Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 160
March 22, 2013
How to date a writer
You are in bed together, both of you reading, when she begins to read bits of a bad review online aloud to you. By the end of it, she has gorged on every comment, analysed what so-and-so might mean, wondered whether she will ever write the best book ever written.
You toss away a comment about writing and it being an ongoing process. She is up in arms, "You don't like my book?" You carefully say--it is all about being careful in this moment--that you liked it, you loved it, but every book should represent a growth. She stomps in her bare feet and shorts into the dining room and lights a cigarette, yelling things about support and encouragement.
You talk her down from a ledge. By the end of it, she is excited about a new project, her usual self, telling you stories you've heard before about what a friend from Hong Kong said about her book, how someone else messaged her on Facebook.
"Is it awful, dating a writer?" she asks you, asks herself.
You had once told her how selfish she is, but that you sort of enjoyed the selfishness. She has been trying harder since, but you see how absorbed she gets in her own universe.
You like her best when she is writing something new.
With no immediate manuscript to work on, she focuses on you with all the intensity she normally saves for her work. You sometimes find her scrutinising you from the door.
You enjoy her company the most when the two of you are working on something together: whether it's fixing links on her blog or talking about new ideas.
At the parties you go to together, you watch people riff, tossing words at each other, in an effort to prove who's cleverer. Her chin juts out and she gets defensive when someone attempts to patronise her or her writing, but for the most part, she floats on the surface, talking about work and who's sleeping with who, and not books at all. Once in a while, someone will attempt to tease her by calling her stuff 'chick lit', but this too she's learned to laugh off.
You are pleased for her successes, and want her to brush off the failures quickly and move on, instead of dwelling. You think she likes the wallowing, and she probably does.
At a book reading, she looks nervously around and tells you no one is coming, you tell her to make definitive changes for the next time she does a reading. You are all about solutions, but they need a minute to sink in. And when people appear, sitting around expectantly, you watch her face light up, and then, on the way home you propose your marketing solutions again, and she listens.
You should expect to be written about.
You should expect to have to read drafts and show interest.
And every now and then, when there is a bad review, you should expect to hear about it and talk her through it.
And every now and then, where there is a good review, you should expect to hear about it and share her triumph.
She is flawed--this, she believes, is what makes her a writer.
But she loves you.
(psst: have you read my new book yet?)
You toss away a comment about writing and it being an ongoing process. She is up in arms, "You don't like my book?" You carefully say--it is all about being careful in this moment--that you liked it, you loved it, but every book should represent a growth. She stomps in her bare feet and shorts into the dining room and lights a cigarette, yelling things about support and encouragement.
You talk her down from a ledge. By the end of it, she is excited about a new project, her usual self, telling you stories you've heard before about what a friend from Hong Kong said about her book, how someone else messaged her on Facebook.
"Is it awful, dating a writer?" she asks you, asks herself.
You had once told her how selfish she is, but that you sort of enjoyed the selfishness. She has been trying harder since, but you see how absorbed she gets in her own universe.
You like her best when she is writing something new.
With no immediate manuscript to work on, she focuses on you with all the intensity she normally saves for her work. You sometimes find her scrutinising you from the door.
You enjoy her company the most when the two of you are working on something together: whether it's fixing links on her blog or talking about new ideas.
At the parties you go to together, you watch people riff, tossing words at each other, in an effort to prove who's cleverer. Her chin juts out and she gets defensive when someone attempts to patronise her or her writing, but for the most part, she floats on the surface, talking about work and who's sleeping with who, and not books at all. Once in a while, someone will attempt to tease her by calling her stuff 'chick lit', but this too she's learned to laugh off.
You are pleased for her successes, and want her to brush off the failures quickly and move on, instead of dwelling. You think she likes the wallowing, and she probably does.
