Looking Back In Anger

Right. I have had enough of trying to resist the urge to blog because my work is more important. Technically, I have done everything (or close enough) for tomorrow. No, I haven't finished Nietzsche, but I can take the bastard apart for the sake of Modernism & Democracy if I have to... AND I can link him to Whitman! How'd you like THAT, bitch?!

(Apologies to readers of a more delicate disposition, but Nietzsche and I have been involved in a power-struggle through the course of the First Essay of his On The Genealogy of Morals. Yesterday got so bad that I actually had to just put the book down and step away from it for hours to stop my poor brain bleeding. This then resulted in a dear friend and I making a list of, as I put it, 'the shake-'n'-slap writers.' These are writers who, after you've wrestled sufficiently with them, give you the hearty desire to meet them so that you can shake their hand and then bitch-slap them, all the while perhaps crying about how they've simultaneously changed/ruined your life (we got Shakespeare, Graham Greene, Nietzsche and Freud before it was time for bed...).

Anyway, this same friend commented on a story that the F-word brought to my attention. I strongly recommend going to read it, as you won't really be able to appreciate any of what follows otherwise. I posted this on Facebook, commenting:

Fucking ridiculous that as always, one person can wield this much power despite 98 others being satisfied. What fucking bollocks. I'm not going to go around singing the praises of that time of the month, but honestly.

and then my friend replied saying:

Dude. I totally agree with the decision to withdraw the tampon thing. I mean it's one thing to say on stage 'Ew a blood soaked tampon' but another thing to pull one out. Even a fake. It's like you wouldn't want to see someone pretending to do a shit on stage. I'm all for artistic whatever but i don't agree with people being disgusting for the sake of controversial art. And you know that this comes from a real and natural place as I'm the type of person to say 'I'm on ladies, and only telling you on the off chance I faint or something'.

I love my friend and what she has to say is totally fair - yet I must say, I'm sorry but I think that's bollocks. It would help if I could see the offending scene on YouTube or whatever, but I'm assuming it was a brief scene with the tampon, and not some lingering appraisal.

I wouldn't want to see someone doing a shit on stage, no, but if it were to happen once and be part of the story - much as was the case here, because it was a play about daughters, and girls growing up - deal the fuck with it. I'm really not a fan of the excessive-secrecy approach. Especially over a thing like this - we girls have enough to worry about as it is without having to feel like disgusting freaks if some evidence of this biological difference emerges between us and men. My mother was always hyper-uptight about any evidence WHATSOEVER - even washed knickers which had been put out to dry - being happened upon my brother and dad, which only made me angrier about the state of affairs.

I mean, what the fuck? Sex used to be a lot more taboo than it is now (some aspects of it still are in all fairness), and then it came into the public eye more and guess what? We're all still here. The world hasn't ended! It's surprising to me, as always, that I should be the one defending things like this as I used to think I was quite influenced by the somewhat traditional and 'follower' style of thinking of my family. Maybe not, eh?

I tried to think of an equivalent part of the male development experience, and I drew a blank... until I thought of voices breaking (not really as big a deal), spontaneous erections (since they entered the coming-of-age and comedy genres, not quite as offensive as periods) and finally I hit 'bingo'... with masturbation.

We all know boys do it, and even those of us that it is a big shock for (like me, I honestly had no idea that they did until I was 19...) generally accept that y'know, that's how it is. That isn't to say that it's acceptable - masturbation is still an object of huge shame and guilt, especially on the religious front. There is so much to say here (the problems arising from porn and the images of sex it presents to boys and girls, for one?) but again: GET OVER IT. Especially you, America. As porn providers par excellence to the world, you REALLY don't have a leg to stand on. Although I suppose that as a country whose identity was founded upon ideas like 'Manifest Destiny', you were always going to be fucked from the start (pun entirely unintentional). And finally, just to get all feminist-in-your-face and point out how female sexuality and sexual development in particular are once again being vilified, let's think about the attitudes towards female masturbation (and then not go there just yet, because I still have lots to say).

To summarise: girls and women have periods. We go through hormonal changes, it is disgusting and unpleasant. It's also a fundamental part of female sexual/physical development. So, get over it world, and we'll try not to wave our dirty laundry at you too much in return (pun intentional this time.)

So... that is over, and now I must take to task a dickwad by the screen-name of 'Ashik'. Mon copain Rumbold recently posted a short article on Pickled Politics, publicising a new 'honour'-based violence helpline. Some interesting facts were gleaned through the setting-up of this project - like the fact that 71% of the mostly-female callers considered immediate family more of a threat than their actual husbands. 'Ashik' - who provoked the wrath of myself and a fair few others when he posted personal information about Sonia, a deservedly-beloved regular, on another thread - had this to say:

1. Ashik — on 29th September, 2008 at 9:43 pm

   I’m not sure what role groups like Karma Nirvana and individuals like Sanghera can play in stopping honour-based violence amongst ethnic minorities in the UK. Although they can certainly provide advice to individual victims.

   Sanghera and her like tend to be viewed with suspicion by these minority communities because they tend to be supported by the authorities and the fact is they tend to sensationalise sensitive issues like arranged marriages (not to be confused with forced marriages) and have often too accommodating a view on inter-racial and religious relationships. If one keeps on running to the (often rightwing) media and mouthing off and entire communities are associated only with oppressing women, forced marriages and family violence then this colours these communities ability to tackle these problems. That’s not say that minority communities shouldn’t admit and talk about the problem, as Halima has indicated domestic violence amongst the wider community is in many ways akin to honour-crimes. This shouldn’t be about attacking a section of the community but sincere attempts at dialogue need to be made. This means liaising with mosques, churches, Gurdwaras and other community centres which reach into target communities rather than alien implants like Karma Nirvana, even if they are staffed by Asians.

   While a 17 year-old girl (whether Asian or not) should not be forced to marry, equally given her tender age she shouldn’t be encouraged to form a relationship and elope. Especially if the partner is considered unsuitable. She will have need for extended family support. How often does a relationship formed at 17 last?

