Showing posts with label Gender Conflict. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gender Conflict. Show all posts

Sunday, December 12, 2021

La Chica - An Unapologetically Narcissistic Tale

 


“Dumbass, stop thinking. Act. Now.”

Even this snub did not work.

She slipped further  into thoughts, “Not dumbass, but numbass.”

Then her entire being shook again with the floor and the walls of the lavatory of the cabin. After three peaceful nights the fourth morning brought all these commotions.

The evening before, wood-pickers from Dhaksabandh village saw an elephant herd crossing the pebbly bed of Dhaksa River. There were three female elephants and two calves in the herd. The villagers alerted Dhaksabandh forest block office. Later in the evening, radio transmission officially alerted all the forest blocks of Dhaksa Division.

Everyone at the camp dinner table heard the bulletin. The duty officer created a vigil roster for fourteen pairs of men, pretty equally distributed for all trainee officers but one. The commanding officer being at rest in his Cabin a few miles away, there was nobody to decide over her fate.

She felt relieved by the break in the nightly show of chivalry, helpfulness, kindness and whatever. The greater question of survival, though in a probable struggle, with a lesser being, kept the men occupied. The threat of doomsnight looming at the doorstep made them oblivious of her.

She waded through the blinding darkness along a quarter of a mile long forest path to her cabin from the men’s barack and the mess. The visual union of the light bugs on the ground and the scattered stars in the night sky rejuvenated her wilder self .

After an hour the first pair on guard woke her up, “Chatterjee!”

Chatterjee left her bedding spread on the creaky wooden floor, held three feet above the ground on termite-eaten wooden posts, and muttered underneath her breath, “Foolfuckers.”

Then she stretched her hand over their head through the hollow of the missing window pane of the only bedroom of the cabin to receive the radio set. She grumbled, “Damn, Public Service. Just made custodian of a public property! Now I’m bound to report elephant sightings.”

The men left marching as soon as they finished performing their duty to their own satisfaction. She vented, “Shallah! It's a half an hour nightwatch for each of them. Whole night for me!”

Her thoughts wandered, “Men and their complexes about their shortcomings! Like Maknas, lacking tusks unable to attract female pachyderms in oestrus! The Commanding Officer, to keep me safe, made me sleep in a separate cabin with missing footboards in its hall which can bring both reptiles and rapists! For using the lavatory at night, I must cross the dark hall with my flashlight on, as only the bedroom at one end of the hall and the lavatory on the other have electric bulbs.”

She realized that she was merely ruminating what Dinesh jabbered the other night, “Everybody praises Chatterjee’s bravery. Nobody speaks of her compulsions.”

She kept the radio set by her pillow beside the flash light.

The alarm at four thirty in the morning woke her up. She needed an empty bowel to survive the daylong treks through Teak Plantations, also a bath to soak the heat, before breakfast at the barack mess by six o’clock, preceding fall in at six thirty.

Besides, bathing in daylight seemed awkward. The lavatory had a window, but no door pane. Opposite to it, a tread apart, was the bathroom with door panes, without any light. Through the opening of the imploded roof over the passage between the bathroom and the lavatory, the neighborhood children enjoyed peeping in, during daytime, dangling from the branches of the Sirish tree by the cabin.

Chatterjee turned impatient, “Numbskull dhoi. How has it become the matriarch of the herd with this much intellect? There’s no Chalta tree nearby. Can’t they find the Chalta plantation? Flocking here they’re wasting the public money, though we don’t know if they belong to us or to the country across the Dhaksa river. Their proddings to the cabin would soon throw me on a historic poop pile! (probably pulverizing tip of my backbone) My ass’ scared numb.”

Chatterjee, however, finished her business, literally restless. She uniformed herself up, rolled her bedding and stuffed her belongings in the rucksack. The intermittent shaking made it quite clear that the elephants would not leave until the cabin would rupture and bare open its secrets.

She stepped outside, rucksack on her back, clanking tree measurement equipment inside her haversack, slinged to her neck, radio set tucked to her waistband, the flashlight in hand. The early spring predawn wrapped her in grayness and chill.

She never locked the cabin in the last three days. Yet nothing went missing. With its imminent crumbling to the ground, locking the cabin appeared ludicrous. 

