Millions of Views Dangling from the Sky

Here’s another day of feeling special. Another day to adore one’s own self with insane inane ideas ideals (intangible thought provoking merchandise from ambiguous sellers pretending to be benevolent thought leaders and social uplifter).... Another day of being as needy, attention begging, victimhood celebrating kaput as possible.

But an occasion is enough for an opportunist like me to post and promote another fiction (my merc)  about a fiery life. 

So no objection to whatever it is …. Here’s the short story …

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Millions of Views Dangling from the Sky

They said, “The hoardings! Arrgh.”

Yes, they said the hoardings were making the city sky dirty. Even they had some taglines, floating without a title, “The faces are covered under the ads.”

I was less than ten years old then. I wanted the truth. I wanted to see how dirty the hoardings were.

My mother was too supportive. She promised herself to fulfill all my wishes. She made it very clear to me even then, before I turned ten.

She went to war against everything that stood against fulfillment of my wishes. It was not easy for me though. But I had her fighting some of my battles.

So when I spilled to her, “Ma, I wanna be up, among those hoardings …” she clearly laid out choices before me, “Either you are on the hoardings or you’re flying much above them.”

It seemed unfair. She asked me to choose between my own wishes. But it was true that the week before I wished to become a fighter jet pilot.

She explained, “To become anything, you’ve to put time and effort. Till you’re twelve or even fourteen, you could have time for both of your goals and some preparations may be the same and some are similar. But after that, there would be a point of no return from which you'd have to choose one or the other. Because, money can be arranged somehow, but time can never be borrowed.”

So my time was divided between advanced level physics, calculus, karate and kathak. I loved all of them like my siblings, which I never had. I could barely leave any one of them. But while flying from my aunt's place at Agartola to home in Kolkata, I realized that jets fly farther above and I could barely see the ground from above, from so high. So, on the decisive birthday, I chose the hoardings.

My mother explained to me very clearly, “Whatever you want to do, do it early. You can never learn a hundred percent of how to live your life. Everybody learns to live by living. So start early.”

So my journey took off on a ramp in the city. Then, I stepped into some beauty pageants. And, before entering the second decade of life, I stood out on those hoardings, in my city and in other cities in the nation and abroad.

My agent loved me. She used to price me the most and used to earn the most from the shares of my performances. She used to pamper me for my eccentricities, too. She put on every contract of the hoardings with my photo that I must have a chance to touch all the flex banners before they were fixed to skyward iron frames. She used to tell the agencies, “Attitude and tantrums, you know.”

She told me, “Better than nagging for a bite from a poisonous cobra.”

I did not understand if I was throwing tantrums or if it was less tantrum compared to the tantrums thrown by my colleagues. But I kept attaching cell fragments from the pupils of my eyes to those flex banners by gummy tapes.

Yes, I was rich by that time. Rich enough to carefully remove a few cells from within my eyes and trap them in between contact lenses, alive with some elixir I purchased from an eccentric chemistry professor from Pinceton.

Rich enough to preserve eggs from my strong young nourished vibrant body in cryogenic fluid to have my biological offspring at a well planned pause in my career from thirty-five to forty-five. If I could not decide about the mate by then, then I would buy sperm. If my body would not support pregnancy, then I would hire a surrogate.

It was the time when I was carefully choosing my expenses and saving a lot for the future. My only fancy was the retina cells scratched from my eyes through the pupils and preserved in the elixir from Princeton.

Sole purpose of this eye cell scratching was to see the surrounding of the hoardings and experience it. Those cells used to send me remote signals from all over the city. It was fun. Seeing the parting between the central incisor teeth of my colleagues, the annoying irregular sudden hair strand in the eyebrow of an world class model even after rigorous photoshopping, the impossible furrows of a six pack in a sculpture like male body.

There used to be the “Aha!” moments, occasionally. In autumn, after sunset the whole sky was painted pink as if by a potion of blood and milk! 

Those moments were, “Finally. I’m part of the scene.”

The solace was that no fighter jet seemed any closer from those high hoardings. They remain as high and as far as they used to be from the ground.

For the change, I once observed a rally of women in blood stenched skirts on the streets below. They claimed that those bloods were menstrual blood.

Funny. Hypocritically funny.

Menstrual blood, if it could overflow, always caught in the hemlines and about six inches above it. It could never seep up against gravity towards the waist. The fakeness of the stance, failed the cause in no time. 

Hand in hand to the fake menstrual blood people came the ‘Me too’ army.

“Fuck ‘Me too’.”

Oops! That came out wrong. “Fuck! What’s ‘Me too’?” 

Did ever anyone touched my body for their sexual pleasure without my consent arousing my discomfort and displasure?

I broke the limbs that sought opportunities with my body.

Didn’t I tell you? I was a karate blackbelt.

Besides, kathak lessons not only made my moves scintillating on the ramps, but they also strengthened my legs. My kicks were jaw breaking. 

Yes, I lost a few jobs. I was hot headed. Thick headed. I was naive and young. Too young. A teenager.