At a book reading, she looks nervously around and tells you no one is coming, you tell her to make definitive changes for the next time she does a reading. You are all about solutions, but they need a minute to sink in. And when people appear, sitting around expectantly, you watch her face light up, and then, on the way home you propose your marketing solutions again, and she listens.
You should expect to be written about.
You should expect to have to read drafts and show interest.
And every now and then, when there is a bad review, you should expect to hear about it and talk her through it.
And every now and then, where there is a good review, you should expect to hear about it and share her triumph.
She is flawed--this, she believes, is what makes her a writer.
But she loves you.
(psst: have you read my new book yet?)
March 18, 2013
Late Night Fiction: Annotations
He made notes in his margins, circling words and adding his own comments, like a dialogue in his head. He wasn't a book collector, only a consumer, and when he was done, he sold his books at a by-the-kilo price to a kabaddi-wala, who carted them away along with newspapers and old wine bottles.
She was visiting Delhi for three interminable months. To visit an aunt--ostensibly--but mostly so she could be put out of the way while her parents finished divorcing. She was 22, but they treated her like she was 12. She didn't have a job, or anything keeping her in the town they currently lived in, and so it seemed like the best option.
She went to Daryagunj.
He abandoned Pride & Prejudice.
She picked it up, because, as unbelievable as it sounded, she had never read Elizabeth Bennett.
Darcy is "not a realistic man", he said.
She disagreed.
Her aunt made her visit relatives. It was dull and hot and everyone avoided the subject of her parents by dancing around it and feeling very clever for having avoided it.
"Why would anyone marry Lydia?" he asked, plaintively.
She felt a certain kinship to Lydia. If a Wickham dashed through her life right now, she'd dash right out with him.
Across the city, separate people asked them when they were getting married. He laughed and said, "When you find me someone". She shuddered into her cold coffee.
"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you," said Mr Darcy to Miss Elizabeth Bennett.
They both made it their Facebook status updates.
He was a truth universally acknowledged, she was a gentleman's daughter.
(psst: have you read my new book yet?)
She was visiting Delhi for three interminable months. To visit an aunt--ostensibly--but mostly so she could be put out of the way while her parents finished divorcing. She was 22, but they treated her like she was 12. She didn't have a job, or anything keeping her in the town they currently lived in, and so it seemed like the best option.
She went to Daryagunj.
He abandoned Pride & Prejudice.
She picked it up, because, as unbelievable as it sounded, she had never read Elizabeth Bennett.
Darcy is "not a realistic man", he said.
She disagreed.
Her aunt made her visit relatives. It was dull and hot and everyone avoided the subject of her parents by dancing around it and feeling very clever for having avoided it.
"Why would anyone marry Lydia?" he asked, plaintively.
She felt a certain kinship to Lydia. If a Wickham dashed through her life right now, she'd dash right out with him.
Across the city, separate people asked them when they were getting married. He laughed and said, "When you find me someone". She shuddered into her cold coffee.
"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you," said Mr Darcy to Miss Elizabeth Bennett.
They both made it their Facebook status updates.
He was a truth universally acknowledged, she was a gentleman's daughter.
(psst: have you read my new book yet?)
March 17, 2013
Launches & weekends
I'm writing this on a tiger-striped couch in the Good Thing's apartment in Juhu. Outside, the traffic noises have abated a little bit, that's one thing Juhu has over Bandra, the traffic seems less clusterfucked, it's more of a pleasant roar than a constant screeching.
Walk to Juhu beach
The other thing Juhu has over Bandra is the beach and a pretty walk to it, pedestrian-filled and cobble stoned. This is not to say my love for Bandra has abated, in fact, it still sucks a bit that you have to think before you visit a friend--and most of mine here in Bombay are still in that suburb--and I miss certain things, the activity, the young people and so on, but Juhu is civilised and so I've made my peace with it.