WHAT PURE, UNADULTERATED BOLLOCKS. What the hell is he on about? If he knew anything at all about Karma Nirvana or Jasvinder Sanghera (he could at least read her book, Shame, which lays out what she aims for with KN), he would know that one of their aims is not just helping women in 'honour' situations, but also in helping them - and elderly women - of South Asian descent who cannot speak English, to get by. If that isn't 'liasing with communities' even in the least, then I don't know what is.

'... the fact is they tend to sensationalise sensitive issues like arranged marriages (not to be confused with forced marriages)'

Sorry Ass-kick, but unfortunately in a lot of cases, the line is pretty blurred between those two categories (as it was in JS's own case!) and so people rightly condemn both, which obviously doesn't go down well in your little two-tone world.

'While a 17 year-old girl (whether Asian or not) should not be forced to marry, equally given her tender age she shouldn’t be encouraged to form a relationship and elope. Especially if the partner is considered unsuitable. She will have need for extended family support. How often does a relationship formed at 17 last?'

This actually cracked me up, as it reveals a lot of poor ol' Ass-kick's mindset. 'If we don't marry our daughters off early and police their relationships, they might fall in love at 17 and elope! What will we do then?'

Er... and then again, they might not? (And what is his obsession with the age 17 anyway?!) I really hope, judging by all of that, that Ass-kick never has daughters. In fact, I think any children of his deserve all the pity they can get for having such a close-minded father *shudders*.

It really irks me when men get all defensive about something that is actually not really that much about them (as I and the likes of Sonia and Desi Italiana have said before, it's much more likely to be the older women who police the younger ones' relationships), and then turn it into a 'community issue,' subsequently colouring any critique in terms of a betrayal of that community. Look, you fuckers, if these women have suffered, they are going to speak out and so they bloody well should. Doing so does not make their efforts to change things 'an alien implant'.

It is things like this that force communities to change - I mean hello, since when were large groups of people ever progressive and contemplative about their actions?! The 'herd-instinct' has those connotations for a reason. Essentially saying 'the communities should be allowed to deal with it themselves':

'If one keeps on running to the (often rightwing) media and mouthing off and entire communities are associated only with oppressing women, forced marriages and family violence then this colours these communities ability to tackle these problems.'

(apologist, apologist, communitarian apologist!)

is BS, and here's why.

I'm off now, because I don't want to altogether lose the high I have from dating the most WONDERFUL person (who isn't Indian - watch out Ass-kick, I might be an 'alien implant' too!) to stress and Mr. Ass-kick Dickwad. As Nellie McKay would say, 'sari' for my language... ;-)


P.S.: I see that Ass-kick has already been taken to task by Don and my awesome new blogging pal, Andy Gilmour. Go go Gilmour! *waves a Scottish flag* Haha.


AND JUST TO REITERATE, THE HELPLINE NUMBER FOR 'HONOUR'-BASED VIOLENCE VICTIMS IS: 0800 5999 247

Remember, there's only so much 'the authorities' can do - people need to put their cojones to some use and blow the whistle to stop cases like that of Banaz Mahmod from re-occurring.

The Future (Proper)

Aka another poem. I feel like a 14-year-old 21-year-old. Haha. Sorry readers, I promise I will get back on track once I get work under control to the point where I can actually manage to write a decent post.

The Future (Proper)
If only I was techno-Tarzan;
surfing wireless routers
to get to you,

Broad bands of distance
offer us see-through
fronting, to kiss

Without touching; no 'fronting'
at least in our
removed and efficient connection –

It spits and crackles,
loud and literal, the
irritating, inescapable future –

But we'll make
our own literature
over strings of sexy

Texts and emails;
Future Sex and Love-
Sounds that we

Build and participate in
in our heads together.
For in these virtually

Real times, you are
the carrot on
the stick, the kiss,

The whisper, the heated
Solidity I need –
The future proper.

A Day of Frustration

I have had a really frustrating day today. It came about as a result of a good deed done for my friend yesterday - she took almost two hours to get home, being as she was outside of London and thus not able to make use of late-night Tube trains or 24-hour buses. I am on her network and I have unlimited calls, so I kept her company as she went home, attempting to turn away her anxieties with my dislocated ramblings. I was fatigued through inability to sleep for various reasons (stress being chief among them), and her sudden need of me meant that I am now feeling the double whammy of two nights' lost sleep.

Now I don't know what it is about me - maybe my general tendency to be a bit odd and sensitive as a writer - but certain changes of state rob me of my personhood and leave me bristling on the verge of 'animal.' Extreme hunger is one, and extreme lack of sleep is another.

I have fussed and fought with the expectations weighing down upon me as a final year student, living away from home, trying to reconcile my experiences of being in another country and leading a very different life last year with what I want from this year.

The prognosis is bleak. Things don't go how you wish they would. You move out and dream of plucking up the courage to talk to anyone and everyone, of being your own boss and controlling when you eat (at last!). The lengthy commute vanishes altogether. You can now head back to YOUR ROOM and make yourself lunch instead of buying overpriced sandwiches to nibble on, hoping they will suffice for the four hours ahead before you can even hope to grab something else.

You talk to the other early arriver at the final-year English meeting and he eyes you like a frightened mole, barely mustering the response 'I'm doing English and History.' You introduce yourself in the most friendly and personable way possible to others. They are polite and friendly, but unmistakably stand-offish: they don't need you. Nobody is going to take the time to be your friend. And why should they? What was your plan originally? You thought you could fall back on the people from 'your year,' right?

Wrong. One friend appears to have her woolly hat soldered to her head and a permanent whiff of hysteria about her. Another sports a dazed look despite her being much more organised than you are. Other people are laughing and relaxed, chatting with their Spanish-classmates or fellow students from last year, or people they have struck something up with from the start.

You think to draw strength from your work. It has always been a source of joy, a feeling of plugging yourself into a current that is both so natural and so magically electric that everything that crosses your mind can be explained away. Yet everyone is a competitor this year. They eye your mental outpourings hungrily, ears straining for the next remark that they can snatch up, and like a key, use to prise open the groaning difficulties of Modernism and Democracy.

