the evil spirit) while she remains chained to the bed post with the key no where in sight. In her moments of pain and anguish she remembers and calls out to her mother to help her out of the spot, before she realizes that she had lied to her about where she was going and deliberately left her phone in the car parked well outside the compound of the farmhouse. The only other people who knew about the place are her friend Pia and her boyfriend Vishal, who are both found dead (killed by the same spirit) well into the climax of the film. (Pia and Vishal are shown to be engaging in sexual play, with a more desirous Pia, so their killing becomes justified). Ragini soon realizes that no one is going to come to save her and calls out to her mother to somehow get her out of this. She “repents” her behaviour, promising to “reform” her errant ways and become an honest and respectful (read non-desiring and sex-less) daughter. At the end of the film she does manage to survive (perhaps because of her repentance?), and the recorded videos of the act (the titular “MMS”) somehow make their way out of the haunted house and on to the internet even before she is rescued. The paranormal, in fact, can be read as an under-text of the moral code: Ragini's thoughtless transgressions lead to her suffering, and yet she is allowed to live because of her extraordinary will power and desire to make amends of her life, whereas all the other people involved in or around the act in the farmhouse end up dead.

Dabbling in Cliches

The next time someone comes up to me to ask what I do, I won't say I'm an academic, let alone an aspiring one. They don't get it. All I basically do is read, write papers, and teach in a college they may have heard of if they are from my city. Besides, it's not as cool as being a graphic artist, an event consultant, a designer, a musician or even a computer engineer. The city by the sea dabbles in money, and the ability to live it out and live it up. It's a city of numbers.

Maybe the next time I will tell them that I am a writer. What would this sound like? Vague, perhaps vogue-ish. Struggling? But you cant be a serious one in a shirt like this. Oh wait, these ingenius chappal-floaters can betray the un-fashionly artsy-fartsy-ness of me. Haha. Really?

Ok, so what have you published? Uh... Nothing really, yet. So what do you write? I don't write much. I haven't written in quite some time... in fact, I haven't written seriously in years. But I'm still a writer.

And here I am in a haute cafe, sipping cheap bear, and spelling beer wrong. I'm a writer with very little imagination, zero inspiration and no skill of observation. But don't get me wrong, I am not a failed writer. nor a pseudo one. I'm writing this, aren't I?

I could write a story of love, that should be simple enough. But successful love (whatever that is) does not make for a good plot. Failed love, difficult love? I should be inspired, this city manufactures it by the dozen every single day. What more, it is sitting right across from me. This man can be my muse, my testament. But I'm too close to him, I know him too well. I can't write his story. I'd have to fictionalize him, give him a new name, give him motive, give him direction. But will I be able to face him after I pass judgement on him?

I would do better to write about how people meet in cafes. It could be Friends in maximum city. Or vague women in the capital. It could be a love story in any case. Like the guy sitting on the stool there, making eyes at me. I could smile at him and he could come over, and we would connect... and live happily ever after. Alright, alright. It's not about originality anymore, it's about intertextuality, dude. Besides, I'd talk over beer not coffee.

(I may be a little drunk by now.) Since my inventive tap is all but running dry, I may be in need of more powerful intoxicants. Calling all the pains of sleep! And... wait, my pen is slipping... I have to write, before I wake up to a headache, emptying the non-opiates to the drain. I don't want to fly back to answering questions about my academic existence. I still need to tell you what I do...

[2 Feb '11]

The Letter

Dear Bhaiyyaji,

Since you had asked me to write to you in detail about my encounter, here it is:

I picked her up from under the flyover near her hostel. She had been about to cross the street when I managed to catch up with her. Half a minute earlier an autorickshaw had slowed down beside her and I had seen her face scrunched up indecisively as she weighed not taking it. When I whisked her into the back of my car her dupatta waved filmically in the breeze. Her glare pierced me, her voice rising in abuses. I felt scolded like a boyfriend who had arrived late for a date. You remember how I love playing that role, to have a finger on the pulse of a woman? Just like I had mine on hers then. I have to admit that it wasn’t easy for either of us. I had instructed Bhola to look ahead, not to interfere and drive at a good speed to avoid the love-sucking thullas. We kept crashing into each other trying to steady ourselves against the pace of the vehicle and our screaming hearts. I held her, tight, close to me, smothering her with a flurry of kisses. She struggled against my roughness but I knew I would change that. I bound her arms with her dupatta and made for her breasts, which had grown perky against my weight, kneading them, licking them. When I felt Bhola slowing down I looked up to check if all was well and was encouraged by the warm soft glow of the nearly full moon. It lit up the safety of the tree-lined avenues that we were passing through. Then I moved my attention to her long neck, caressed her face while I bit into it. I put my hand over her mouth to stop her from shrieking and left it there, knowing that soon she would not be able to control herself. By then she was feverish in her movements. To make sure she was ready, I did as you had so kindly suggested: took off her green-coloured bottoms and sapped her up in my mouth. I knew that got her really going because she kicked her legs about frantically, gasping for air, arousing in me the desire to end her miserable wait. The strong orange light coming in through the windows told me that Bhola had turned onto the expressway. I quickly pushed back my pants and moved in, slapping rapidly against her body. Although, it didn’t take long to get over, much to my

disappointment, I felt alive. She, however, looked spent as she lay curled up in the foetal position. It was getting very late and I knew she would be missed at home. I asked Bhola to turn around, and carefully put her clothes on. I wiped her sweat and tears, and brushed her hair gently. Just as you had advised, I dropped her ten kilometres away from the place where we had started. I made sure she had money to make it back in an autorickshaw. Even then she looked pretty and enticing in her pink and blue salwar-

kurta. As we drove off, my mind lingered on her taste and smell, and my face broke into a contented smile.

As you see, I am truly your blood, brother. And maybe next time you will be with me, to guide and direct me.

Yours lovingly,

Chhote

[Typed as a memo on my meagre phone as an impulse while travelling one evening on the metro, having read 3 days' newspapers in the hour before]

[PPS. This was exhibited as a creative entry in 'Postfeminist Postmortems?: Gender, Sexuality and Multiple Modernities', Annual Conference (2011) of Department of English, DU]