"Oh man, thats hot."
"Hey Alec, check her out, man."
"You make my heeeeeeead go round, round, round...when you go down down downnnnnnnnn..."
As usual the juvenile delinquents in my class had forgotten that there was a girl in the group too. They were staring, no drooling, at a girl outside on the college lawns. Probably somebody from the acting workshop. Those chicks were hot.
So I chose to continue ignoring them.
"I bet I can get in her pants...she is an easy lay."
"What makes you think that, man?"
"Come on look at the way she is dressed...I mean hello...she is asking for it."
Thats it, I was jolted from my passive state. No I just did not hear that. This was America for Godssake! The people here are supposed to be modern, advanced...openminded, not the kind which make judgements on a girls character based on her wardrobe. This is not Delhi, where a rape victim is as guilty as the accused because she dressed provocatively,hence was "asking for it".
I turned to look back at those boys, I had known them for 2 months now. I saw Alec, a very well travelled smart kid, with the most kinky sense of humour- wholesome American. Then there was Karl, the wacko from Spain, Fredo from Italy and Ali, an American dude of Persian descent, also the contributor of the above mentioned statement.
I saw young men from Europe and America. I saw the Men which we hoped our Indian Men will one day become, open minded...liberal. They were the representation of a civilized society, the flag bearers of the First world. But what I really saw were Men who were just like the kind you encounter outside any girls college in Mumbai or the ones who grope you on Delhi buses.
So what difference does it make that a woman in America can choose her career and decide to have a child out of wedlock? Her wearing a short skirt gets her the same character certificate that a woman in India would get.
What is a modern society?
What is being broadminded?
What is Sexism? Or how much is Sexism?
I am confused. Or rather I do not wish to succumb to the obvious. Men, no matter which part of the world they belong to and how much education they have got...will always have something in common. Their perception of women.
Else what could explain the trophy wives or the arm candies which get younger every year?
You cant escape their thoughts, no ladies, stop looking for the perfect Gentleman because there never was any.Not back home and not across the seven seas.
22 Apr 2010
14 Apr 2010
BUBBA'S BIRTHDAY
I had gone to US with the same expectations as any other Indian. The land of milk and honey. The land of plenty. Where everyone is rich and everyone has got armloads of goodies. Even watching hours of Hollywood kitsch with depictions of gangs...alley fights...thugs and homeless, had not sullied my vision.
And then I reached LA, my college was in Burbank...where all the major studios like Warner Bros. and Universal are and my house was on Melrose Avenue, near Hollywood. So it required me to change 2 buses and walk 15 mins everyday to get around. And sometimes I skipped one bus and it was a 40mins walk home.
Nothing had prepared me for the sight of multitude of homeless people sleeping in parking lots and bus shelters. The narrow jaundiced thinking from which most of us ill informed people suffer from, had conditioned me into believing that these people should be either Blacks or Latinos, definitely less educated and scary. But I was surprised to find that most of them were Whites and I even saw one of them lying on his ragged blanket reading Jane Eyre. Still,I hate to admit that I used to cringe and hold my purse really tightly close to me, while walking past them. Nothing assauged my fears or preconcieved notions.
Until it was Bubba's birthday.
One night I was really late returning from college, past 11pm...I got into this nearly empty bus. It had around 8-9 people in it. And most of them looked, to put it mildly, surviving on the fringes of society. When I entered I felt I had intruded something, all of them seemed to be engaged in this lively conversation with the driver of the bus. After a few moments of being subdued, the chatter was renewed with a gusto.
I sat in a corner observing them all...the filmmaker in me looking at them as potential material for characters or story ideas. I noticed the worn out clothes, the plastic bags which looked distinctly as if they were carrying the entire life and possessions of the owner. Shoes with holes, hair unkempt...faces lined with a deep regret of resignation.
"Honey, I love your shirt".
I looked up, startled at the source of the voice. The kind gentle weather worn face belonged to woman in her late forties, sitting comfortably with her feet up on the seat, her bulging plastic bag, nestled close to her. She looked at home.
She was smiling at me as if making a guest feel comfortable in her home. A generous host.
I mumbled a muffled Thanks.
"Are you from India? I have been to India thrice, lived there for almost 2 years. I did travel a lot back then in '80s."
I tentatively smiled back in response.Though I was intrigued I could not proceed with the conversation.
Next voice, was of the driver."So where did you say you were for past two months, Colorado?"
My smiling host replied," Yeah, I was visiting my son. He insisted Mamma You stay here with me, Mamma don't go. But you know, Charlie I am a big city girl, I had to come back."
"You did good, good to see you again. We missed you", said the kindly driver.
The bus had reached its last stop, where I had to get down, and so did others, as i assumed.
But I realised that i was the only one getting off, rest all continued lounging and chatting with the driver.
And then it hit me. This is where they would spend their night. On this bus. This is what they do every night, and the kind driver lets them, with respect. He did not embarrass the passengers, he didn't call off their bluff about Sons in Colorado. He knew when his regular patrons switched buses for a month or so. And came back with stories how they spent holidays with their loving families, in their warm and welcoming homes.