You are no longer safe in your work, even. Every student is out for blood, and in the torrent of unspoken fear, insecurity, stress and wide-eyed disbelief ('what am I doing up so early? why am I here? can it really be that this year is worth quadruple?'), you feel that you might just fall. You might lose hope and lock yourself away, become addicted to the Internet, lose the ability to recognise what makes you angry and simply float in a limbo of de-motivation. Nostalgia is painful and dangerous and deceptive.

You see the whirlwind of hurried, stressed madness and lonely freedom that is the final year, that is London. It feels familiar to you, after a year elsewhere. And yet it makes no more sense than before. You feel cheated of something you were looking for, that you realise you have been seeking your whole life and found neither where you grew up, nor where you were forced to move.

It is a hard-won emptiness. The beginning of the end of childhood - and just when you realised that you were, in fact, a child. The sinister encroachments of adulthood look now like the reflection of gold on water - a flimsy and insubstantial promise that only your imagination will ever be able to keep to you.

Another Bleedin' Song

This really kind of sums up just how AAAAARGH I feel right now.

Lyrics:
Brooklyn we go hard
We on the look for the advantage, we work hard
And if we seem to rough it up a bit
We broke but we rich at heart
Pull ourselves up now we won't choke
It's our time, put the lights on us

War tactics they make me sick
reel your heart in run away with it
Smile in your face, undermine your back
got guns for the strength they lack
So if you know another way
you can't look the other way
if you know another way,
tell them so right to their face

We think you're a joke
Shove your hope where it don't shine (4x)

I pay for what's called
eccentricity and my will to evolve
I hear them all say
that I got heart
but not everything that it takes

Taint my mind but not my soul
Tell you I got fire
I won't sell it for no payroll
Let 'em hold me down
I know if I know another way
I can't look the other way
I know another way
I'll tell them so right to their face

We think you're a joke
Shove your hope where it don't shine (4x)

Tweet - Oops (Oh, My)

[Verse 1]
Tell you what I did last night
I came home, say, around a quarter to three
Still so high,
Hypnotized,
In a trance
From this body, so buttery brown and tantalizing
You woulda thought I needed help from this feeling that I felt
So shook I had to catch my breath

[Hook]
Oops, there goes my shirt up over my head
(Oh my)
Oops, there goes my skirt droppin' to my feet
(Oh my)
Ooh, some kinda touch caressing my legs
(Oh my)
Ooh, I'm turning red, who could this be?

I tried and I tried to avoid
but this thing was happening
Swallow my pride
Let it ride and partied
But this body felt just like mines
I got worried
I looked over to the left
A reflection of myself
That's why I couldn't catch my breath

[Hook]
Oops, there goes my shirt up over my head
(Oh my)
Oops, there goes my skirt droppin' to my feet
(Oh my)
Ooh, some kinda touch caressing my legs
(Oh my)
Ooh, I'm turning red, who could this be?

[Bridge: [Tweet & Missy]
(I looked over to the left)
Mmm I was looking so good I couldn't reject myself
(I looked over to the left)
Mmm I was feeling so good I had to touch myself
(I looked over to the left)
Mmm I was eyein’ my thighs butter pecan brown
(I looked over to the left)
Mmm comin’ outta my shirt and then my skirt came down

[Hook]
Oops, there goes my shirt up over my head
(Oh my)
Oops, there goes my skirt droppin' to my feet
(Oh my)
Ooh, some kinda touch caressing my legs
(Oh my)
Ooh, I'm turning red
Who could this be?

*nabbed from here.

The video, of course. Much better than any rap-porn you get these days, and infused with a cheekiness that music always needs.

A lethal cocktail of baked-beans induced fart-o-rama, fatigue, horniness and sheer window-diving fear over commencing my final year - aka The Rest of Your Life - tomorrow, has me floored.

At some point (once Nietzsche and I learn to be real friends, and I find common ground with Proust), I might be able to muster another half-decent blog post...

A Treatise on Women's Mags; or Is This Feminist?

I'm going to make a proposition here that I think is not particularly daring... or necessarily all that political. I feel that it's just something that has to be said.

I've already ripped the shit out of marriage in a previous post. See, I really do get why people love marriage. It's because they love tradition and their dear little brains just look at the cover of the book and go 'My, but that looks wonderful.' Of course it looks wonderful! You can't predict the future now, can you? I'm not prone to believing any of us yuman beans can, in all honesty.

So WHY WOULD YOU TRY? Why would you slap a giant condition like a marriage-contract (for what else could you call it) onto something that's dying on its feet as a 'relationship' already? The idiom 'hammering the final nail into the coffin' seems very apt here.

Marriages when both people are really sure of what is involved - i.e. if they've lived together for a while, or if they occur later in life when people have had more life experience - are most certainly a wonderful event for those who attend them, and an inspiration (with a decidedly religious glow, ahem) to the rest of us.

Yet how common are those kinds of marriages, really? Especially within the British Asian community (and in India...) where both partners come to the table deeply hampered by inequality. As I have said before with various other things, this isn't just an Asian/Indian thing, it happens everywhere.

And this is what I want to move on to attacking today: the deeply traditional idea that you HAVE to be in a relationship to be happy and/or complete as a person. The reason I ask if I'm being feminist is because this is something women are fed CONSTANTLY. I was discussing this with a friend and we agreed that on the whole, it seems that men are encouraged to seek sexual experience while women are encouraged to form relationships. Anybody else see the potential problems in that?

I'm not asserting that as an absolute truth by any means, but if you want some form of evidence: look at the male homosexual community and the way just about everyone (including some of them themselves) equate 'their culture' with hedonism, kinky sex, partner-swapping etc. I would dare to say here that we don't really know enough about lesbians to venture any sort of stereotype that isn't immediately wrapped in masculine-tailored bollocks (i.e. 'all lesbians are man-hating dykes,' or 'all lesbians can be 'cured' with the arrival of the right guy,' or 'all lesbians are nymphomaniacs'... see what I mean?). Gay guy-mates of mine have commented that they actually do wish to settle down with somebody, but that that's not really something they can advertise in the sex-oriented gay dating scene.

