I am so proud today

It was all clear, no more bra burning feminists required, no more heavy-moustached chauvinists required. The war of sexes came to an end right in front of my eyes.

The time and the place were perfect. Who am I kidding? Well, the time wasn’t perfect but yeah the place surely was.

It was the good old mighty train.

How much more clarity you need to divide and assort the different point of views of the two sexes.

8 compartments for male and 4 for female. Ah…..what a dignity that Indian railways has given us. I am touched.

And we pay tribute to this honour …..by completely being ourselves in the compartment.

The first thing we do as we enter the compartment is point our fingers at others. Not to raise the issues against terrorism but to enquire where the particular person is getting down. Without even moving a lip we plan the seating arrangement of the whole compartment.

We also try to hone our communication skills (which is bestowed on us much before our male counterpart) by supporting a fight, which other two really hassled women are having.

It’s a pity that all men do is, just sit there and mind their own business.

uhh....

And now, I shall spend rest of my life deciphering this piece of writing.

Volatile hybrid of dinosaur and toy,
this remnant throbs on a hot stone:
a prehistoric offcut,
six inches of chlorophyll-green dusted with pollen;
a trick of nature-lithe,
ectopic, cuneiform a stocking-filler,
out of the place everywhere but in the sun.

Frisking the wall,
its snatched run is a dotted line of fits and starts, spasmodic, end-stopped.
It pulses once; slips in a rock with a gulp.

Lizard, a poem by Robin Robertson, who has won the forward prize, UK’s most valuable poetry award for best collection.

Left Right Left

Coming from an ever confused and blissfully dysfunctional south Indian family, I have to be loyal to my community by talking about our culturally intricate habit of eating food by our hands. No problem with indulging yourself with the most organic way but the problem starts when you are half way through and are trying to serve yourself again. Even after 23 years I have not got it right.

Once I am done with the vegetable and rice (a south Indian’s first serving), I try to serve myself with the dal. Now you may not find anything wrong here, but my mom says I am doing a blasphemy by trying to serve my self with the same hand that I was using for eating. Since it has become impure by my very own saliva, I am not supposed to touch the equivalent-to-god food (which anyways would be processed by so called impure saliva). Fair enough, so no right hand but only left. But my 5-year-old brain in my 23 year old body asked for serious explanation when I was told that I had done one more blasphemy by giving money to my istreewalah with my left hand. Why? No reason, it just shows the disrespect (huh!)

So here I am trapped with a life threatening issue. Should i be left with right or the left is right.