I'm in Bombay for the launch, which was on Friday, with a small crowd, not quite like the 150 people Delhi party, but I'm more and more realising that maybe launches are not as popular as they used to be. Bombay never had a large turn out anyway, with Listmaniac, at Crossword, I had maybe five people, tops, plus the publishers. (Fun fact: I invited Good Thing to that, before he was a Good Thing, but, work.) Pune turned out to be surprisingly awesome, I had a good group of people attend (hi!) and even though the Barista lacked mics, we gathered around and talked as loudly as we could, and it went well. Actually, the small crowd worked in Bombay too, you're able to be far more intimate with your audience, do your asides and your banter, without having to address vast numbers. So there's something to be said for that, I guess.
One of the nicest things about going to Pune was discovering that with Cold Feet out, You Are Here is experiencing a sort of revival.
It's weird when something you write takes on a life of its own; I guess I never had that many expectations of You Are Here, I just wanted it to be out there. I think my biggest fear was maybe seeing it on a second-hand pavement bookstore a month later, but look! It's alive!
Good Thing is editing my post over my shoulder, so I have to keep adding punctuation marks, dialling down the long sentences and even deleting because they "don't make sense". Hmph. We're watching The West Wing (great show!) and talking about leftovers for dinner, and generally being the boring 30-something couple we've tried our whole lives to resist turning into. (At least, I have.) Whither parties till 5 am? Whither sore toes and aching calves? Whither, oh Zenzi of my youth?
On the other hand, it's very comfortable to be thirty one and have a nice life (touchwoodtouchwoodetc) and this might be far better than my up-and-down 20s.
Walk to Juhu beach
The other thing Juhu has over Bandra is the beach and a pretty walk to it, pedestrian-filled and cobble stoned. This is not to say my love for Bandra has abated, in fact, it still sucks a bit that you have to think before you visit a friend--and most of mine here in Bombay are still in that suburb--and I miss certain things, the activity, the young people and so on, but Juhu is civilised and so I've made my peace with it.
I'm in Bombay for the launch, which was on Friday, with a small crowd, not quite like the 150 people Delhi party, but I'm more and more realising that maybe launches are not as popular as they used to be. Bombay never had a large turn out anyway, with Listmaniac, at Crossword, I had maybe five people, tops, plus the publishers. (Fun fact: I invited Good Thing to that, before he was a Good Thing, but, work.) Pune turned out to be surprisingly awesome, I had a good group of people attend (hi!) and even though the Barista lacked mics, we gathered around and talked as loudly as we could, and it went well. Actually, the small crowd worked in Bombay too, you're able to be far more intimate with your audience, do your asides and your banter, without having to address vast numbers. So there's something to be said for that, I guess.
One of the nicest things about going to Pune was discovering that with Cold Feet out, You Are Here is experiencing a sort of revival.
It's weird when something you write takes on a life of its own; I guess I never had that many expectations of You Are Here, I just wanted it to be out there. I think my biggest fear was maybe seeing it on a second-hand pavement bookstore a month later, but look! It's alive!
Good Thing is editing my post over my shoulder, so I have to keep adding punctuation marks, dialling down the long sentences and even deleting because they "don't make sense". Hmph. We're watching The West Wing (great show!) and talking about leftovers for dinner, and generally being the boring 30-something couple we've tried our whole lives to resist turning into. (At least, I have.) Whither parties till 5 am? Whither sore toes and aching calves? Whither, oh Zenzi of my youth?
On the other hand, it's very comfortable to be thirty one and have a nice life (touchwoodtouchwoodetc) and this might be far better than my up-and-down 20s.
March 11, 2013
If it's Friday, it must be Bombay
ARGH, BAD BLOGGER, BAD BAD BAD.
If I could encompass these past few weeks in two words--actually I'll just make it one word: shoes. Spring is here, and I'm changing up some parts of my style.
A lot of my shopping has been online these days, what can I say? Work is so swampy I don't even have time to blog, book stuff has been a little stress-y, so in order to get my retail therapy stuff, I shop.
So, I bought these gorgeous pair of kickers.
Colour blocked heels from Done By None
And in my wear-every-day since I got them are these lovely, lovely buttersoft brogues by my good friend and all round Talented Person, Nayantara Sood of Taramay
Other stuff I can highly recommend: coffee from Blue Tokai, I buy the whole beans and grind them myself, because I'm a bit of a coffee snob these days. And a basket full of fresh veggies from I Say Organic, the prettiest pudina! the sexiest spinach! the pinkest beetroot!
And the reason for this post, because I'm a bad blogger, but trying to be a good book-writing-promoting-person-- drum roll please.
This FRIDAY March 15, at the Last Ship Art Residency, Bandra.
7.30 pm to 10.30 pm.
I'll be launching Cold Feet! In conversation with me is Raja Sen, who you know if you know movies, also a good friend, and someone I thought would have an interesting gender discussion with me. Also, drinks, reading, and Instagram. All are welcome, so come, bring your friends, your parents, your first awkward date.
Here's a link to the Facebook invite for more details.
ETA: Bombay invite
Also, stay tuned, because I'll be in Pune on Saturday for another reading--are any of you in Pune? Will you come and hear me read? I'll post location/time details on the blog and on my Facebook page as soon as I have it.
Phew. Promotion is wearing me out. I'll be happy when I can go back to talking about my cat again for three hours. (Although, this book party stuff is quite fun when you're actually THERE and DOING IT, as opposed to right before when you're organising it and trying to get the show on the road, because, wine.)
February 9, 2013
A Manifesto For Readers & Writers
At the Delhi Literature Festival yesterday, I was on a panel with Jai Arjun Singh, Anna Vetticad and Arunava Sinha talking about new media and writing. And during the course of this panel, I argued that readers were being pandered to too much, they have a lot of power now, and while this got me some laughs, it made me think of a larger manifesto to bring back writing as an ART, and not so much about your Amazon/Flipkart reviews or Twitter followers. The following are a list of points I would implement if I were Queen of the World, to make writing a bit more rigid and less all-over-the-place, less emphasis on interacting with your readers and more on actually writing a good book.
1) All manuscripts to be handled by more than one editor. A centralised panel at each publishing house involving writers and editors of various genres. This is because a good book is a good book no matter what the content--look at the success of the "cancer book" The Emporer of Maladies as well as the success of someone lighter, like say, Helen Fielding or Sue Townsend. Unless the book passes through at least four of the six appointed readers, it shouldn't be published.
2) Books which are self-published should have a very clear demarcation online and offline. You should be able to go into a bookshop and see a shelf marked self-published, which means they haven't gone through the above mentioned panel.
3) Anyone choosing to write a book should have to take a mandatory leave of absense from all social networks while they are putting together their manuscript.
4) Required reading lists to be provided as soon as someone learns how to read and should be a government appointed thing, updated every year, arriving in your mail. You must prove that you've read your list by attending either one of several government alloted book clubs, or in the absense of one near you, by filing reviews and your thoughts of the list in the mail much like your tax returns. If necessary, a Review Official can be hired to help you with the process.
5) Twice a year, all authors will be available to chat about their processes and what it takes to write a book. The rest of the time, they will be forbidden by law to talk/sell/appear in any literature festivals. This may sound harsh, but it will mean standarisation of promotional activities by publishers: all books are created equal and are judged good by the panel.
6) Anyone wanting to be a writer will have to provide a resume proving that they are suited for the book they want to write. Creative writing classes etc will be provided in schools, colleges and in adult learning centres.
7) To cater to various tastes, once you've gotten through your school reading list, you can opt for a specialised genre in your later years, where only books that an extensive test proves you'll enjoy will be recommended to you. You can also choose to keep receiving the standard list of good books.