The solution for this is NOT (I don't think), for women to just try and 'even the score' by becoming as sexually-oriented as men. By all means, ladies, go in search of the perfect orgasm if you wish. Just be aware that you're facing off against your biology, which wants to reduce you to the level of a childbearer and not much else, if you don't watch it.

That's why I really don't see the logic in 'friends-with-benefits' situations. Duh, could you ask for trouble any LOUDER? Could you take hold of the can-o'-worms and wrench the lid off any harder, please? The worms will hit YOU in the eye and then YOU'LL complain. Some people really are developed and mature enough to rise above their biological instinct and handle these situations as they need to (I'm thinking Tallulah Bankhead here).

Unfortunately, many of us don't see the obvious problem in entering into regular sessions of close physical contact with somebody we know and quite probably like and trust to a fair degree. Wait, read that back to me - NOW do you see the problem? What makes you think the other person being your 'friend' is going to make you 'safe' from attachments (if not simply MORE at risk of falling for them because you're not paying attention?) ? As my brother would say, NAAW MATE.

The problem is that we really don't do enough to support each other as ladies, now, do we? I'm looking at you here, women's magazines industries! Then again, what's to say that you are even really trying to 'connect' with women? You might have female editors an' all, but the owners are more than likely probably still men, and the shareholders are the people who really matter. Cynicism, here I come. The French singer Yelle had the right idea when she sang:

'C’est la faute des ma-
Des magazines
Les Maries, Les Frances
Les Marie-France
Les femmes pratiques qui en ont pas marre
Des cosmo vogues et tout l'bazar'


Translation:
'It's the fault of some mags - some magazines / The Maries, the Frances / The Marie-Frances / The 'practical women' who haven't had enough of them / Of the Cosmos, Vogues and the whole bazaar.'


You women's mags, you give us a real half-assed picture of the situation. You tell us: great, go after your female orgasm. You encourage us to stay good and monogamous with your endless articles on 'how to spice up your sex life' while simultaneously and subtly trumpeting the values of casual sex with your reader confessions columns and the endless stuff on attaining the perfect climax (again), taking a lover etc. I have Cosmpolitan in mind particularly here.

Women's mags aren't 'all bad,' of course - I don't mean to imply that they are (Marie Claire, for one, has some very interesting and well-written articles, such as one about Real Dolls...). They're just selfish - as is everything out there at the end of the day. Women's magazines won't tell you what to do once you outgrow their 2D status-quo world. Look how shittily simplistic their solutions are: either carry on as you are, looking for a relationship all the time, or make sex the main factor.

There is of course a third way that they won't tell you because it's not in their interests to do so (they prescribe this in small doses, usually to women who have suffered a recent break-up or who have emotional/mental health issues of some kind). Get the cheesy disco music ready, people, because that is to 'Love Yourself.'

Actually, hell with that. We live in a post-psychoanalytical age, where we are trained to ascribe meaning to things (such as our personality quirks) that may not even need it really, and I just don't DO cheesy disco music anyway (give me some Justice or Donna Summer, fool!). So instead, pop on a song that makes you laugh and BE YOUR OWN FRIEND. To briefly invoke the oft-whipped carcass of marriage again for convenience's sake: if you can't spend eternity on your own, how the hell are you going to spend it with somebody else? And vice-versa. Take a leaf out of those magazines' book (thank you Ugly Betty for making that metaphor actually work!) and GIT SELF-CENTRED.

The way I see it is this: despite what your parents say, despite what society says - no matter who brought you into existence, or who sees you out of it - you are born alone (unless of course, you are a twin, or one of triplets etc. etc., but even then you won't all be leaving yer mum's tummy at once!). Does that not make loneness the most natural state in the world to inhabit? There is something glorious I find - dunno about y'all - in gracefully accepting that.

No-one says you have to be misanthropic (not all the time, anyway). No-one says you musn't value your friends or relatives, or your partner (or whatever the fuck you call them). It is rush-of-blood-to-head LIBERATING though, when you realise, that you shouldn't have to be defined and existent entirely in terms of others. I have come to value the bond of friendship - REAL friendship - as quite possibly the highest human connection there is. However, there's a lot to be said for enjoying one's OWN company from time to time. And if you're somebody whose mental tank always seems to be running overloaded-full (comme moi), then find a way to go and birth your thoughts into the world.

In his Essays, Francis Bacon essentially said that men could choose between children and creative endeavour, which was why the greatest artists had been childless men. A very wise and interesting observation, I think you'll agree, and then I hope you'll join me in saying '... but Bakey, now the wimminz can do that too. Relationships, marriage, and kids (in order of seriousness of impact upon one's life and future) are not the sole feckin' purpose of our existence.'

So fuck you, biology! Here's a chance for us all to be equal. And hey, if there's less stupid people falling into these binds, hopefully that means a smaller influx of idiots turning towards extremely conservative/religious/overall fundamentalist viewpoints - or falling victim to them.

Own yourselves. No-one wants to be another Bristol Palin, regardless of whatever their age is (just look at that poor girl's eyes in the picture... I can imagine how she will look once being a 'mommy' takes its toll on her). Own yourselves and RECLAIM YOURSELVES!

Aidan Moffatt's Love Advice

Aidan Moffatt, for those of you who don't know, is what might be termed 'a professional grump.' He was in the band Arab Strap with Malcolm Middleton.

I don't actually know any more than you, my readers, probably do, in this situation - I know that Arab Strap were known and acclaimed for being apparently quite darkly comic in a distinctly '90s Scottish way.

Anyway, Aidan Moffatt acted as an agony uncle for the review site The Quietus (a site I really love reading every now and again, as their writing is very witty and just so much fun). It was in two parts, both prefaced with I'm No Expert... and whether you're looking for love/sex advice or not, it's hilarious. The second column is especially brilliant.

Uncle Agony Aidan Moffatt's First Sex Advice Column For The Quietus.

Uncle Agony Aidan Moffat: Back To Fix Your Weeping Sores.


Their review of Eden Lake also has single-handedly convinced me to watch it, while simultaneously reminding me why I love The Quietus. I also owe them for randomly urging me to listen to the (absolutely brilliant) Afro Samurai soundtrack. Yay!