My calculus and physics lessons were too live then for alternative career choices. But I never thought of that. All I knew was that the sneaky losers never had the confidence and courtesy to ask for my permission before touching my breasts and genitals and hence, their lack of confidence would prevent them from assassinating my character and career.
My character and career were not formed yet. I was building my character and career then and any job proposal used to go through my mother. She had a proven iron strong character and a profound career as a Physics professor. Nobody would pay heed to the rumors that she sold me out for a few more bucks. Money was not a problem in my family. Fame was never enough enticing to compromise peace of mind.

After all, my entire life seemed like an experiment of living by the conditions I laid myself.

Those conditions excluded desperation. I never shied away from a quarrel. I enjoyed my fights.

And those brawls with sneaky losers? Those further strengthened my limbs.

Cry babies could never get justice from anyone or institution, administration and all heavy wordy succkers (I should have said ‘pillars’) of society. Cranky bitches could get all and a few bites and beats always sped them up their ways.

Besides, sneaky losers never had enough strength to cancel my assignments on the grounds of their broken fingers, jaws and penises. It would have been the announcement of their respective defeats and attestation of their own characters or lack of characters.

Plural? Yes. There were a few of them.

This hypocrisy, of course, did not kill my wish to hang by the sky. I enjoyed the view of pregnant women doing yoga in the park. I enjoyed swimming elderly people trying to stay fit and celebrating aging.

I found my new philanthropy targets on the streets. I established ‘Schools on the Trucks’ for little kids working on the streets during the day. The trucks were their school and shelter. I purchased spaces and built toilets and bathrooms for them. 

There were similar services and shelters for the elderly people on the streets, too. The sister-in-law of the ex-chief minister of the state was among them. Hence, there were facilities to take care of psychological ailments, too.

My life on the hoardings was paying me enough to keep all these afloat. Besides, there was international recognition followed by national recognition. I was planning to start a career in politics.

I was on my way to a meeting with my agent to discuss the opportunities in politics. A mild storm has just passed. My car was on the downward slope of a bridge. A flex banner came down swiftly on the bonnet of my car covering the entire frontal view of the driver.

The driver stopped the car abruptly. We were not hurt. But the third car on the trail got hit from behind. The rider was an octogenarian neurosurgeon of the city. His vertebrae broke. He later succumbed to his injuries in a city hospital.

That evening I launched my political party. Our primary promise was to clean up the city from ugly and dangerous hoardings and cutouts. 

I had enough of skytime. I was glad that I had. My time in the sky gave me so many purposes and goals in life.  

But it was fatal, not to me, but to others. Since, it had already been made about others, it would certainly bring me win over power.

Then, I could have an opportunity to ride fighter jets, too.

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IF YOU HAVE WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED SOMETHING ABOUT WOMANHOOD PLEASE SHARE THE LINK IN THE COMMENT. IF THE PUBLICATION IS TRADITIONAL AND NO VERSION IS PRESENT IN DIGITAL MEDIUM THEN UPLOAD PHOTOS OF THE WORK AND POST THE LINK OF THE PHOTO ALBUM.

"WE’RE TOGETHER IN THIS." ('This' means scratching each others’ back shamelessly ;P).

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Here’s an older one about a Granny of a Gen Y person: https://projectionofnaught.blogspot.com/2021/08/grannys-philosophy-freedomofspeech-wep.html

Here’s another old one about a Gen Y person: https://projectionofnaught.blogspot.com/2021/12/la-chica-unapologetically-narcissistic.html 

A book of the empowered women, for empowering women by powerful women : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GL3HDGK

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Here are some collections of I have liked reading these days:

Witch Hazel by Gabriela Denise Frank : https://iselemagazine.com/2022/01/15/witch-hazel-gabriela-denise-frank/

Bitch, I am (not) a Mother! By Temi Chukwumah: https://iselemagazine.com/2021/12/21/bitch-i-am-not-a-mother-temi-chukwumah%ef%bf%bc%ef%bf%bc/

Oh Womania by Deepa : https://link.medium.com/j5Unumogaob

Failing Strong Women

           

          It is about the writers (author, whatever they think they are and whatever their readers think they are). It is also about the readers.

Two nights ago I was forwarded with a bunch of poems. All of them are very weepy. The poet herself wept while reading. All of them about some women who never fought back but submitted to the aggression even before being succumbed to it!

Have you seen any animal do that? Isn’t that against our nature, as animals? Aren’t we, the women, the humane females, though political, but animals?

In this argument, it has come to my mind that we’re probably more political than being animals. Because we want us to be loved. We want us to be liked. Hence, we conform to what the people, the consumer, the patron like.

If our patron likes us to lie, we lie. If our consumers prefer to find glorified victimization, we do victimize our protagonists. We don’t let our protagonist win. Instead we prefer them to be bitten, beaten, eaten raw.

That’s why the poet wrote weepy poems about defeated women.

She claims by bringing those stories she is reflecting how misogynous the society is.

Really? 