What are your thoughts? Is social media the best thing that's happened to writers or the worst? Is it awesome that readers can interact directly with authors, or is this killing the Mystique of the Artist? Let me know in the comments! *
*I get the irony. I'm like Alanis, except with shorter hair.
1) All manuscripts to be handled by more than one editor. A centralised panel at each publishing house involving writers and editors of various genres. This is because a good book is a good book no matter what the content--look at the success of the "cancer book" The Emporer of Maladies as well as the success of someone lighter, like say, Helen Fielding or Sue Townsend. Unless the book passes through at least four of the six appointed readers, it shouldn't be published.
2) Books which are self-published should have a very clear demarcation online and offline. You should be able to go into a bookshop and see a shelf marked self-published, which means they haven't gone through the above mentioned panel.
3) Anyone choosing to write a book should have to take a mandatory leave of absense from all social networks while they are putting together their manuscript.
4) Required reading lists to be provided as soon as someone learns how to read and should be a government appointed thing, updated every year, arriving in your mail. You must prove that you've read your list by attending either one of several government alloted book clubs, or in the absense of one near you, by filing reviews and your thoughts of the list in the mail much like your tax returns. If necessary, a Review Official can be hired to help you with the process.
5) Twice a year, all authors will be available to chat about their processes and what it takes to write a book. The rest of the time, they will be forbidden by law to talk/sell/appear in any literature festivals. This may sound harsh, but it will mean standarisation of promotional activities by publishers: all books are created equal and are judged good by the panel.
6) Anyone wanting to be a writer will have to provide a resume proving that they are suited for the book they want to write. Creative writing classes etc will be provided in schools, colleges and in adult learning centres.
7) To cater to various tastes, once you've gotten through your school reading list, you can opt for a specialised genre in your later years, where only books that an extensive test proves you'll enjoy will be recommended to you. You can also choose to keep receiving the standard list of good books.
What are your thoughts? Is social media the best thing that's happened to writers or the worst? Is it awesome that readers can interact directly with authors, or is this killing the Mystique of the Artist? Let me know in the comments! *
*I get the irony. I'm like Alanis, except with shorter hair.
January 18, 2013
Win a signed copy of Cold Feet!
Here's all you gotta do:
1) Write a short-short on love eg: first love, love later, betrayed love, unromantic love, love for your cat, your tennis coach, your left foot, sex, kissing etc etc. Broadly love, but I'll leave the interpretation up to you.
2) (a short-short is micro fiction, so 140 words?)
3) Send this marvellous minute piece of writing to me here, OR Facebook it to me here.
4) Post a comment saying you've participated so I can confirm it. You can also choose to share the Facebook status.
5) Top three win signed books. Exciting!
DEADLINE
You have a whole week. Plenty of time. Last date is Friday, January 25.
1) Write a short-short on love eg: first love, love later, betrayed love, unromantic love, love for your cat, your tennis coach, your left foot, sex, kissing etc etc. Broadly love, but I'll leave the interpretation up to you.
2) (a short-short is micro fiction, so 140 words?)
3) Send this marvellous minute piece of writing to me here, OR Facebook it to me here.
4) Post a comment saying you've participated so I can confirm it. You can also choose to share the Facebook status.
5) Top three win signed books. Exciting!
DEADLINE
You have a whole week. Plenty of time. Last date is Friday, January 25.
January 16, 2013
excitement overloaded
verse one:
i bought a new car
my very own new car
it's white with funny looking headlights
and a sweet curvy roof
that the manufacturers call "swaying"
i call it lola--it's obviously a girl
a horn that's low pitched and alto
a slender form that squeezes through traffic
and all. my. very. own.
lola makes me happy in my Deep Insides.
verse two:
for my birthday, my parents gave me a flat box
when i asked what was in it, they said 'plates'
why would i need plates? i asked, i mean
it's very sweet of you, but i'm inundated with plates
i have a lot of plates, i will never run out
it made me wonder if they knew me at all, because
really
PLATES?