Marriage: I Ain't Sold

This post was inspired by Nesrine Malik, Desi Italiana and Sonia... thanks, guys.

Well. I must begin this post by congratulating myself on avoiding eating more than 1-an'-a-bit squares of utterly tasty Sainsbury's Belgian dark chocolate, especially after having eaten a sin-filled pack of Walkers' Max Paprika earlier. I am a feminist and ergo not crazy about looking overly-youthful and wisplike all the time (the former would really be cause for concern, as I am still quite young!), but if you do not have the metabolism of a greyhound and are likely to get grumpy after eating too much 'crap,' you have to watch it.

This post is intended to be about marriage, especially its place within Indian culture. I have learnt a fair bit about this recently, and I feel that it's time I wrested my blog from the caprices of creativity and pushed it back towards the polemic. Unfortunately, because tiredness and stress have somewhat 'worn the wick' recently, I may descend into what is essentially a series of no more than randomly-caught observations.

I used to think that I could escape the clutches of the Indian society that surrounded me by choosing who I got married to. There was a rather great irony in this, because I would say that feminism/egalitarianism is more important to me than keeping my parents happy and upholding a certain idea of Indian 'culture'. Ever since I was little, I have burned at the notion that females should be considered inferior to males in any way, especially in this country. Even the whole 'men are naturally stronger' argument never cut much ice with me. I mean, bitch please – are all men the same? No. Are all women the same? No. For example, a dedicated female javelin or discus thrower is probably going to be of greater strength than an Asian rudeboi of the same age, unless, like my brother currently is, he's so obsessed with getting 'hench' that he's significantly bulked-up.

Aaaaaanyway… I used to believe that one could have the best of both worlds. I could placate my parents in the merest sense by marrying someone brown and to all intents and purposes, Sikh. Even if he was secretly unsure (like me), or a naastik (atheist), it would be OK because, like a well-placed visual illusion, everybody would see what they wanted to see.

The problem with my little picture is that it was missing someone fundamentally important: me. I was thinking about entering into an arrangement that would be convenient for the other person and appease his family and mine. I have always taken pride in being the firebrand of the family, but I didn't see the obvious until it was pointed out to me repeatedly by a very dear friend: I'm not ready to get married and I never will be.

Now, I can understand the line of thought that goes 'oh, y'know – it'll just be a stupid wedding and then you have the rest of your life.' I can understand because that's what I thought up until a few weeks ago. What bullshit, yaar! Whether you're a girl or a boy, if you're Indian, shaadi (marriage) is the whole point of your life. All that differs is the point at which this is impressed, and then eventually, imposed upon you. If you're a girl, chances are you'll be conditioned from childhood (whether you realise/enjoy it or not) to be a wife and then eventually in some ways, a mother. Whereas with boys, it varies - many of them are left free to do as they like until a certain age when the kitchen sink and all is suddenly dropped on their head.

This must be said, because the current double standards that are deeply ingrained within Indian society (more so in some classes/groups than others) are bad for EVERYONE. Seeing and admitting this is a shot of common sense that is desperately needed. Parents like mine – who are actually almost liberal in some ways, how else would I have got the way I am?! – encourage and support their daughters in going to university, only to gently remind them that marriage is ultimately going to be more important. Even if this reminder does not come verbally, it comes in the fact that more of your life will be spent in gearing you towards marriage than will be spent in encouraging you to get a job you want to, or in pursuing a degree you want to do.

I find that even in education, marriage just won't leave people alone. Women who do 'male' degrees (medicine, law, dentistry, finance etc.) or watered-down 'male'/acceptably-feminine degrees (biomedical sciences, pharmacy, teaching…) are more worthwhile investments than those in the arts. The same applies for men, more or less. However, the reason I find this more appalling with regards to women is because it shows how little things have really changed. Now, people don't just want a well-indentured servant, they want one who can pay her way too. Funny how the huge emotional sacrifices made by the bride (leaving her family and having to externalise them while ingratiating herself with a set of near-strangers) doesn't apply much in this regard. I do appreciate that men who 'deviate' educationally also have it hard, but the overall level of suffering is still notably lower for them. (It often seems to me that if you're a guy who does 'deviate' and it doesn't work out for you, your senior male relatives will often rally round and bail you out somehow, while if you're a girl, your senior female relatives will tell you you're reaping what you've sown, but it could just be the cynicism getting the better of me...).

Encouraging the men-folk to do whatever before suddenly dropping the nuptial bomb is disastrous as well. Shrieking harridan mothers-in-law and scheming bahus (daughters-in-law) have come to stereotypically define the power-struggles in Indian marriages, because there are some things that people just don't want to say. Like, if you let your son marry a woman and then make her life hell because he has someone already (or because he swings the other way…), you are not 'saving face.' You are NOT good parents. It will reflect back on you when the aggrieved party either fights back or leaves, when your son gets together properly with the 'somebody else' or when something bad happens to the wife.

I know that tradition is hard to let go of for many Indians, especially my parents' generation (those who are in their fifties and sixties now), but puh-lease. If you've come to a foreign country, you have to accept the fact that your children have the right to choose to follow 'other' influences – and why wouldn't they? There is so much more freedom available to them in many ways. Some will eventually turn their back on that, but many don't want to. Your tricking them into losing the adult years of their lives in a tacit concession to your ideals – shaadi – only shows you up as a load of spoilt children.

That isn't to say that marriage always inevitably fails. I take a very dim view of it, because I have seen how often people struggle to balance the sacrifice, the delusion and the harsh, harsh reality. I simply think that it needs to be said that the failure of marriage is NOT down to Western influences, emotional immaturity or anything that easily scapegoatable. I think deep down, we know that it's really down to the arrangement of power in the Indian family structure (if you're old, you're wise. If you're young, shut up), and the deeply unequal and voracious nature of marriage. Stop idealising the parivaar (family) and the shaadi! Most of the time, in a move harking back to the Middle flippin' Ages, marriage is about the advancement of two families. The Indian ethos par excellence, distilled into the symbolic form of the married couple: communities before individuals. It often becomes almost a political contract, an act enacted for the purposes of what-bloody-else? NETWORKING. 'Look at the relatives I have acquired.I have moved up in the world!' Very bloody ironic for Sikhs, since Sikhi is meant to be without caste, whereas many Punjabis are obsessed with going up a class (why?! why does having x number of doctor/lawyer relatives make you more of a person?!).