Or, is it the other way round?

Misogyny loves to flaunt its overpowering charisma by enervating women. So through organized, syndicated, incorporated media they shove through our throat (I meant, mind) the stories of defeated enervated women. The nerve centers for sympathy get titillated by the depiction of pain of the bitten one. The media that promote such works get richer and sprinkle a part of its booty at the propagators (poets, writers, authors) of its misogynistic cause, though the propagators keep thinking that they fought against misogyny. (Ha ha), while they actually conformed to misogyny and fed misogyny their own existence. (ha ha).

My weapon to fight misogyny is to glorify the winning battles of the strong women. Life is not about win or loss until we lose it. Life is full of myriad battles against odds. Sometimes, some of those odds can be identified to be misogyny, but we, men and women, throughout our lives fight these battles.

So, I love strong women in real life and in fiction. I love them in their winning fights, in their win-win fights, in their no-win fights. There is no battle lost in life because war is never over unless life is over. No one loses a battle in life, unless they lose their life. 

If you are really against misogyny and really want it to lose, then start supporting strong women. The might of those women is not only in their muscles but also in their brain. Straight or crooked they play the game to outplay their opponents. Nice or rude, they become whatever they need to be whenever they need to be. Black, white or gray their choices do not matter. Only matters are the fact that they fought it to win. Only matters their choice to fight to overpower misogyny. Only matters that they do not yield to misogynistic charade of propagating misogyny in garb of resistance to misogyny.

So be tired of the victimization by misogyny and become a fan today of strong fighting women. If you would like to know more about them, then you have a choice here. Sixty Two authors brought to you more than a hundred fiction about strong women. All of them have been published independently, by the authors themselves, and also marketed by the authors themselves.

I am proud to be part of them. My Fatima from “Maternal Might” and Reema from “How to Steal a Pond” are fighting their battles alongside a hundred plus others. Will you support them?

If you are fighting against misogyny, then support these authors by reading their books and speaking about them, posting about their books on social media. Only then your fight against misogyny would become real. Otherwise, it would all remain fiction, created by misogynous components of society, of misogynistic pleasure, for benefiting misogynistic purposes.

Once more the choice is yours. You can choose your fight over misogyny  here. Or, you can lose it by submitting to it by going gung-ho in protest against it even before being succumbed.

It’s a question of life or death in the hands of misogyny. 

Last chance, here’s your weapon.

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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Would like to get all my books for free? This is the place to go

.Are you an author yourself? Then you can introduce your book to the world in a fun way at The Genre Revealing Party. More Details…

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?

Granny’s Philosophy #FREEDOMOFSPEECH @WEP

Granny’s Philosophy

My fifteen years old self spilled, “Pa forced himself into Ma.”

Granny doubted, “Does Sikha have scars?”

I was in a tizzy, “None seen;” yet desperate to prove my point, “They've been fighting since Pa returned from work; Ma slept on the dining space divan. Past midnight I heard things.”

Granny asked, “Does Sikha seem depressed?”

It was difficult to answer. Ma always seemed depressed. That day she seemed torn by some discord within herself.

Granny caught me in thoughts, “Sweetheart, Sikha can’t be forthright to you now, because she labelled Samir as the oppressor in the family and herself along with her daughters as the oppressed. She could neither accept her submission to her own urges like all  natural and healthy creatures. Nor could she let what you’ve heard pass for her submission to Samir’s forces and become a liar.”

At fifteen, I was unaware of warm hugs that metamorphose rage into rapture. I was then unable to distinguish moanings from groanings.

I complained, “You always find Ma at fault.”

Granny seemed defensive, “I raised my daughter neither to disown her actions, nor to seek others’ approval for them. I stood by all of Sikha’s choices, including Samir, seemingly uncouth but sincere. Sikha declined nine to five Government jobs, teaching positions, tutoring opportunities. She kept fighting Samir over these decisions vying to please Samir’s father. Thus, she took Samir for granted, forcing him to be the lone breadwinner. Then, she blamed patriarchy and misogyny for her situation.”

Granny kept on grooming us sisters till today, “Never let your spouse rough you up ever.”

She narrated, “My mother-in-law sent me to college, honoring my matriculation gold medal. She passed away just after I started teaching. Grandpa’s paternal aunt started frequenting to bless the young couple’s household with her guidance, questionably valuable though, rather poisonous. Those days, Grandpa complained a lot about my negligence of him, of our children. One day, I talked back, ‘My bad, Should’ve learnt caring from your aunt.’ He lifted his hand high. I grabbed it in my left fist and dared him with the meat cleaver in my right. Never after he resorted to violence. Next time his aunt visited, I didn’t offer her water, sweets, snacks or tea. Neither did I ask her to stay. I kept the door open, looked at the clock frequently and then after half an hour said, ‘I need to go out. Either you come along, or I can call a rickshaw for you.’ That was her last visit.”

Shruti asked, “Was Sikha biological or adopted?”

Granny nodded with dismay, “Biological. During Sikha’s college days, ