F*** Your Beauty Standards?

Look at her. LOOK at her.
Some people say clothing/fashion brands are exploiting "fat" women (and men) to sell their stuff. Yet others blame her (and others like her) for promoting obesity and unhealthy living. Tess Holliday has started a movement called Eff Your Beauty Standards. It's about loving yourself the way you are - big, skinny, voluptuous, bony. It's about being the best you can be without implying that the best needs to be within certain inches.
She has never asked anyone to get obese.

I don't want to be her size. But I want to be like her. So much. And no it doesn't mean I want anyone to see my negligee-clad selfie either. I don't have gorgeous underwear like hers.

The last bra I bought was a "minimising" bra that is supposed to make my breasts look smaller. Slimmer. Not there. It doesn't work. The bra sort of pushes them down and to the sides. It makes my chest look wider, like a hammerhead shark, but with a hammer chest.

I want to have Tess's confidence. I want my IDontGiveAFuckness to come back. Somewhere along the way it's been hammer-chested too.
I was thinking about all my mummy friends back in Melbourne. I can count the non-skinny persons on the fingers of... one hand.

I want to be like Tess. And wear sleeveless outfits and shorts and nice dresses without thinking about who I'm offending with my arms and my thighs and my unminimised breasts. I don't even know why I'm self-conscious about my breasts. Women pay shitloads of money to have surgically enhance them to my size. :/

Oh well. I think I need to go shopping.


Images: Courtesy Tess Holliday

Quick note

Thank-you to everyone for the wishes on the Hello Beautiful post. For those who might not know, Indian blogger network IndiBlogger alongwith Dove and Yahoo! held a blogging contest called "What is real beauty?" The post I submitted (surprisingly) ended up winning the first prize. I'm pretty excited because it was absolutely unexpected. And welcome. :)

I might be somewhat infrequent here for a very short bit -- unless I can manage my time better and post something -- as I have a deadline pending. My publisher's finally had enough. I better get my butt moving. 

PS: There are some really well-written posts on the beauty issue here, check them out.

Past Imperfect

Mia will be ONE year old next month and frankly it's making me feel quite strange. There's the bit about where-did-the-year go. Then the bit where I go, "Oh my god, my baby is not a baby anymore!" Then I start thinking that it's been three years since I had a proper job, i.e. as a journalist. And I wonder if this is the end of my media career. But then I think I really don't want to put her in childcare unless we really need the money. Amidst all that thinking/wondering, I realise that soon it will be five years that I have been writing this blog. Well, this is more or less the same as Emancipation of Eve; I just gave the old blog a new name.

So much has changed over the last five years. It amazes me at some times and totally scares me at others. There are so many amazing bits. Mia, Partner, living here, a terrific rapport with my parents, a new family I love... In five years I've gone from smoking 10 (and more) joints a day, spitting mad at the world to not having had a cigarette in the last five days. I am wearing nicotine patches, but it's a start. The scary bit is that none of it was planned, everything just happened. So it could also un-happen right? That's what scares me but I'm not going to be chicken shit. Jo hoga dekha jayega. :)

Here's what was happening with me this day, on this blog in the (five) years passed:

Personal arse licker?

I’ve just put Mia down for her afternoon sleep. I left her with her eyes closed, a little smile playing on her lips and her favourite tee shirt sleeve stuffed in her mouth. She loves sucking herself to sleep…on good days. On not-so-good days she likes to be rocked and patted in my arms. Except that now she has decided she needs to pat me back while I am patting her. Basically it’s a lot of patting and no sleep. I’ve been doing the patting-rocking since she was born and even though it can get tough sometimes – there’s my favourite show on TV, or guests waiting, or dinner getting cold, or I’m just too tired – I love it when she falls asleep in my arms. The way she snuggles under my chin, the way her mouth stays slightly open (even with the recently developed bad breath), the way her breathing deepens along with her sleep. I feel an immense sense of peace each time I rock her to sleep. Sometimes, I also feel an immense sense of gratitude that she was born in Australia and not in India.

Can we have some penis?

The first time I’d really thought about it or noticed (the lack of) it was while watching a lingerie show on Fashion TV.

There were female models parading in next-to-nothings. Wispy laces, satin and silk and see-through garments that that were more see than through. You could see the nipples, the shading of the areola and even how one female models’ cleft was perhaps slightly longer than the other. I was watching and thinking how washing anything so delicate – and I mean the lingerie here – would be a bitch when this male model walked on to the catwalk.

Hijab and hooker heels

OR Shit fry for a white guy…

I swear to Jesus or Sai Baba or whomever you may please that this bloody blog is allergic to happy posts. Even as I sat down to convert the notes I have been taking over the days into ‘Episode 1: Virgin Affairs’ – after the mandatory email checking, friend request ignoring and birthday walling – the calmness of my early morning was fucked by ‘a person’ sitting on the computer next to me. I am at a cyber café on Elizabeth Street, Melbourne and was quite happy with the holiday I’ve had so far and with the people of this city TILL ‘a person’ walked into the café, sat on the comp next to me and upon realizing he is sitting next to an Indian, has crossed himself at least six times since.

It’s funny because firstly, it has never happened to me before. Of course people have remembered God when around me or because of me --- bwahahaha – but that’s not usually because of my skin colour. (er, it's called putting the fear of God) Secondly, because I thought one is supposed to cleanse oneself after meeting an Indian, remembering God really doesn’t help, you know. Anyway, so the guy walks in --- (oh wow, he just left, perhaps typing in font size 18 WHILE he was staring into my monitor worked, maybe he will knife me or punch me in the face when I step out, maybe I should kick him in the groin first, NOT going down without a fight unless am shot in the head or something) – takes one look at me and goes, “E gad” and crosses himself. I am surprised at my reaction, since I simply looked away, stared into my monitor, smiled and started typing. Maybe I will hang a laptop around my neck and walk around.

That apart, I really have not felt much of any racist vibes… Maybe two days is not enough to feel it! (Am SUCH a cynic) People are friendly or at least helpful when you ask them for directions or some such thing. In both Kuala Lumpur (KL) and Melbourne, if I have caught another’s eye and smiled, people have smiled back… except for the Indians. In both cities, the Indians or those of Indian origin are the last people to smile at a stranger and first to look uncomfortable when spoken to. At least three people were horrified when I spoke to them in Hindi and pulled a really twangy Australian accent on me with an, “Excuse mai?” All three were women, who had been speaking Hindi (two of them had) just before I spoke to them and were in Indian outfits, one was also wearing chooda (red and white bangles that recently married Punjabi women wear). The first two times I apologized and switched back to English but the third time – the chooda chick – I couldn’t help but go, “Anywhooooo”, wink and walk away.

Both yesterday and today (Friday), I’ve come into the city with Partner at about 9 am. He leaves for work – he’s here on an official thing – and I roam around the city, checking cafes, looking at buildings, drinking loads of coffee (8 cups yesterday, determined to not have as many today), wondering why Melbourne women don’t wear more colours (maybe on the beach? But it’s cold…) and REALLY enjoying the fact that am getting a fair bit of nice-male-attention. No men stared/ checked out/ looked in Kuala Lumpur but a fair bit – both ‘white’ and non-white – have been doing so in Melbourne. It could be because I DO look the smallest creature walking on the roads – I mean there are other 5 feet tall/small women, but WHY do I look such a runt?! – or because I seem to be strolling while everyone else is pacing about. THAT’s one instant way of knowing who is NOT from Melbourne… People here pretty much run instead of walking. Maybe it’s a big city thing, or maybe it’s a city-with-train-network-thing. But even in Delhi (doesn’t have local trains) or Mumbai (has local trains), I’ve never seen people walk this fast. Or purposefully…

When I say nice-male-attention, it means that the blokes check you out but it’s not like in Delhi (or Indian cities) where they seem to strip you with their eyes (and sometimes you can even feel their disgusting paws on you). Here it’s more like a top-to-toe and quick look away if you catch them looking at you, or a longer thorough glance if they don’t know you know they are looking at you or a shy or cheeky smile if you catch them looking and look back. Hmm, however, majority of those who looked were tall boys. Perhaps they thought I was a midget… or perhaps because I look ‘man-handle-able’? (Tsks at self for being SUCH a cynic)

However – and I can’t say it enough – it is SUCH a relief, a huge, huge, relief to just walk around the roads of an unknown city without anyone whistling, without eyes boring into your back, your butt, your breasts, without walking through a throng of people crossing red lights wondering if someone is going to grab your tits. I don’t know the city, I don’t know streets and yet I feel very comfortable just walking or getting on a tram, asking people for directions or sitting alone outside cafeterias with a coffee and a cigarette and watching as the city wakes up. It is such a relief that even when a man looks at you or checks you out, he does not threaten. Of course there are some jackasses, but unlike India (or the Indian subcontinent) where we seem to produce them in masses, not everyone is a jackass. In fact the ONLY dudes who offend with their staring seem to be the Indian/ Pakistani boys here… (Sri Lankans don’t, they are way too cool)

Perhaps some will give the argument that since boys and girls here grow up watching each other on beaches and wearing short skirts or cleavage showing outfits, they are more used to such stuff and therefore don’t stare. (Between, the sari shows much more than jeans and a tee shirt does or with stockings on, you don’t see skin at all while there are no skin outfits worn under saris when our women show off their midriffs) But you know what, in Kuala Lumpur, MOST Malay women wear the hijab (almost like a burqa except that the face is not covered but the rest of the body is) and YET the Malay men do NOT stare. In fact girls in KL – Chinese majority that is –wore MUCH shorter dresses (and higher heels) than the girls in Melbourne (also since its winter here and was bloody warm in KL).

IF hooker heels and hijab can coexist in a country WITHOUT men molesting women on New Year’s and without staring or eve teasing, I say WE need to do something. HOW are the mothers bringing up the boys in these countries that makes them NOT stare? What are we doing wrong that makes generations of men in India into such personal space invading, boob-staring, butt-grabbing monsters? Please don’t give me rape and how it happens in other countries – it does and there’s no denying – but EVE TEASING is what am talking about. It’s different and it’s really rampant.

Anyway, this is getting longer and there is much to write but those will come in subsequent posts. It’s 11.20 am now and I wonder what I can do today till Partner gets free… I checked out the Melbourne aquarium yesterday and I don’t think many will be impressed when I say that I found the jellyfish more impressive than the sharks. But that’s me. Heading out for more coffee, more notes and trying to understand what makes this city tick and why it’s so difficult for Delhi to pick up tips from truly international, truly multicultural cities… And what might it take if at all we were to change our men.

PS: Of all things about India and home, I miss Golu Dawg, he is at a dog resort. IF I move to this city… I will have to find a home for him in Delhi. NOT going to think about it, makes me cry.

Keel(ing) Haul: Why ‘foreign’ girls are easy (prey)

Advertising is a powerful tool. It can exhilarate, educate, strike a debate, titillate and definitely irritate. As far as irritation goes, the prize goes to the latest Vodafone ad – four generations in a family end up singing kabhi kabhi mere dil mein song – which puts my hair on edge. I hear it and my synapses short circuit themselves.
Or maybe it has something to do with Vodafone: I have been suspicious of the company ever since they took over Hutch and put that cute pug in a kennel. While the Hutch ad touched many hearts – what with the little dog following the little boy, stumbling over steps, sleeping in his bed and all – the Vodafone version gave me nightmares. So here was the faithful little pup looking for its master, searching, seeking, hopelessly lost…
And what happens next? His master deserts him and he ends up in a kennel. Chop, chop, finito. Downright despairing and should have warned us of what to expect from Vodafone: Bad connectivity, bad customer service, bill goof-ups and fraud and too many calls from too many people on all bad times. Anyway.
As much as I love good ads and will watch them without changing channels –compulsive-channel-changing is anyway a man-disease, they just LOVE pushing buttons me thinks – bad ads seriously put me off. Like the stupid ads on sanitary napkins that show women having this sudden urge to perform furious acrobatic feats just when they are having their period. Dude, it does not happen, even if said napkin is more comfortable than your girlfriend’s bosom, there is something called period cramps. Had even written a post on stinky pad ads (pun unintended) three years back – called the Period Piece – you can read it here.
Ads are powerful because they have the ability to influence thinking. Whether you buy a product or not, ads leave behind an impression. Or create and propagate one.
So it’s somewhat disturbing when driving down the road you see a billboard with an Indian guy posing with two semi-nude women, both ‘white’ chicks. Turn a magazine page and you will have another ad with a woman suggestively licking an ice cream, again a ‘white’ chick. An advertisement for a deodorant where miraculously the guy gets many girls after he sprays himself (er, with the deodorant that is); the girls are all skimpily clad and white.
Or for that matter event invites on Facebook. ‘Come to the expat night’ at so-and-so place and the invite-image is that of a white girl’s torso, lots of thigh and cleavage. Or profile pictures and party pictures where most DJs will be seen posing with ‘expat’ girls; most of them white, drunk and showing skin. Or the photographer who pastes his ‘work’ on the Funwall: “My job is to click beautiful women” his message reads. All pictures are those of anorexic, suspect-age (under 17) ‘models’, all white and barely clad. The venerable Amitabh Bachchan does a music video (Eer, Beer, fatteh anyone?) and shimmies with white girls. Akshay Kumar’s videos from his fun movies have ALL ‘foreign’ chicks in negligees and negligent clothing. WHY just the white girls? I have white girls as friends and most come from families that could have been mine. I also know Indian girls who do things that would put a whole lot of ‘coloured’ (and I mean other colours than brown) to shame. So while certain Indian ads and movies promote the ‘white girls are easy’ image, our glorified item-girl Shilpa Shetty becomes the epitome of Indian womanhood. Ah what grace, what beauty, what culture.
Even as I am writing this piece, there’s a news flash on my computer: Three Indian Army officers detained in Kinshasa, South Africa for the rape of a woman. Meanwhile the investigation into the Goa murder of 15-year-old Briton, Scarlette Keeling continues… Apparently she was into drugs, sex and a ‘fast’ life: Recipes for asking for rape and murder if you ask certain Indian authorities.
(News update: The army officers have been cleared of charges. News report here.)
CNN-IBN’s prime time show, Face The Nation, posed the question: ‘Are foreign tourists victims of an image trap’? The survey result: 94 per cent said yes, and 6 per cent said no. Meanwhile officials and ministers say that foreign tourists coming into India, especially women, should be more careful. “There are women lying naked on the beaches”, says one minister. Since Goa does not have nude beaches perhaps that is pushing the limit. What about bikinis and beachwear? Won’t saris in the sea/ocean cause more drowning? What about the women who are molested even when they are NOT in beachwear?
What ‘image trap’ are we talking about? Is it against white women? Skimpily clad women? JUST women? Is it the advertisers and movie industry that are promoting this? Or does it have to do with the fact that you can do anything to any woman and it will become prime time news and nothing beyond that… because we always end up blaming the victim? She ASKED for it? It’s not just India or Indian ads and movies. Check this ad (now withdrawn) by Dolce & Gabbana. Women, kids and dogs sell products. Apparently even gang rape does.

Rape...and getting away with it in India.

Statutory warning: Could be disturbing. Some of you might find the following post offensive. Some of you might enjoy it because you might be a bastard. Or because you have already done it and gotten away with it.

It’s cleared here that the post does NOT promote raping a woman, since there are people stupid enough to need that clarification. However, following recent rape cases, there seems to be a guide-book that rapists are following. And it ‘could’ read like this:

1. A man let's the woman think he is friend so that she trusts him. Others could be a stranger and can catch her off-guard in a secluded place.
2. A secluded place is often not mandatory: A bunch of men can do it in public by squeezing her breasts, feeling her butt and tearing her clothes. It happened twice in Mumbai and other men joined in.
3. Some don't bother with penile intercourse. They shove anything inside a woman... They seem to know that a girl cannot do anything to prove rape since a penis was not used.
4. Drunk women are supposedly easy targets. It's scary when young women in pubs declare, "Oh I am drunk" with their clothes falling all over the place. Someone offers her/them a ride... and she's raped in a car. The women did NOT step out toe be raped; they stepped out to dance. But it happens. Later they will say in court that her character was questionable.
5. Many such rapists -- mobile rapists in cars -- have their car windows absolutely tinted. It's against the law in most Indian states, but it just takes 100 bucks to bribe a traffic cop who might object. It seems mobile rapists prefer big cars with wide back seats; it helps to spread the woman.
6. Not that anyone cares if the woman is cramped or hurting; rape is not exactly known to be comfortable. Mobile rapists often have a good stereo system with blaring music; guess it drowns out the screams. Some perhaps threaten the girl to keep quiet... they use a knife or beat her senseless.
7. Often it's not just the rape. Women -- especially children who are 8-years-old -- are left torn and bleeding. Perhaps the rapist gets excited when he tears into a woman/ girls vagina or anus.
8. Given that many medical shows and crime show that sperm is used for a 'rape swab' -- testing whether a victim has been raped -- rapists seem to be getting smarter and don't ejaculate inside a woman. Medical tests also need to be done within 24 hours to be conclusive evidence. Sometimes, girls are 'thrown away' after three days of repeat use.
9. White girls, “foreigners” and Indian girls who go out to nightclubs are seen as easy rape victims. Why them? Because they were partying. Or walking to the local dhaba to get food. Or seen dancing with boys. Or showed cleavage. Sometimes, just because they had a vagina.
It had been playing up on my mind for quite some time, rather since Sunday morning when a front page article – three paragraphs of it – in Times of India read, “12-year-old gang-raped and murdered by policeman, accomplices.” Two pages later, adjacent a page filled with ads – one of them from a bank that promised india of the future – there were only rape report after rape reports. A full page of rape.
Two weeks back on the Bhikaji Cama flyover, this kid from office and me were returning home in an auto. I was smoking. As the traffic slowed on the flyover, three boys on a scooter came very close to the auto – I was sitting on the left, to the exit – and started saying, “Give us the cigarette sexy, cigarette to dede hamein,” one of them reached out inside and I started screaming whatever came to my head including words like “vehicle number”, “police”, “stop the auto”, “follow them”. They fled. I dialed 100, there was no response.
Three weeks back, Partner and me stopped at Bikaner Sweets in Katwaria Sarai – two minutes from Qutub Hotel, a five star – to eat some samosas and gulab jamuns, we have a weakness for it. As we waited for the sales guy to take our order, there was a group of boys standing and checking me out and making various noises. Another guy passed me saying, “Dekh desi choot ne gora pakad liya hai.” Literally it meant, “Indian cunt has found a white boy.” Partner does not understand Hindi, I did not translate: He would have gotten into a fight. I do not underestimate my man… but I do NOT want him knifed. Remember Crash? When the policeman holds a gun to husband’s head and fingers the wife? So I take even more crap when with Partner for fear of his reaction. It is not in me to keep quiet, but I do.
These days I am getting into more verbal skirmishes with random men and auto drivers than I ever have… I CANNOT stand the idea of anyone looking my way. My blood boils and I want to punch, kick and take their balls in my hands and SQUEEZE till their eyes pop out. I am so scared it is making me a nervous wreck.
And CONSTANLY my friends and well-wishers tell me to CALM DOWN FOR MY OWN GOOD. It is NOT helping me. I am told that speaking out or taking on “these people” might backfire. I might get beaten up. I might be picked off and gang-raped. I wonder then, does gang-rape hurt lesser than a single man raping? Doesn’t a woman pass out after say the third forceful penetration? (Then I remember a case where a girl was gang-raped for four days…) Do they stop to consider if the woman is wet? Do they stop if she develops sudden cramps in her stomach? Do they stop if she starts bleeding? Since rape is power, perversion and a crime of dominance, chances are, they don’t. They do all this to KIDS. Little girls who don’t even have their vaginas READY to take in a finger. Much less a man.
1999. A father rapes his 8-year-old daughter by forcing her to give him a blow job, by penetrating her with his fingers, both anally and vaginally. The High Court of India DISMISSED the case saying the case was invalid. The Indian Penal Code ONLY takes penile penetration as rape. Hahahahahaha.
I am getting more paranoid, cagier. So now, not only do I have to bear men staring at my breasts, my arse, saying nasty things like, “Choot chudhwani hai kya” – which in English for those who DON’T understand Hindi means-: “Do you want your pussy f**ked?” I also cannot say anything about it. Even as I am typing this, I've come back from the office pantry with a cup of tea. As I bent to retrieve the paper cup that fell, a colleague of mine was standing trying to look inside my shirt. As I waited for the cup to fill, the bastard was STILL checking out my breasts. I came T.H.I.S. close to throwing boiling water in his eyes. Should have.
I don’t care if I am beaten up, have acid thrown on my face or am run over by a truck. If ANY man touches me, says anything remotely sexual or even looks at me… I am hitting out. It’s not as if my not saying anything will stop them. So might as well. And I am going to arm myself. I will not feel scared and since I AM scared, I am going to react like any other cornered animal, by hitting out. Because sooner or later, every woman is going to be raped.
Every hour, EVERY hour, 18 women face "crime" in India: Rape? Molestation? Eve teasing? All of the above?
Since 1971, rape cases have increased by 700 per cent.
Since 2005, there has been a 5.1 % increase in rape cases registered. The key word is REGISTERED. Many are not reported.
There used to be 7 rape cases per day... NOW it is 53 cases a day.
PS: Tip for women: IF anyone is forcing ORAL sex on you: Be it your boyfriend, husband or a stranger: BITE down on the penis, do NOT let go. It will hurt so bloody much that it should incapacitate him for long enough for you to run.
Remember, the man will NOT stop from hurting you, he might even kill you once you have seen his face and if he thinks you might go to the police: Catch his balls and do Not let go. SQUEEZE with ALL your life. He WILL hurt you later, you be the first. Eventually, you will anyway be dead. Go with the knowledge that you got the bastard.
PS 2: I am sorry, I am depressed. I have to go out tonight…and I am nervous that I will again have to either turn a blind eye to the mother-fuckers around or spoil everyone’s night by getting into a fight.