To finish, my mother often castigated us for not trying hard enough/failing to learn how to make adequately round chappatis. She told us we needed to learn it for our own sake, because 'otherwise, what will people say? What would your suss (mother-in-law) say? People will say that I didn't teach your properly' (i.e. that she had failed in her duty as a mother).

Yeah, because telling your daughter that she should learn something to your standards to please some far-off woman – which at the end turns out to be you, surprise surprise! – isn't selfish in the least. As Private Eye would say: trebles all round!

Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping Beauty
Missah Sleepy Sweet,

I spell your name like it was air
Expelled from my lungs

In slumber; come fly
In my dreamscape; come lie in my way-
Out-of-reality –

The twitch of my
Pink lip fishes for you; my incomplete,
Sweet, incoherence burbled’ll

Hook you like a
Singing stream; I am Sleeping Beauty; bewitching,
Making an offering

To dormant gods;
Listen for the nonsense prayer breaking
On the side

Of my mouth
In messy, mini, white waves; just lean out
Of the night,

Kiss me in
My mind, if not in reality – pray, let me
Wake another day.


(aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh).

'Get There Steppin'?'

... is the thought that crosses many a confused cyber-wanderer's mind upon encountering this here blog of mine.

Seeing as how I have loads of work to do but my brain is broken (AND I am currently facing a whole load of upheaval), I am resorting to the most enjoyable and therapeutic form of procrastination possible: writing.

I am currently far too sappy to write about anything even remotely important, so I am going to instead reveal (FINALLY) why my blog is called 'Get There Steppin.''

I wish it were a better story than it is, but onwards nonetheless...

Once upon a time, a girl made a blog. Although she had developed the habit of keeping sporadic diaries over the years - and writing poetry on almost anything she could get her hands on - she decided that chronicling her thoughts in a weblog would be good, as it would be a way to ensure that she never lost or damaged her thoughts (no fountain-pen ink running here! No family computer-contracting-50-viruses-and-getting-fucked, no sirree!). And once she had her own laptop - her 'personal computer,' if you will - it would only be even easier and more effective for her.

Well, this blog had to have a name. The girl, like many young people have been known to want, wanted to choose something 'edgy.' It should be a name both attention-grabbing yet obscure. It ought to strike fear into the thoughts of those who happened upon it, with its literally-translated message of 'get the heck out of here!' Then again, the nature of the title would also imply rewards for the patient among any potential readers - if they were prepared to 'get there' one step at a time, they might enjoy themselves, and who knows, even become REGULAR READERS.

Reader, I would like to say that this is what shot through that girl's mind like a glint of sequin in a sari!

However, the sad fact is that she simply panicked and thought 'What... er... something not too noticeable, but unique, but a bit weird... Wait, what?' Then the fear of seeming derivative and overly self-conscious struck her. Giving in to the inevitable insecurity of the would-be writer, she thought 'A line from a song! But which?'

She thought, and 'Lose My Breath' by Destiny's Child marched uninvited over her memory. The audacity of Kelly Rowland singing:


'Oooh, you understand the facts that I'm tryna get to you
You're movin' so slow like you just don't have a clue
Didn't momma teach you to give affection?
Learn the difference from a man and an adolescent?
It ain't you boo, so get ta steppin''


Randomness had decided. And so it was born - Get There Steppin', a blog with just about nothing to do with the woman, group or song that inspired it AND a misspelling of the song-lyric it came from!

:-D


The video, as is only fair. In the paraphrased words of Manhattan Transfer, 'ooh, those girls can dance!'

I'm on PP!

Whoa.


*blushes, screams and then finally passes out*

PP Meet-Up LE DEUXIÈME!

So. I dressed up in the most offensive outfit I could muster (which is, curiously enough, a big, baggy hooded sweatshirt and a miniskirt!). Might I add that this is A TRIED-AND-TESTED disapproval garnerer (yes, I know that's a neologism) - I got hassled, each time differently, three times along the same road while wearing it in France.

Offensive but practical - the rain was pouring down and the sky miserably overcast as par for the course these days. I legged it to the National Theatre, feeling a bit nervous and shtoopid for having forgotten my book. This was to be a book-disseminating meet-up, and there I was contravening the whole point of it already. Great. I had visions of an outdoor table surrounded by barely-conversing people, a book or two languishing on top as the parasol fluttered dangerously in the 'breeze.'

However, it was then time to put away the imaginary violins because everyone turned out to be on the ground floor huddled cosily around a couple of tables. Saying the atmosphere was 'cheery' is shittily generic... but it kind of was, since there were lots of colourful chairs and stools, quizzical-eyebrowed white-haired men and women peering at things and eventually live music.

I encountered Nesrine Malik first off, and she remembered my name! Score (good God, I sound like a cross between an American frat-boy and your average Heat reader). She, like I, had turned up 'on time'-in-accordance-with-Sunny, which means an hour late. Hah.

Despite already feeling the odd mix of drowsiness and hunger that the NT seems to inculculate in me now, I spotted the PP table as we were about to walk past (yay!). Immediately we started chatting with Shariq, and I kept trying to find out who was actually in attendance since I only recognised a few people. Nobody seemed completely aware of the guest-list, so I gave up and decided I'd work it out for myself eventually...

As a fellow Wire fanatic, Shariq and I had a bit of a fan-moment over season 5 (which as I remember it, seemed to involve us going on about how much we liked it in a strangely camp way), and we preached its gospel to Nesrine. Despite fasting and really not enjoying it, she was a JOKER, as my brother might say. Or perhaps trooper is the right word. I spotted her getting a pasta salad down her at speed later on, haha. Respect! (She kept asking us to excuse her hunger and fatigue-induced dullness. There was no such dullness!)