and then i opened it and i was sorry for doubting them
because it was a macbook air
and it's gorgeous and i call him macdreamy
and it has changed my life
if life = the amount of time you spend on the internet.
verse three:
my book came out quietly
like a gay man at a straight party
it's sort of lurking by the umbrella stand
sometimes, when i'm passing a bookstore
i pop in to see if it's alive.
i had a party for it
it was a good party
fittingly, it was at a club
where people whisper to you
"do you know this is a GAY club?"
rumours have not been verified.
i bought a new car
my very own new car
it's white with funny looking headlights
and a sweet curvy roof
that the manufacturers call "swaying"
i call it lola--it's obviously a girl
a horn that's low pitched and alto
a slender form that squeezes through traffic
and all. my. very. own.
lola makes me happy in my Deep Insides.
verse two:
for my birthday, my parents gave me a flat box
when i asked what was in it, they said 'plates'
why would i need plates? i asked, i mean
it's very sweet of you, but i'm inundated with plates
i have a lot of plates, i will never run out
it made me wonder if they knew me at all, because
really
PLATES?
and then i opened it and i was sorry for doubting them
because it was a macbook air
and it's gorgeous and i call him macdreamy
and it has changed my life
if life = the amount of time you spend on the internet.
verse three:
my book came out quietly
like a gay man at a straight party
it's sort of lurking by the umbrella stand
sometimes, when i'm passing a bookstore
i pop in to see if it's alive.
i had a party for it
it was a good party
fittingly, it was at a club
where people whisper to you
"do you know this is a GAY club?"
rumours have not been verified.
January 8, 2013
Cold Feet launches in Delhi!
Really quick post to invite Delhi people to my book party tomorrow, Thursday, January 10, at Kitty Su. RSVP here.
I'm super excited about the party, primarily because it'll finally feel like I have a book out. Releasing your book at the end of a year is a terrible idea, because it gets swallowed up by all the year end recaps and so on. Plus this was the December of Horrible News, so we couldn't have--even if we wanted to, which no one was in the mind space for--had the party then.
I'm in conversation with my dear friend Pragya Tiwari, editor of the best (and only) space for long form journalism on Indian cinema. Pragya and I have known each other for about four years now, and even though we're rarely in the same city at the same time, every time we meet we chat for hours. It should be a really fun discussion, and I'm looking forward to it.
I also have three readers, who are a mystery surprise! But I've known them for years and years too, and they're going to be awesome.
So.. come.
December 29, 2012
Eulogy for Girl X
Feminism is not a dirty word.
Feminism means you either have a vagina and believe that doesn't make you inferior or you know someone with a vagina and believe they're not inferior.
A vagina is not an invitation.
Your body is not an invitation. In fact, it's members-only and the members are whoever you'd like them to be.
That means you can still take pride in your long legs, your shapely calves.
You can love your high breasts, your slightly low but large ones. You can wear flattering necklines. You can accentuate your waist, or your butt, or your boobs. All totally your call.
You can choose to let the person who gives you tingles rest their hand on your knee. You can let them make love to you or make love to them. You can kiss them in the back of an auto rickshaw till you're both cross eyed with desire.
People might look at you. Chances are, that they will. Don't let that stop you. Looks can't hurt you.
Wear your body like a banner. Let your vagina be a badge of merit. Sure, you can only pee sitting down, but you have magical things going on over there.
The human body is a wonderful thing. All of it. Innies or outies.
If someone grabs you, don't go along with them because you don't want to make a scene. Make sure everyone knows your body is YOUR body. You give it pleasure, you feed it, you nurture it. Your body belongs to you.
If someone grabs you, yell. If someone lays a hand on your beautiful members-only breasts, tell them your breasts are your own. It might need a little knee to the groin to get this message across, but you are only to be admired from a distance.
You are a feminist, not because you hate men, but because you love women. You are a woman who believes in equal rights--including walking down the street in that fuck-off red dress--you are a man who thinks women can walk down the street doing whatever they like, as long as they're not harming anyone else.
You will not be raped today.
(http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/ci...)
Feminism means you either have a vagina and believe that doesn't make you inferior or you know someone with a vagina and believe they're not inferior.
A vagina is not an invitation.
Your body is not an invitation. In fact, it's members-only and the members are whoever you'd like them to be.
That means you can still take pride in your long legs, your shapely calves.
You can love your high breasts, your slightly low but large ones. You can wear flattering necklines. You can accentuate your waist, or your butt, or your boobs. All totally your call.
You can choose to let the person who gives you tingles rest their hand on your knee. You can let them make love to you or make love to them. You can kiss them in the back of an auto rickshaw till you're both cross eyed with desire.
People might look at you. Chances are, that they will. Don't let that stop you. Looks can't hurt you.
Wear your body like a banner. Let your vagina be a badge of merit. Sure, you can only pee sitting down, but you have magical things going on over there.
The human body is a wonderful thing. All of it. Innies or outies.
If someone grabs you, don't go along with them because you don't want to make a scene. Make sure everyone knows your body is YOUR body. You give it pleasure, you feed it, you nurture it. Your body belongs to you.
If someone grabs you, yell. If someone lays a hand on your beautiful members-only breasts, tell them your breasts are your own. It might need a little knee to the groin to get this message across, but you are only to be admired from a distance.
You are a feminist, not because you hate men, but because you love women. You are a woman who believes in equal rights--including walking down the street in that fuck-off red dress--you are a man who thinks women can walk down the street doing whatever they like, as long as they're not harming anyone else.
You will not be raped today.
(http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/ci...)
December 21, 2012
Why Delhi gets away with rape
I haven't been able to stop thinking (and tweeting) and giving my opinion on The Rape Case. Each one is horrifying, the only silver lining is that this one somehow got everyone's attention and people are actually talking about rape in a real way now.
A version of this short opinion piece appeared in Tehelka. You can read the full article here.
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When I was in high school, a popular local boy’s school had
a fad with their car horns. Any time you heard these teenage boys, zipping
across the city, they’d beep continuously, almost like a tune or a ditty:
beep-beep-beep-beep-beeeeep-beep. It was a code, someone told me, laughing, but
didn’t reveal the code till later. “Pakad, pakad,ke chod do.” Catch ‘em and
fuck ‘em, for those who didn’t grow up in this city where ‘chod’ is one of the
first Hindi swear words you learn, ‘chutiya’ is almost refined, and I will rape
your ass tossed around at any altercation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t think the boys meant it, they were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nice</i> boys, my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">friends</i>,
and plus boys schools are dens of sexual deprivation, right? But then, later, I
overheard a classmate in my co-ed school laughing about this “really cool”
trick he pulled on weekends, going for a drive with a friend around M Block
Market, slowing down when he saw a pretty girl and leaning out of the window,
grabbing her breasts and driving away before she could react. </div>
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It may not even have been a pretty girl.