We The People: Video link

Hello
Some of you asked for the video link and here it goes.

We the People: Should blogs be regulated?

Each to her/his own!
Happy watching!
rgds
Eve* aka JB

So who said dumping the arsehole was easy?

Needless to say, in the true spirit of man-bashing, I really do not care HOW many nice men are out there. As far as my vision – peripheral and all included – goes, the men I see around me and those dating chicks I know, are all the arsehole variety, stinky ones.

And for god’s f**king sake, I don’t know WHY does MS Word have to underline the word arsehole; it does not even recognize arse for that matter. Grr. Am I angry? Bah, not even remotely so. Am just trying to get into the spirit of things. I want to laugh. It is all so f**king so, so ridiculous. The entire fall in love-cry about it-fall out of love, cry about it situation. Because strangely, nothing seems to change the Cry About It status.

When in love, you are crying about whether he loves you enough, whether he’s about to cheat on you, whether you can match up to his expectations, or whether you are expecting too much and therefore pressurizing him. Or why he doesn’t call enough when once-upon-a-time he wanted you to call him even when you stepped out onto your balcony. Poor fellow used to be worried that his baby might fall off or something. Aww baby.

Or from remembering your favourite dress to opining on what nail paint suits you, he suddenly goes colour-blind or says blanket-decision things like, “Everything looks the same on you.” The somewhat kinder ones – who perhaps want you to stick around a bit longer before you expire your Utility Factor – will modify that statement to say, “Everything looks the same on you… I mean, looks good. Don’t ask each time… baby.”

And Doubt is a deadly thing; because strangely, you never are sure. Unless you find a loaded condom in the dustbin. (haha, cracks up at the memory)

If your man first gives you a blanket-statement and then adds a ‘baby’ after that statement, mark my words, the f**ker is up to no good. No, it does not necessarily mean he’s sleeping with another woman. It could be a man. Technicalities apart, it DEFINITELY means he is not interested. When the situation is rocky and the guy senses it, ‘Baby’ is often used as a Female Core Softener by him.

My Ex would use it each time to soften an argument, or ask for food, after an argument. It was always the same strategy. Fight, bitch, fight and just when I am about to explode or he wants to watch TV, “Baby, later.” It wasn’t the ‘later’, I would go all kachoo-machoo on the ‘baby’ and would ‘behave’. He would also use The Baby when I wondered aloud if the female colleague sending him shady song lyrics at 2.30 am (something to the tune of I-will-follow-you-wherever) meant anything specific…

(Kachoo-machoo is when you feel embarrassed for ever having opened your mouth and having questioned the intentions and motives of Such A Worthy person. You start believing that it is ALL your fault and every doubt is a figment of your imagination and that YOU were the reason the fight started in the first place. So you want to crawl and assure Such A Worthy person that it won’t ever happen again and so you keep your mouth shut and go on pretending that everything is okay while inside… You stew. And the bile, when it stews, just gets thicker. So while you want to scream out the allegations, demand a face-to-face talk and WANT clearance, you keep feeling guilty for having those thoughts. And nauseous. You feel like a doormat but you keep asking yourself, “But isn’t Love supposed to be about letting the small things pass and loving another despite everything? The good and the bad?” etc. So, you take MORE shit. Anyone ever felt kachoo-machoo?)