There were, however, lots of books, and I cursed my Chagall for being at home on my desk, then consoled myself with the fact that probably, no-one would've wanted it anyway. (I didn't even want the damn thing when I bought it!). These were political bloggers! Reading political books! True to form, the table was already full of lofty-looking tomes...

... and then along came Sunny and his shopping bags, to much cheers and amusement. He effortlessly slotted himself in and began to work his way around the table, slowly but surely (*coughcoughHUNDALFORPRIMEMINISTERcough*). Taking inspiration from Our Great Leader, I started working my way around.

Now, so as not to harp on:

- The Westminster Wisdom folks were quite delightful. I got a whiff of hardcore political geekery from them, and might I say - GOOD ON YOU! Haha. I definitely hope to see them at the next meet-up, especially Gracchii who I shared a fun few minutes discussing Private Eye with.
- The wimminz rocked. I met Laurie Penny and Cath Elliott (might I just say - and I hope this doesn't sound weird although it invariably will - CE has quite possibly the friendliest face there has ever been). Laurie was lovely and exactly as I thought she would be, judging by her posts. I found her refreshingly open (as I did all the laydeez - maybe because there were less of us?) and we geeked out about comics (sorry Cath!). Laurie had to go early to feed her hungry lesbians (how did that go?) which gave me a very odd image of baby birds in a nest with human heads. Damn my overly-visual brain. Nesrine then came over and she, Cath and I chatted (although I listened a lot more this time). Despite having brought fruit-based provisions (i.e. an apple), I was starting to get catatonic with hunger (just like last time!).

- This led to me bugging Sunny about what to do, until I just decided to go the hell on with my original suggestion of 'whoever's starving, come get a sandwich and bring it back to the NT!!!' (Three exclamation marks - I get She-Hulk when hungry). Like some sort of political 'dream team', Sunny suggested the place - and I led the charge. I was so hungry that I almost flew towards the sandwiches and snatched up my prize, having decided what to have already. Leon laughed at me, approving of my decisiveness, but in my head my brain was screaming 'IF SHIT DON'T GO DOWN FAST, SOMEONE GON' DIE!'. I waited with Shariq for the others to get their food, and we compared our impersonations of Clay Davis (yes, I know... The Wire again...)' trademark 'Sheeeeeeeeeeeeit.' Hahaha. Rumbold showed typical libertarian indecision in taking what seemed like aeons to decide upon a yoghurt with 'Grape Nuts' in *snickers*. He didn't take too much to them, in the end.

We got back to the NT (I forgot to mention that Sonia had joined us, with a couple of her colleagues, who were very nice too). My sandwich was speedily consumed with an indecent haste and marked lack of ladylike-ness. I almost wanted to swear loudly in order to complete my conversion to Renegade Pirate Revolutionary, but was sidetracked by Bircher muesli.

After that, hands began to be rubbed anew over the future of PP since Sunny will be heading off to India... Sonia and I barraged Leon (despite there being a whole group of people 'involved' in the conversation) with suggestions, and in my case, ideas as to why some people (including myself) have withdrawn from it a little. I had to put my hand up at times to speak, and got laughed at again by Rumbold (but I would have the last laugh, because practically no-one knew who he was! Hur hur hur). After that, Sonia, her female colleague, Leon and I fell into a lengthy discussion about female misogyny in Asian cultures, especially the 'cult of the auntie-jis' which is making lives miserable left, right and centre. I managed to get the last word by suggesting that SOMEBODY make a reality TV show - 'Behind The Scenes of an Indian Shaadi.' THAT'D blast away a lot of delusions, and not just for non-Indians either!


Things I appreciated (for whatever reason): Leon remarking, upon my pointing out of Rumbold to him, 'I thought he was in his forties!' Hahaha. Haven't we all?

The food (of course).

Arriving, high off a wave of criminality because I managed to get from home to Waterloo for free, purely by accident.

Email swapping with some of the other ladies. I really would like to meet up with people again, in the (pinched) words of Nesrine, without Sunny as our 'Jewish grandmother.' She then did the accompanying accent! CLASS.

Cath Elliott's story about the big scary man with the crucifix who tracked her down one day over her abortion views (nothing happened to her, which is why she lived to tell the tale - thankfully!).

Fangirling over Charlie Brooker with Nesrine and Cath. Hahaha. Also, the Oxbridge and Ruth Fowler chat!

Being told 'You're lovely! I like you!' by Laurie. Why, thank you ma'am.

Making off with a trashy novel ('Ring' by Koji Suzuki - I bet it'll be so close to the Japanese adaptation that it'll leave little impression on me), an autobiography (If You Don't Know Me By Now, by Sathnam Sanghera) and a book on bhangra which Sunny received 5 copies on. The cover is made to look like floorboards and bears a little blue sticker reading 'CHAKK DE PHATTEY!' then in smaller type underneath 'Lift the floorboards.' Sadly my brother then left it in his friend's gym bag the next day (wtf?).


Things I didn't appreciate that much:

Ben being unable to give me a better reason for preferring The Sopranos to The Wire other than 'it's more entertaining'. We'll have to agree to disagree, my man. At least until you have the BASIC KNOWLEDGE (i.e. watching at least half of the first season) to argue your point! I remain not-particularly-inclined to watch The Sopranos, though I'm sure it is good.

The Anti-Boris coalition. They didn't mingle like the rest of us were. Look dudes, I know taking down Boris is a full-time job, but y'know, the books were kind of an opportunity for everyone to meet each other and talk unpolitical for once. Have a break. Have a hardback.

Being drowsy while experiencing a kind of faux keen-alertness as a result of hunger. I felt like a guard-dog that someone was waving a steak at from a safe distance.

Breaking a chopstick while on my way to the NT, thus making it not really possible to put my mad just-washed hair up. I ended up having to use my spare socks.


Thoughts, anyone?


Necessary Music Video - you don't even have to watch it, just listen to the song!

It's Friday Funtime!

I will try and do a real, serious post on 'issues' an' shit at some point (probably on Nietzsche, because he's giving me some serious food for thought), but in the meantime, enjoy these. Apologies to anyone who has seen these already.