Chatterjee pointed her flash light to the moving massive figures outside the cabin lavatory. A cry of annoyance startled the sleepy neighborhood. Chatterjee turned the light off and reported the location of the elephants over the radio.

Next she checked the hollow beneath the cabin. The light reflected from the posts and empty trashed bottles of hooch here and there.

She noticed a man crawling beneath the cabin, towards the Sirish tree, away from the elephants. She caught him as he emerged out and snatched his bottle of hooch. Then, she dropped a little hooch on the overgrown grasses in the front yard of the cabin. The elephants turned towards the hooch patch. She created a hooch trail across the street in front of the cabin to the Chalta plantation a mile away.

Approaching the mess, she met two men on watch. They whispered, “Responding to your message.”

It reminded her of the radio and the responsibility. She paged, “Left the herd at the Chalta plantation.”

Breakfast was abuzz with the trick of the hooch trail.. 

Later, walking towards the felling blocks, Madhav said, “Chatterjee, nobody here’s half the woman you are.”

Chatterjee replied, “Don’t even aspire ever. Because transplanted uterus, genitals, ovaries, mammaries won’t give the X chromosome pairs to your every cell. After all, it’s all in our DNA.”




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Have you ever managed wild animals in a weird manner? Let me know in the comment.
Please comment on what you have dis/liked in the story.
Shared with your friends? Why/ Why not put in the comment.
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Would you like to know more about Chatterjee?
This is who she would become very next year: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NKGLBKT
(Edit: December 18,2021 9:40 AM Indian Standard Time)
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Sunday, August 29, 2021

Uugh! Females Are Easily Enervated in Fiction

 I am ever dissatisfied with the plight of women in contemporary fictions. It seems a fashion now to depict women as victims, of a few terms. Those terms includes, but are not restricted to, misogyny, patriarchy, gender discrimination.

Thanks to the invention of seventy two genders, women now seem less discriminated.

However, fiction discriminates against them everyday. By their skin tone, by their body mass index, by density of their hair, by the shape of their teeth, by size of their eyes, by degree of deprivation they have suffered as per current media perception.

I am sore and sick of this derogatory view point.

In real world, I always find women protecting themselves and fighting their struggle by themselves successfully, every moment, everywhere.

Then, instead of telling the story of a winner, why do fictions project wimpy, wary women?

It is not that I heard only stories of strength in women and that has nothing happened to me ever.

My treads were tangled in the crowd. In railway junctions or suffocating buses, I have endured rampant groping since I was nine years old. Yet I never found that to be a general issue of misogyny. Instead, I took them as personal assaults by crooked individuals.

Since eighteen, I started retaliating against them. I wrenched the wrist with advancing palms to grope. I planted my fist on the back of the individual approaching to touch my breasts by shoulder or elbow. I bit people hard for attempted groping as I grabbed their sleazy palm crawling down from my shoulder. I returned every ogle with a straight undetterant gaze and made the ogler resign.

I prevented them from violating my body. I made them feel hurt instead of myself getting hurt.

Even then, I was sexually harassed, in my very early twenties and realized that the harassing person’s only intention was to subdue my fast learning abilities to cover up the person’s own inabilities. I resisted this manifestation of power. I suffered through hormonal imbalances and clinical depression. Yet I emerged stronger than ever by arranging myriad reprimands for the person and the person’s patronizing cohort.

Ever since, any cabal of incompetence, irrespective of gender, racial makeup and everything else constituting hubris of its individual members, whenever attempted to attack my person, I simply twisted them into an entanglement of nothing.

I, a female since birth, have been doing these all alone. Hence, my female characters are brainy, brawny, brave. 

Now tell me why would I take the fiction that portray women as vulnerables and victims?

Thursday, October 8, 2020

MOTHER and Son @WEP #Grave Mistake


Precursory Note on Draupadi: 

Draupadi was the daughter of king Drupad reigning over Southern Panchal. Southern Panchal was a fictional territory and different from the Vedic Age state of Panchal. Southern Panchal was situated in present day Uttar Pradesh province of India, spanning from the Ganges in the north to the Chambal River in the south, to the Nimsar forests in the east and to Delhi (National Capital Territory), Haryana and Madhya Pradesh provinces to the west.