The good and the bad. Then there is Rotten. The Rotten should be dumped instantly. Beware though, Rotten comes in varied interesting packages. And always, as a RULE, he will SEEM to be the answer to ALL your prayers. Darlings, God is on vacation. So who the f**k is answering ALL your prayers? The dude is probably spam. Rotten. The trick to recognizing the Rotten from the Bad, is recognizing the kachoo-machoo. The INSTANT you begin to justify some horrendous behaviour or start questioning your Own sanity, STOP. Don’t do it.

If a man cannot make you feel happy, WHY the f**k are you with him?
If a man makes you cry once, he WILL make you cry again.
If a man hits you once, he WILL hit you again.
If a man is lying to you, nothing will make it stop and the lies will only grow.
If a man is not moved by your tears, he will not care even if you die. It’s harsh, it’s true.
If a man says, “Baby I am not sure,” don’t wait around for him to be.
If and when he is sure, he will seek you out. But DON’T wait. There was this girl who waited for this dude to be sure for eight years, they got engaged too; and a week before the wedding, he called it off. Sure, there are women who do such things to men too, but hey! This is called EVE Emancipation; the Adams can go f**k each other. And well, they are anyway.

And most importantly, for WHATEVER reason that your man turned nasty on you, it is NOT your fault. You don’t have to have a perfect figure. Or know every f**ker who ever sang just because your dude is interested in music. He reads and you don’t, great! Don’t kill yourself over it. What is the worst that can happen? That you will be alone? It’s far tougher managing to stay single than you can imagine! However, if at all you do end up staying alone, it is definitely better than living for and a with a man who hurts you.

If and when you meet a man who can love you, make you laugh, hug you, care for you and generally be what the man you want – assuming you are being the woman he wants too – give him all, love him to your heart’s content, have no shame in apologizing and don’t keep credit points when you do something for him. Be ready to stand by him, give him your support, your caress, the warmth of your body. Be his strength, vociferously, or silently. But WHEN he does the EXACT things for you.

If he does not, get out and get out fast. You are a human being who deserves to be treated right. If you cannot love yourself yet – for whatever reasons – start by NOT letting another abuse or unlove you.

And remember ALWAYS; the moment a man says, “I am not sure”, get out. A relationship is about taking the not-so-sure things in stride and WORKING around those. Not making a list of the workables and the non-workables and THEN deciding to get into things. Shrug. Perhaps, some people call that taking your time etc; but hey! If the Dude can hang with you and do pretty much everything else BUT “give” his heart. Ha ha. The arsehole is making an ASS out of you.

Get out. Stop crying. Go have sex. If you see his face when sleeping with another man, shut your f**king eyes (and think of what’s happening in the groin). FIRST, get out and THEN we shall figure what to do next. Rest assured, life does NOT end at a break-up. No madam, that makes it easy and rather boring. Life continues and it’s up to you to make it rather boring pining for the jerk that treated you like sewage in the first place… or doing whatever else with it. Shrug.

PS: This is for all of You, who are having a hard time breaking up and are wondering whether you will get over, or where did it go wrong, or why did he do it, or what was lacking in me or oh-my-god how will I survive.
(The boys can change much of the above to women as well. Rotten is genderless)

Recap

Many people, and I mean many people have been asking---> "What's with clit-chatting?"
Well, I don't suppose those who come on to the blog necessarily go to the first post... but here's the reason all over again.

My Vagina Monologues

After having heard about Eve Ensler's celebrated play, The Vagina Monologues, I finally got to see it -- performed by Mahabanoo Modi Kotwani and her team of actors. Four women talking about other women and their stories from the world over. Did I like it? Yes, it was well presented. Did I love it? Pause.

I could understand the story about the rape of Bosnian women. I could understand the story about the 72-year-old Parsi woman. But what about the women of TODAY? The apparently sexually liberated, knowing-her-mind, ball-breaking, board-moving, 21st century woman of today.

