One of my many deviations from normalcy is my strong distaste for newspapers. For a Lady who has had many a wet dream about being a writer in the world outside just her head, it’s probably an impractical dream, I get that. Just like the time I wanted to be a doctor without actually touching anyone. Or that time I wanted to do my high school dissection without killing anything. Time and again, I’m forced to choose between puke or barf. Usually, I just drop my impracticalities and move on to the next fantastical thing. Then it’s Pause, Stop, Latch On, Rinse and then Repeat to infinity. Welcome to TumbleDry of this LadyBrain, I say. Of course, to live in Mumbai and to not be sure — right down to my retirement savings plan — is indeed blasphemous. After all, this is a country where some parents do, till date decide their children’s profession from about the time they are in their soggy diapers. Mum has now understood studying DeadDudes, DeadWomen and any other Alive-Or-Undead writer makes me happy, after protesting against anything remotely science-y or math-y for about 19 years or so. I will stop you before you say, “C’est La Vie!”.
It was a normal Sunday morning, last week. I got up at about 10 am, wiped all the drool off of my face as my dog stealthily shoved me off of the bed. I saw yet another zit on my face. Routine has been established and maintained my LadyBrain said as I heard the reassuring sounds of the couple across my apartment started their ritual verbal war. I dragged my arse to the kitchen, made a vat of coffee, proceeded to drink it all too. You know, routine stuff. And then, in post-caffeinated cloud of an esspressorgasm, I did something I never do. I read the Sunday Times. And then my world came tumbling down as I read the paper.
I somehow managed to scoop off my jaw from the floor as I read this dude douche open his flytrap so far wide that I couldn’t even begin to start smashing the words that came out of his mouth. Not even if I had Feminist Hulk by my side. You can imagine, BLOG! reading people, just how much manure this douchetruck spews. This Dude-ly Dude in question is Vibuti Narain Rai, ex-cop and Vice-Chancellor of some fancyarse university, who has very successfully faked being a somewhat sensible man all these years. Till about two weeks ago, anyway. Important tip for all people who don’t want to stick themselves in a huge mess, don’t call feminists prostitutes! Well, not in a media interview anyway. Turns out, saying “That recent autobiography can be very easily be called ‘How many times in How many beds” for a woman-writer’s autobiography can be very harmful. Who knew? Not him, for sure!
I thought about writing to this Dude and explaining just why do women or any other marginalised community (in particular) will focus on The Body enough to completely gross you out and make you not-prong anyone for five minutes. I wanted to explain to him that talking about the anatomy is an old-tradition in politics of the oppressed because this is our way of re-claiming what was ours TO BEGIN WITH, the same land you went on and controlled, bound, used anyway. Sounds a wee bit familiar to Colonisation, doesn’t it? The only difference between the two was that Colonisation happened under the guise of OppressionTacticsForIgnoramuses Liberal Humanism and controlling bodies — especially marginalised bodies — is like chewing gum to Patriarchy. At least, colonisation “Set out to do good” (laughably) on paper. Interestingly, both — the omnipresent coloniser and the patriarch — could enjoy many a private ejaculation in our bodies. Generally, without consent. I wanted to explain to him, writing about sex is radical, dangerous, tricky and ultimately rebellious. This is a culture where we are told and ritually taught to never explore our body or sexuality. While there are cinema halls for the menz to go and mass-jerk-off* to any B-flick, we are told to sit correctly, turn our heads inwards every time the conversation goes to sex. It seems incredible that there are still people who refuse to talk to their daughters about sex, menstruation, child-birth but will definitely give her plenty of dolls and kitchen sets to play with. I wanted to talk to him about the deeply negative and rife with religious taboos this space of feminine masturbation is, considering ours is a country that is one of the biggest consumer of women’s pornography — romance novels! I wanted to ask him the reason behind why do many men of our culture feel it’s okay to grope, touch and literally possess our bodies without a sliver of guilt; I wanted to ask him when did this shift from worshiping women — per our scriptures — to mishandling them take place? Was there anyone overseeing this? If so, could I have a good long talk with them?
By this time, I was ready to claw my way into the newspaper, reach into his office and give him one hard resounding smack with Butler’s “Bodies That Matter” till sense was instilled in him. Till he would understand that it’s stupid for his career as well his semblance to pass off as quasi-sensible to say something along the lines of ‘women are flaunting their bed-hopping skills in the name of feminism’. Till he would remember that (W)hordes of Dudes have been doing the exact same thing across cultures. In fact, as far as I know, the more Dudes mention the women they consensually or non-consensually prong or boink (take your pick), the more famous their Dudely memoir gets. And this is true across cultures!
But I digress. Don’t want to bleed to a mental death anymore as all these said Dude memoirs come flashing by this LadyBrain. I can do it on some other Sunday. Besides, there is a particular CanineMale who is salivating at my feet (literally) because I’ve ignored my Sunday tradition — Giving him the newspaper to tear to bits. Mission accomplished, his tail wags as I drown now in post-post-caffeinated-espressoragasmic stupor.
* Sigh. Women can go to these theatres too. Only if they are okay with horny men groaning (and doing much more) around them. And this is me not commenting on the flick being played at all.
P.S. Check out Wallamazoo’s post on supposed White Oppression that I am too lazy to cross-post. Hey! It IS Sunday after all.