The 8 Most Obnoxious Internet Commenters.

The David Blunkett policy maker.

The Daily Mail-o-matic

and *drumroll* my personal favourite...


The Alastair Campbell Wheel of Retribution.



God bless the Internet!

A Liberal Conspiracy You Can Believe In...

Once upon a time in America, there lurked an association of people (mostly fairly old white men), called the Republican Party. They were also referred to by all and sundry as the 'Grand Old Party,' or GOP, an appellation perhaps harking back to the good ol' halcyon days when they were considered a 'progressive' party (the year 1854, to be exact).

Now, this political 'party' had a problem, not least that it had only lived up to the second of those two words in the sense of creating free-reigning havoc by pushing a monkey disguised as a Bush to be the 'Leader of The Free World.'

Actually, wait, dear readers. This was after all the problem. However, for the 'party', the problem was not that Curious George had been their (highly visible) figurehead. The problem was that Ye Great American Public - upon whom they relied to do the essential job of generally not voting, watching FOX News for a thorough and shamelessly one-sided view of current affairs and having trouble with anyone not of a 'wheatish' complexion leading the country - had noticed.

Yes, 'Joe' and 'Jane' Public had finally decided for whatever reason (probably something to do with the economy) that after near eight years of the cheerful chimp, that they just couldn't take it any more. The GOP's rivals, the Democrats (or the Dumb-o-craps, as some of the wittier 'party' members were wont to term them) were gaining in popularity. Furthermore, God seemed to have taken their side.

How? God had sent a white-toothed, symmetrically-headed charismatic figure called The Obamamessiah to their rescue. The Repubs realised they were in trouble. So one day, they headed to the shores of the Pacific Ocean and summoned up the spirit of Old Man McCain.

Old Man McCain was a famous chip- and general frozen-food-product maker who had died suddenly after inhaling a new type of chip made with the SKIN of the potato in. His tragic death had gone relatively unnoticed... and it was this that the Repubs could now put to use.

Hiring a 'diverse' cast of trained actors (including a former drug-addict turned stay-at-home 'mom' and an attractive young blonde blogger, as well as a former Bangladeshi orphan), the jig was set. 'John' McCain, as he was now known, began to fight back for the GOP, all the while claiming to be a maverick. His myriad shifts in political stance were facilitated by the fact that his head was composed entirely of ectoplasm, and extremely sensitive to changes in temperature and humidity. He even claimed to be a 'war veteran', conveniently harking back to the days when he had actually been alive.

However, the Obamamessiah managed to hold his own despite all of this... and even struck back at accusations of political inexperience by picking a man named Joe Biden as his would-be vice-president. The GOP were now decidely uneasy. 'John McCain' was being derided as being 'not that much of a maverick' and 'frankly quite like his chimpy master' and fears abounded that he would die if he became President (YGAP being unaware that he was in fact already dead; a mere ghost, and at other times, a conveniently-placed hologram with a voice-actor hidden somewhere in the background - or shouting out from a tape recorder).

'John' on his own was not going to do it. What could the GOP do, particularly to woo their evangelical Christian fans who had smelled a rat over JM's 'maverick' (undead) tendencies?

Upon the aftermath of a particularly well-received speech by the Obamamessiah, the GOP took direct action. It was then that 'Sarah Palin' was unveiled as JM's vice-presidential nominee.

This expertly-engineered android was set up to be pro-guns, pro-religion and pro-teaching creationism in schools, as well as pro-life all while purporting to be a 'feminist' and 'a reformer'. She came pre-programmed with an obscure career as the governer of Alaska (complete with 80% approval ratings), a husband who worked for BP and five children, including one who had Down's syndrome. To top it all off, she had been carefully crafted in order to reflect her claims of being a 'former beauty queen' with convenient photogenicity.

Rubbing their hands together with glee, the GOP unleashed the Sarah-bot alongside Old Man McCain. What they could certainly not have foreseen was that parts of the robot's programming would begin to fray and malfunction almost instantly; when her 'daughter' was revealed to be five months pregnant, for instance, or when her anti-corruption reputation was weakened by allegations of using her influence to get her 'sister's' ex fired.

However, their scientists had had enough. 'Let it go, would you?' they cried. 'You've already got us working to death on finding proof that global warming is ABSOLUTELY and exclusively the fault of Ma Nature and NOBODY ELSE!'

Old Man McCain stood silhouetted against the sky. (The silhouette actually turned out to be that of the voice-actor who voiced his hologram). He raised his gooey fist to the sky.

'If only those darn rednecks had got the job right!'

The voice actor blinked. 'Hey Mr. McCain... don't stress too much. I'm sure the Sarah-droid's coverage will be dried up long before November. Just think, after that you can have the Viking sea burial you've always craved.'

Old Man looked at him. 'Really? You think?' he asked, his voice cracking.

The voice actor shook his head. 'Sure. And hey - if Sarah doesn't work out, you can always just get the GOP to loan her out to the BBC to star in the new series of Doctor Who. I hear it's the most-recorded programme in England. That's got to count for something, right?'

Some Like It Hot

Some Like It Hot
'Summer', you might not be, but I'll take you anyway -
the runaway madness
that I could well regret someday.

I perceive your deceitful play at nights when I slide
Between the sheets and feel
the shiver climbing up beneath my nightie –

The cold that runs fingers up my spine,
Seizes my nipples, kisses the nape
Of my neck so rudely –

Pulls every sense in my skin taut
And alert, waiting for the rich spill
Of golden warmth that never comes –

Just thick days of wet humidity,
Accumulating and weighing down
On me, till I can scarcely inhale,

Scarcely think, needing to peel off
All my layers just to breathe. Clouds
Close me in, to battle against

The strange, weighty desire you force
Upon me, like Zeus, come disguised
Replete with seduction plans...

Sweat gathering everywhere makes me
Aware of my self, creates a need for touch
A resolution of the friction –

'Summer' you might not be, yet ironically
You call forth the heat
From within me.



Not my finest moment ever, but I'm trying to write something, anything!