The driver knew there were no homes and so did I. But I was judgemental and he was not. I had prejudices and he had none. I could not bring myself to make small talk with a lonely women...because of what?
She looked poor?
Her clothes were worn..?
As I walked home, I promised myself that next time when I get on that bus I would smile at all those people. They might have made wrong choices but they were alright as human beings.
Next time came few days later. I got on the bus and their seemed to be a party underway. The same 8-9 people were there, but all wearing little paper birthday hats.
In front sat this really old guy on a wheelchair, with the happiest little grin on his face. He was holding a small bunch of balloons.
All balloons had Birthday messages scribbled on them.
As we rode, I tried to read the messages.
"Happy 75th Birthday"
"You rock"
"Happy Birthday Bubba"
I told myself I have to wish this sweet old guy. And I felt overwhelmed at the kindness of these people. Without homes, shelter or any semblance of normality in their life. Still they made this one little lonely old man so happy. His grip on his balloons was so tight, as if he was holding on to this happiness, this oneness, this camaraderie...as he was trying to hold on to all that he had lost.
I had to wish him. I wanted to be a part of this happiness.
Last stop came...I walked past Bubba, I tried to pause, I tried to say it. But the words just did not come.
I regret it till today.
Well, Happy Birthday Bubba.
And then I reached LA, my college was in Burbank...where all the major studios like Warner Bros. and Universal are and my house was on Melrose Avenue, near Hollywood. So it required me to change 2 buses and walk 15 mins everyday to get around. And sometimes I skipped one bus and it was a 40mins walk home.
Nothing had prepared me for the sight of multitude of homeless people sleeping in parking lots and bus shelters. The narrow jaundiced thinking from which most of us ill informed people suffer from, had conditioned me into believing that these people should be either Blacks or Latinos, definitely less educated and scary. But I was surprised to find that most of them were Whites and I even saw one of them lying on his ragged blanket reading Jane Eyre. Still,I hate to admit that I used to cringe and hold my purse really tightly close to me, while walking past them. Nothing assauged my fears or preconcieved notions.
Until it was Bubba's birthday.
One night I was really late returning from college, past 11pm...I got into this nearly empty bus. It had around 8-9 people in it. And most of them looked, to put it mildly, surviving on the fringes of society. When I entered I felt I had intruded something, all of them seemed to be engaged in this lively conversation with the driver of the bus. After a few moments of being subdued, the chatter was renewed with a gusto.
I sat in a corner observing them all...the filmmaker in me looking at them as potential material for characters or story ideas. I noticed the worn out clothes, the plastic bags which looked distinctly as if they were carrying the entire life and possessions of the owner. Shoes with holes, hair unkempt...faces lined with a deep regret of resignation.
"Honey, I love your shirt".
I looked up, startled at the source of the voice. The kind gentle weather worn face belonged to woman in her late forties, sitting comfortably with her feet up on the seat, her bulging plastic bag, nestled close to her. She looked at home.
She was smiling at me as if making a guest feel comfortable in her home. A generous host.
I mumbled a muffled Thanks.
"Are you from India? I have been to India thrice, lived there for almost 2 years. I did travel a lot back then in '80s."
I tentatively smiled back in response.Though I was intrigued I could not proceed with the conversation.
Next voice, was of the driver."So where did you say you were for past two months, Colorado?"
My smiling host replied," Yeah, I was visiting my son. He insisted Mamma You stay here with me, Mamma don't go. But you know, Charlie I am a big city girl, I had to come back."
"You did good, good to see you again. We missed you", said the kindly driver.
The bus had reached its last stop, where I had to get down, and so did others, as i assumed.
But I realised that i was the only one getting off, rest all continued lounging and chatting with the driver.
And then it hit me. This is where they would spend their night. On this bus. This is what they do every night, and the kind driver lets them, with respect. He did not embarrass the passengers, he didn't call off their bluff about Sons in Colorado. He knew when his regular patrons switched buses for a month or so. And came back with stories how they spent holidays with their loving families, in their warm and welcoming homes.
The driver knew there were no homes and so did I. But I was judgemental and he was not. I had prejudices and he had none. I could not bring myself to make small talk with a lonely women...because of what?
She looked poor?
Her clothes were worn..?
As I walked home, I promised myself that next time when I get on that bus I would smile at all those people. They might have made wrong choices but they were alright as human beings.
Next time came few days later. I got on the bus and their seemed to be a party underway. The same 8-9 people were there, but all wearing little paper birthday hats.
In front sat this really old guy on a wheelchair, with the happiest little grin on his face. He was holding a small bunch of balloons.
All balloons had Birthday messages scribbled on them.
As we rode, I tried to read the messages.
"Happy 75th Birthday"
"You rock"
"Happy Birthday Bubba"
I told myself I have to wish this sweet old guy. And I felt overwhelmed at the kindness of these people. Without homes, shelter or any semblance of normality in their life. Still they made this one little lonely old man so happy. His grip on his balloons was so tight, as if he was holding on to this happiness, this oneness, this camaraderie...as he was trying to hold on to all that he had lost.
