Women's Lib

WOMEN’S LIBARATION

I fly frequently on business. I normally try to reach the airport well in time to avoid the last minute rush. After coping with the unpredictable Chennai traffic, there are queues to be negotiated at every stage which are manned by the people who are not known for either their efficiency or their courtesy. So I often reach the airport with some time to spare.

            I was standing in the first queue near the entrance at the airport, clutching my id and the ticket in one hand and the weather-beaten suitcase in another. A well-dressed attractive young lady, 35ish, rushed in waving a phablet in one hand. “May I go in please? I am late”.  She pleaded. With their hearts full of human kindness for the plight of the working woman, the other passengers readily agreed. The security guard at the gate shrugged. She breezed through.  Likewise, she sashayed through the second tier of security and the check-in counter.

By the time I had managed to check in, she had already sailed past the long queue for security check. When I went past the humiliation of security check, I found her sitting in one corner, sipping coffee, chatting idly with a colleague/friend.  I was surprised. I thought she was late? It turned out she wasn’t. She was going on the same flight as mine and had ample time on her hands. All this subterfuge was to avoid standing in tedious queues.

A little peeved, I couldn’t stop myself from asking “madam! You said you were late but you weren’t”.  She gave me a withering look which clearly said “mind your own effing business” and declined to favour me with a verbal response.

She again managed to glide past the queue for boarding the bus and the final queue for boarding the flight. When I went in after a while, huffing and puffing after the exertions of standing in 5 different queues, the lady in question was snugly ensconced in her seat, chatting idly on her cell phone. She looked at me with a smirk and turned disdainfully away from my accusatory glare.

My heart bleeds for the battered, bruised and abused Indian woman.

THE CIDER HOUSE RULES

THE CIDER HOUSE RULES

There are many books, which, once started, you don’t want to put down. But there are some which are so good that, as you start nearing the end, you want to go on but at the same time, don’t want it to end. THE CIDER HOUSE RULES is one such book. As I was nearing the denouement, my heart was filled with the sorrow that the exquisite pleasure which I was deriving from it was soon going to end.

                A very unromantic setting in a decrepit orphanage, an apple orchard and a Cider House; a very unlikely hero- an ill adjusted erratically educated orphan, and a subject as controversial and relevant as abortion form the background. With such an odd assortment, John Irving has weaved a magical tale of intense human emotions, an epic love story with his trademark twists and turns which leave you amazed at his total mastery over his craft. In his inimitable style, independent unconnected events inexorably converge into a crescendo of breath-taking catastrophe which you can see coming but can do nothing about.

It also has a poignant war story with predictable ingredients. But it is not the wounded soldier who meets with a tragic fate.

The issue of and the moral angle in ‘abortion’ is handled with sensitivity and without any ideological bias. Exploitation of blacks by the landed gentry is also touched upon in a non-judgemental way, more like a chronicle of those times rather than as a social commentary on the ills of slave labour. Even rape and incest are depicted without dramatization and without condemning the offending persons as black villains.          

In short,  it is an unlikely masterpiece from a great author.

Reading such books also shatters all my fond hopes of ever becoming a writer. I despair I can never write half as well, howsoever hard I may try.  

FACEBOOK

FACEBOOK

One day, at least one day,

            I want to open my Facebook homepage, without anybody uploading       photographs of 

·        Hindu deities,

·        Sai Baba,

·        Their own nocturnal trysts;

Without anybody gushing about

·        Narendra Modi,

·        Rahul Gandhi,

·        Arvind Kejriwal,

·        Nitish Kumar;

Without a request for

·        Clicking on a photo to see magic,

·        Liking a jingoistic rant,

·        Be proud to be an Indian,

·        Forwarding a miracle report;

                                        Or,

Anyone making profound statements, like

·        Friendship is –blah blah blah…

·        Why am I bored today,

·        Why am I not bored today.

That would be the day.

 If you like this statement, please forward it to at least 10 friends and you will be blessed by Lord Ganesha within 7 days.

consortium meetings

Consortium meetings

I am sitting in my hundredth consortium meeting and scribbling this blog to fight a serious attack of boredom which is overwhelming my whole being. Consortium meetings have their own group dynamics which needs to be followed meticulously and carefully.

            The less important people i.e. senior officers of smaller banks, who are conscious of their lower status in the pecking order but resent it, come late to prove a point that they also are important. They are, however, careful not to be so late that the meeting would start off without them. They keep sending messages to their minions, who arrive early to reserve important seats for their bosses, about their whereabouts.

            These worthies keep striving to keep their inflated egos airborne by asking for green tea when everyone is having juice or vice versa. They spurn cookies and ask for roasted (not fried) almonds (not cashew nuts) and throw a minor tantrum if these are too salty.

            These gentlemen always dress garishly; and prefer suits with loud stripes and psychedelic ties. After the meeting kicks off, the Company bore, normally the CFO, launches into a 50 page power point presentation starting with the company’s genesis as a mom and pop shop in 1918. By slide 2, everyone whips out his blackberry and starts playing BRICKS seriously (Bricks is the only game which comes free with the blackberry). Then, the ritual of picking up the cell phone and walking out while furiously whispering into it, and returning in the same manner, starts. The movement of people in and out of the meeting hall closely resembles the ten hats of an expert juggler in the circus. Then the presentation mercifully ends and the serious discussion starts. As the company officials would already have taken care to speak to Individual bankers, the consensus is quickly and smoothly achieved. The pompous ass tries feebly to disagree on some minor trivia but is disdainfully ignored by everyone. The leader concludes the meeting succinctly and then the serious business of wining and dining starts.

Time for me to mutter my well-rehearsed excuse and make my exit before the garishly dressed boor launches into his limited stock of dirty jokes.

GUNDI

GUNDI

In local parlance, Gundi is a girl who is a bully and a tomboy who has scant respect for authority. ‘A’ is growing into a real Gundi. She is very particular about the genre of music she listens to, the toys she plays with, the food she is given and the company she keeps. She wants to dress up and go out every evening with one of her progenitors. She yells at her parents when she is bored, when she is hungry, when she is sleepy or when she feels like changing her attire. She cranes her neck to see what her parents are up to and  coughs discreetly but insistently if they are engrossed with each other and ignore her for long (i.e. for more than a minute); and starts bawling if they still ignore her.  She, however,  has enough sense to be at her best behaviour when there are visitors; or when the family is visiting some friends or is out shopping. She also smiles sweetly whenever a camera is aimed in her direction, but seldom otherwise. But let us give her some more time, she may mellow with age. Ahana  is just  5 months young.