<br />
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<br /></div>
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The fact is, when the boys got to drive around in their
cars, beeping, we were given notes on safety by our parents and our other girl
friends. Rules of the rickshaw: never get in when there are two drivers. Rules
of the teenage house party: if someone feels you up at a party, obviously it’s
your fault, because you were drunk, and you mustn’t be a tease. We were very
hard on each other. Girls regularly developed “reputations”, I remember being
totally tongue tied face-to-face with one of my peers once, because I had heard
behind her back of all the things she did. We never blamed the boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was always the outfit (so low cut!) the
booze (she can’t control herself, ya!) the she-asked-for-it (well, she’s always
hanging out with boys, anyway.) The boys spoke of it, if you asked, somewhat
sheepishly and yet, with a certain amount of pride in their voices, and you’d
have to be the Cool Girl, listening, nodding wisely, thinking privately that
you’d never be in a situation like that. We let them get away with it, and
these were nice boys, boys who were educated and well brought up and probably
don’t even think about that part of their lives anymore. Boys who were
socialized with girls, who had “rakhi-sisters” and yet. </div>
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People say Delhi is the rape capital of the city, and I was
hotly defending it on Facebook when I thought about that beep-beep and what it
stood for. I know sexual harassment is universal, but what does it say about
this city that we flaunt it blatantly? That there’s no going to a dark alleyway
or an empty room, nope, people are able to rape people in broad daylight, in a
moving vehicle on a main road, and the only thing they have to worry about is
banging into someone else’s car, because then people can get really angry. I can
bet the men in the situation wore an expression of sheepish pride too, “oh
well, it was nothing really that I was able to do it for so long”. They clapped
each other on the back. They might have gone to get a cup of tea. What a nice
night out, they probably said. How nice to be in Delhi where you don’t have to
pay for or beg for sex, you can just pluck it off the street and no one does a
thing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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A version of this short opinion piece appeared in Tehelka. You can read the full article here.
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was in high school, a popular local boy’s school had
a fad with their car horns. Any time you heard these teenage boys, zipping
across the city, they’d beep continuously, almost like a tune or a ditty:
beep-beep-beep-beep-beeeeep-beep. It was a code, someone told me, laughing, but
didn’t reveal the code till later. “Pakad, pakad,ke chod do.” Catch ‘em and
fuck ‘em, for those who didn’t grow up in this city where ‘chod’ is one of the
first Hindi swear words you learn, ‘chutiya’ is almost refined, and I will rape
your ass tossed around at any altercation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t think the boys meant it, they were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nice</i> boys, my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">friends</i>,
and plus boys schools are dens of sexual deprivation, right? But then, later, I
overheard a classmate in my co-ed school laughing about this “really cool”
trick he pulled on weekends, going for a drive with a friend around M Block
Market, slowing down when he saw a pretty girl and leaning out of the window,
grabbing her breasts and driving away before she could react. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
It may not even have been a pretty girl.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fact is, when the boys got to drive around in their
cars, beeping, we were given notes on safety by our parents and our other girl
friends. Rules of the rickshaw: never get in when there are two drivers. Rules
of the teenage house party: if someone feels you up at a party, obviously it’s
your fault, because you were drunk, and you mustn’t be a tease. We were very
hard on each other. Girls regularly developed “reputations”, I remember being
totally tongue tied face-to-face with one of my peers once, because I had heard
behind her back of all the things she did. We never blamed the boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was always the outfit (so low cut!) the
booze (she can’t control herself, ya!) the she-asked-for-it (well, she’s always
hanging out with boys, anyway.) The boys spoke of it, if you asked, somewhat
sheepishly and yet, with a certain amount of pride in their voices, and you’d
have to be the Cool Girl, listening, nodding wisely, thinking privately that
you’d never be in a situation like that. We let them get away with it, and
these were nice boys, boys who were educated and well brought up and probably
don’t even think about that part of their lives anymore. Boys who were
socialized with girls, who had “rakhi-sisters” and yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People say Delhi is the rape capital of the city, and I was
hotly defending it on Facebook when I thought about that beep-beep and what it
stood for. I know sexual harassment is universal, but what does it say about
this city that we flaunt it blatantly? That there’s no going to a dark alleyway
or an empty room, nope, people are able to rape people in broad daylight, in a
moving vehicle on a main road, and the only thing they have to worry about is
banging into someone else’s car, because then people can get really angry. I can
bet the men in the situation wore an expression of sheepish pride too, “oh
well, it was nothing really that I was able to do it for so long”. They clapped
each other on the back. They might have gone to get a cup of tea. What a nice
night out, they probably said. How nice to be in Delhi where you don’t have to
pay for or beg for sex, you can just pluck it off the street and no one does a
thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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