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July 22, 2008

Posted by K in Uncategorized.

I have a 9 o’clock class tomorrow.

PS- (My) Post-graduation education has proved to be highly disappointing so far.

Bombay, theatres, and gender in educational spaces July 22, 2008

Posted by K in contemporary, Gender, Politics, Reviews/Rants.

Maybe I need to go on a Saattvik diet or something (if I were to believe HT Brunch), but I HATE watching movies in theatres in Bombay! I resent the imposition of the national anthem on me, and I resent the arm-twisting of every theatre goer into standing up for the anthem. Just what is achieved by the exercise escapes me. I wonder if people rebel against it… or is the social pressure too strong for that. I know when I was late in standing up, I heard a voice say, rudely, ‘khare ho’. ‘Stand up’. I stood, because I was the only one not standing, around me. I succumbed to the ‘air’ around me. I felt threatened, as if I would get branded ‘anti-national’ or something. In ordinary situations, such a tag wouldn’t bother me. But in a strange city, amongst strangers, I’m not that brave. I suddenly realise, ever so often these days, what it is like, being the minority.

This automatically leads me to question how I became the minority. Was I, and people who think similarly, ever the majority? Or did the privileged space that I called my college lead me to believe in, and expect, a different reality.

I’ve often thought about the space and place of all-girls institutions. I was mostly against it. Incomplete education, unfair to the boys, unnecessary and bla bla. But Pallavi pointed out something that I had never considered. We are who we are, largely because we studied in an all-girls institution. And by that, I mean, we grew into people who are confident of their, our, ability. In several co-ed colleges, one sees that very few girls ever occupy union positions. If they do at all, they are elected into positions that are traditionally seen as a female domain-cultural representatives, literary representatives. Seldom will one find a girl sports representative. Very few girls are allowed to get their hands ‘dirty’ by running from pillar to post, arranging for sponsorships. In things like theatre productions, seldom do girls get to carry the heavier props, if there are boys around. I’m not making a very coherent article, but what I am trying to say, is that it is only in a girls college (I shall not speak about school at this point…) that girls do everything that goes into the making of college life, from administration, to running around, to doing a hell lot of ‘dirty work’, to you name it. Perhaps that is why students who pass out of such institutions gather such infamy as ‘feminists’. The lack of a need to depend on the other gender, or a need to protest against gender violence, verbal, physical and psychological, seems to ‘de-feminise’ the female. Having a mind of one’s own, and caring about things like how gender is portrayed and dealt with, automatically constructs a forbidding image.

How little the world has changed!

July 16, 2008

Posted by K in Uncategorized.

I was going to vent my ire about several things that have happened recently, but then I saw this by aa-



WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!! July 12, 2008

Posted by K in Uncategorized.

I never bothered to check my internet speed at home, but today I did and was I ever shocked! I have a 12Mbps internet speed (MTNL, so BA**Z to all doubters of government ability! 😛 ) and I NEVER downloaded stuff!! Like they say…it’s NEVER too late 😉 I am now downloading songs through Limewire at an average of 60Kbps, and one even reached 108 kbps! :D:D:D:D:D:D:D

July 1, 2008

Posted by K in Nonsense.

Everyday, on her way to college, she heard him talk.

Through the hole in the wall she heard him. A disembodied voice, talking about the weather, an advertisement in the local paper, last evening’s dance recital…

She would pause by the wall and lose herself in the melody of his voice. It wasn’t a musical voice, neither was it a stage voice; it was just a voice that immediately went to one’s heart. It held the quality of suggestion, and in it she caught glimpses of herself. It was these daily sessions that transported her to a plane of existence she had been hitherto unaware of, and was now addicted to.

For some reason, he was her secret. She did not share the story of the magical voice with her friends or family. She half thought she would be forbidden to walk that route again, if the elders at home realised she was falling in love with an idea.

It went on like this for a year. The listener and the speaker, one unaware of the other, communicating as only stranger friends can do. Sometimes she wondered why she did not step around the corner and show herself. Other times she would be horrified at herself for even thinking of such a thing.

The listening sessions had drawn for her a picture of him, in her mind. Every word would be a like a piece of a puzzle as tangible as a wisp of smoke. She thought she had the last few pieces in place, when suddenly, one day, he wasn’t there anymore.

She tried to hold her anxiety, but when he failed to appear for the next two days, she did finally step around the wall. Where did he go, she asked the first person she ran into. The man who sat here, day after day.

Oh him, came the grunt. He’s gone.

And she could get nothing more out of the man. She tried speaking to the fruit seller, the flower seller, but they were all reluctant to talk to her. Feeling sick with disappointment, she turned to go.

Psst. Over here. Came a hissed voice. You want to know about the man, I can tell you. Come with me.

She followed the child’s voice to a narrow alleyway, where she was guided to a makeshift home.

You want to know about him. I know you. You would listen to him talk everyday. I listened too, to you and him. He knew you were here as well; your shadow used to fall around the corner. He made it a point to find newer and newer things to talk about.

She didn’t know what to say.

He knew I listened? Who is he? What does he do? Where is he now?

The child laughed. Ofcourse he knew you. He knew many things.

Why did he never ask me to stop listening?

The child laughed again. You mean why did he never talk to you. For the same reason that you never spoke to him, ofcourse.

What do you mean?

He’s got leprosy, has he not? He’s a leper. You were disgusted by him too, were you not?

Now it was her turn to laugh.

I’m blind, you silly child. I cannot see.

She went home that day, curiously happy.