Arjun, the third Pandav of Hastinapur, (Hastinapur was situated around current Delhi region) won the archery competition at Draupadi's swayambar. Swayambar is an event attended by potential grooms invited by the bride's family and, often, presented with a challenge of wit, wisdom and strength about weapons. In this event the bride used to choose her mate from the invitees. The most preferable choice used to be the winner of the challenge of swayambar. Etymologically, swayambar is made of two roots, swayam meaning self and bar meaning to accept.

Draupadi chose the winner Arjun, though, at that time, Arjun and his two half-brothers, Yudhisthir and Bhim and twin stepbrothers, Nakul and Sahadev were in exile along with his mother Kunti, devoid of throne or territory under their reign, rather surviving on alms of mendicancy. On Kunti's order Draupadi entered into a polyandrous relationship with all five brothers, having Arjun and his half-brothers and stepbrothers for her five husbands together, simultaneously. This instance of polyandry can be interpreted either as liberation or as exploitation.

In a game of royal gambling Yudhisthir lost Draupadi to his cousins, Kauravs, after losing his throne, his earthly possessions, his brothers and himself. Duhshason, the second Kaurav, dragged Draupadi to the royal court by her hair, from her resting chamber. In the court they tried to forcibly take away Darupadi’s clothing, calling her a prostitute for having five husbands instead of one. Lord Krishna, being Draupadi’s friend, saved her honor by wrapping her continuously in clothing. Vyasdev, the poet of the Mahabharat, described that Draupadi’s humiliation was extraordinary since she was menstruating when this event of molestation by Duhshason occurred.

Draupadi kept her hair untied till Bhim tied Draupadi’s hair with his own hands wet in Duhshason’s blood after Bhim avenged Duhshason in the Kurukshetra war.

From: The Mahabharat

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 Mother and Son

Mother was startled, “What!? Is there a dearth of girls in your college?”

He winked, “None’s willing to play Draupadi. They don’t support the event of vastraharan. It’s an epic example of molestation of a woman in hands of in-laws.”

Mother interrupted, “Is that what you think?”

He quipped “Yes.”

Then he further explained, “Yet, unlike the girls in the college, I don’t blame Vyasdev of misogyny. The ancient poet merely depicted his contemporary society. The girls have hung posters about it and has been marching all day protesting the Mahabharat and our play.”

Mother sighed; then, commented, “Overly politicized.”

Further she asked, “When is the play?”

He replied exuberantly, “Next week. Wednesday. That’s the foundation day of college.”

Mother suggested, “I’d like to do your make-up”

He blushed, “Ma! I’m in college now. My friends will laugh at me.”

Mother bargained, “Can I come and watch the play?”

He agreed reluctantly.

Following days his mother kept on showing him all the sarees. She begged him with each Silk and brocade saree, “Look at this. This one will do. I know. What do you say?”

He made faces and said, “Nay.”

On one of these days, after some hour-long exercises with the sarees, he confided, “Ma, your sarees are beautiful. But I don’t need them for the time being. The foundation day play has been sponsored by the college authority. So, we’ve rented wardrobe for all the actors.”

His mother quit the display in disappointment.

The whole weekend he remained busy at the rehearsal. Following Monday was the day of the dress rehearsal. It was his opportunity to make Ma happy. He borrowed a silk saree woven moderately with brocade. Ma became elated. She always wanted to have a daughter. Her husband died when her son was only five-month-old. She never had another child.

In a passion for raising a daughter, she used to dress her son like girls sometimes, till he protested, after attending puberty, during his entire adolescence. She used to be ecstatic thinking of her son meddling with her lipsticks and sarees, though she never had any hint of her son conflicting with the gender of his birth. She was proud of their mutually transparent lives.

She was taken aback by the scene of her son suddenly trying her sarees, probably due to prevailing debates about gender and sexuality. She, for a zillionth of a second, surmised that her son might not be willing to see himself as a male anymore and he might have been learning to become a woman.

After her son spoke about the drama to be held on the college foundation day, her confusions waned away. Moreover, she felt happy that he had been chosen to play Draupadi and she could see him as an adult female in a fully public view.

During the dress rehearsal, the son’s look as a woman reminded the mother of her youth. She loved her son wearing her saree, in make-up borrowed from her. As the scene of vastraharan started, small brick bats started to be flown to the stage. A group of females started shouting from a dark unidentifiable corner of the hall, “Don’t touch her pallu.”

The stage manager appeared to be naturally persuasive. She begged everyone to watch the complete show before opposing it. The protestors paid no heed. In basaltic determination, they invigorated the ruckus. It appeared to the mother that the protestors were beyond reason and, hence, were not capable of relinquishing hitherto planned sequence of their activities.

Worried, Ma ran along the isles to rescue her son. Reaching backstage, she found that a meeting was going on, about the safety and the security of the performance and the performers on the foundation day of the college. It zeroed upon putting requisition for enhanced police presence during the show.

On the foundation day, she could not believe from the appearance of Draupadi that it was her son. The play ended successfully amidst applause and standing ovation for the performers. The son received an award for his portrayal of Draupadi.

The mother returned home and readied her treat for the son. He was about to return after attending the success party.

Yet, the night rolled gradually towards getting very late.

A phone call around midnight from a police station informed Ma that her son was hospitalized. At the hospital mother found that her son was raped reportedly by a group of vigilantes about protecting the sacredness of the epic. All Ma found that her son was bleeding, enduring pain.

The son murmured in his final breath to his Ma, “The girls from the college avenged my audacity of being instrumental for enacting the epic molestation. They punished me for I, being a straight male, dared exhibiting a woman’s humiliation. Ma, all I tried was to live through Draupadi’s agony, to honor a woman’s resilience overcoming atrocities. I tried to celebrate spirit of Draupadi.

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Word count:  820 (eight hundred twenty) words [including hyphenated words, else 826 (eight hundred twenty-six) words]

FCA

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This is from my book "Ghost Runners & Others"
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Halloween Plus
After reading Renée's post at WEP on October 1, 2020, I was inspired to compose following mini saga constituting only fifty (50) words.
After-ghostdom

Ghostverse became congested. Ghostpedia reported the reason being a virus.

Anxious about its remnant family, Bhootiya searched Ghostverse neighborhoods. Its attempt to communicate with the Universe failed due to frequency and wavelength mismatch. 

By this endeavor Bhootiya broke Ghostcode. It was ousted from Ghostverse and remained hung permanently at Nonverse.

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*****Durga Puja Bonus
(Another One hundred twenty-two [122] words)
Standing Alone Standing up

It would have been easier

If I could stride

Along the tide

Of pandemonium of the hour

Hatred inside clenched fists

Voice syncing loud

With the vibes of the crowd

Marching along the streets

Yet I dare speak my mind

Though unheard 

Mauled by the herd

Seeking revenge, unkind,

Unjust, parochial as congregation 

Driven by a notional fad

Craving for a pie scrap

Moving in a suicidal motion

Under a spell, in a trance

Of kinsmanship 

In brinkmanship 

In pursuit of harvesting chance.

Still I chose to stand alone, aside 

Abiding by adversity

Withstanding atrocity 

Refuting refuge in amassed cowardice.

You can call it my grave mistake

Yet I chose to fight

The current's aggregate might

Even putting my existence at stake.

*****Durga Puja is the autumn festival of West Bengal coinciding with Navratri festival of North India. Durga slayed Mahisasur and, hence, became a symbol of power and strength. Mahisasur was an ambitious asur, son of Rambha, an Asur king, from a buffalo. Mahisasur was tired and disgusted of being beaten by the Gods of heaven. He went through penance for Lord Brahma's blessings. Lord Brahma awarded Mahisasur that Mahisasur would never be defeated by any man or God. Empowered with Lord Brahma's boon, Mahisasur put humanity to his Asur clan's servitude and then he ransacked the heaven, dethorned Indra, king of the Gods and the heaven, ousted all Gods from the heaven to exile. Autocratic anarchy of Mahisasur made humans seek help from Gods who were rendered helpless themselves. Then, on Lord Brahma's counsel, Gods empowered Parvati, a woman, wife of Lord Shiv and the mother of Lord Shiv's four children, with their weapons and other objects. In a nine nightlong battle, Durga slayed Mahisasur and restored rule of law on the earth and the heaven. 

Originally, Durga used to be worshiped during the spring. Seeking Durga's blessing, Sree Ramchandra of the epic Ramayan, worshiped Durga during autumn, before going to battle with Ravan. Since then Durga worship has been celebrated with grandeur during the autumn, instead of spring.

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