I had to wish him. I wanted to be a part of this happiness.
Last stop came...I walked past Bubba, I tried to pause, I tried to say it. But the words just did not come.
I regret it till today.
Well, Happy Birthday Bubba.
12 Apr 2010
FRIENDS
So after weeks of starting a blog I finally decided to write something.And what made that happen?
Past few months have not been easy, I am used to being busy and hate to see life pass me by...without me making any contribution to it or taking anything from it. To be able to get through these months all I had were some friends.
Am I always nice to them? nah
Do I make a space in my life for them? nah
Do I give them the time they deserve? nah
Do I love them? oh yess yesss!!
So there is this bossy german who would try all measures to contact me...to get me out there, to talk to me, to involve me...when I try my best to go underground and not face the world. She loves me. I never feel I have done enough to deserve it. And at times I excel at being a complete bitch but there she is, always.
Then there is that kid with chinky eyes...known him for donkey years. Met him twice in last five years and yet and yet, he has all the space in his life and heart for me.
So who are friends, the people with whom you share intense happiness or intense pain or the ones who will pick up your call and know by the tone of your voice what you are upto...even though they havent heard from you in years.
Are they the ones who are intensely jealous when you land up with an impossible catch, a uber hot uber successful boyfriend...but will still offer you a shoulder to cry on without a trace of satisfaction, when the catch turns out to be an asshole.
Sometimes they shop with you for your wedding dress...when all they have ever dreamed of in their life is to wear one...
Yes friendship is jealousy, it is selfishness but it is never malice.
My best friend in college was the hottest girl gracing the corridors, while i chugged next to her fat and ugly, a steam locomotive. Skewers of pain would run down my heart when the guy I secretly drooled for would try to be my friend just to be able to talk to her. I hated her. I loved her. And now 6 years later when I saw her as a frumpy housewife mired in an unhappy marriage, all I felt was this deep deep gut wrenching sadness and I shook her, YOU ARE THE HEADTURNER, all I wanted was for her to reclaim her self worth.
She didnt change as a person, neither did I...nor our friendship. All my crushes and the disappointment seemed like a figment of my imagination. What was real was the need for my friend to get back on her feet and reclaim her life.
So when I camp out in my friends house for months while looking for work and discover she has been sneaking money into my wallet, do I feel gratitude?
No
I feel tenderness. I rejoice in this gossamer yet mighty bond, which we call friendship.
And yes to come back to why I finally chose to inaugurate my blog.
Well yesterday was the start of the week and I felt I had hit a new low. And then out of blue calls a friend. And though it took all my reserves of energy to go out and meet her, this beautiful person made me happy. I laughed without a care and I returned with hope.
And then what are friends for.
Past few months have not been easy, I am used to being busy and hate to see life pass me by...without me making any contribution to it or taking anything from it. To be able to get through these months all I had were some friends.
Am I always nice to them? nah
Do I make a space in my life for them? nah
Do I give them the time they deserve? nah
Do I love them? oh yess yesss!!
So there is this bossy german who would try all measures to contact me...to get me out there, to talk to me, to involve me...when I try my best to go underground and not face the world. She loves me. I never feel I have done enough to deserve it. And at times I excel at being a complete bitch but there she is, always.
Then there is that kid with chinky eyes...known him for donkey years. Met him twice in last five years and yet and yet, he has all the space in his life and heart for me.
So who are friends, the people with whom you share intense happiness or intense pain or the ones who will pick up your call and know by the tone of your voice what you are upto...even though they havent heard from you in years.
Are they the ones who are intensely jealous when you land up with an impossible catch, a uber hot uber successful boyfriend...but will still offer you a shoulder to cry on without a trace of satisfaction, when the catch turns out to be an asshole.
Sometimes they shop with you for your wedding dress...when all they have ever dreamed of in their life is to wear one...
Yes friendship is jealousy, it is selfishness but it is never malice.
My best friend in college was the hottest girl gracing the corridors, while i chugged next to her fat and ugly, a steam locomotive. Skewers of pain would run down my heart when the guy I secretly drooled for would try to be my friend just to be able to talk to her. I hated her. I loved her. And now 6 years later when I saw her as a frumpy housewife mired in an unhappy marriage, all I felt was this deep deep gut wrenching sadness and I shook her, YOU ARE THE HEADTURNER, all I wanted was for her to reclaim her self worth.
She didnt change as a person, neither did I...nor our friendship. All my crushes and the disappointment seemed like a figment of my imagination. What was real was the need for my friend to get back on her feet and reclaim her life.
So when I camp out in my friends house for months while looking for work and discover she has been sneaking money into my wallet, do I feel gratitude?
No
I feel tenderness. I rejoice in this gossamer yet mighty bond, which we call friendship.
And yes to come back to why I finally chose to inaugurate my blog.
Well yesterday was the start of the week and I felt I had hit a new low. And then out of blue calls a friend. And though it took all my reserves of energy to go out and meet her, this beautiful person made me happy. I laughed without a care and I returned with hope.
And then what are friends for.
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