I am one. Supposedly all of the above. Or I was. Break-ups, child loss and physical abuse later: I really don't know. Am I emancipated? Finding myself, finding my Eve, finding my vagina. Literally and figuratively. Go figure.

I am, therefore I start...

Why did Cinderella stay?

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?

Why did Snow White bite into that apple?
When there were choices out there, in ample?

Or Sita who chose to walk on fire,
Despite sitting through situations, many dire?

I am not Sita, 'ella or White,
But am a woman in every right.

I could be all that you want me to be,
But you would still want more, and not just me.

So I sit up and watch and look and wonder
And hear the whisper in the distant thunder…

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?

All women are Jews

"Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine". The most iconic opening line ever... says Whitelight in response to the previous post.

Funny that Jesus should be mentioned, am currently reading Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint and this is what he has to say:

"They worship a Jew, do you know that Alex? Their whole big-deal religion is based on worshipping someone who was an established Jew at that time. Now how do you like that for stupidity? How do you like that for pulling the wool over the eyes of the public? Jesus Christ, who they go around telling everybody was God, was actually a Jew! And this fact, that absolutely kills me when I have to think about it, nobody else pays attention to. That he was a Jew, like you and me, and that they took a Jew and turned him into some kind of God after he is already dead, and then -- and this is what can make you absolutely crazy -- then the dirty bastards turn around afterwards, and who is the first one on their list to persecute? who haven't they left their hands off of to murder and to hate for two thousand years? The Jews! who gave them their beloved Jesus to begin with!"

I swear.... all women, regardless of where they are, are Jews. In West Bengal, they take the mud from a prostitute's compound to make the idols (some of the mud is mixed) of Goddess Durga. A whore and a goddess. They worship Kaali for strength and sacrifice new born girls. They call a cow a "mother" and then beat their own mothers. They are born out of vaginas and they call it a cunt. Yes, you cunt born, feels nice, doesn't it?

AGAIN, I repeat, when I talk of men, I do NOT generalise. There are nasty bastards around and a few good men. Request the Few Good Men to NOT be offended. Thanks to you, some women like me - crazy or whatever I might be - can write. And yet, thanks to some dicks, all men get labelled bastards. Shrug. Deified, vilified, loved, abused, murdered, sluttified, bitchified....sounds like a Jew and every other minority out there. Funny, no women, no world and they are a minority.

I am Sunita and I get beaten everyday

I am Sunita, 30-years-old, three children: two daughters aged 17 and 14 and a son who is 10. Today I was beaten up, first when i was being beaten for myself and then when I was trying to save my younger daughter ...who was trying to save me.

My husband -- an alcoholic, without job and with another woman he spends my money on --- was hitting me this morning. As usual. We had an episode last night too. As usual. so my younger daughter got in the way, trying to stop him from beating me. She thought if he hit me too hard i would die. You see, just two years back (i was 28), I had an open heart surgery. But he hit me, because I warned the Other Woman that she has to stay away from my husband.

So when my younger daughter tried to protect me, he throttled her. And said he would fuck me and my daughters. How can he? They are his children, his flesh and blood. How could he say that? Why does he treat us like this? I didn't get the kids from my parents'...they were born here. Of him. How can he talk about screwing his own daughters? what if she does? What should I do?

Should i leave him? what will the world say? what will happen to my daughters? who will marry them? Will they also have a life like me?? I am Sunita. I got married at 18. I am a maid in a swanky household. WHAT IS MY FAULT?

(as narrated)

My Vagina Monologues

After having heard about Eve Ensler's celebrated play, The Vagina Monologues, I finally got to see it -- performed by Mahabanoo Modi Kotwani and her team of actors.

Four women talking about other women and their stories from the world over. The rapes of Bosnian women. A 72-year-old Parsi woman, shamed for the orgasm she never really had. And somewhere between watching that play and starting this blog, the realisation that the stories sound the same. Sound real.

I am not at all confident about this liberated, knows-her-mind, ball-breaking, board-moving, super-all-rounder creature that the 21st century woman is supposed to be. That I am supposed to be. Or am some of those things. Or I was...

A broken heart, broken spirit and broken body later: I really don't know. Am I emancipated? Finding myself, finding my Eve, finding my vagina. Literally and figuratively. Go figure.

I am, therefore I start...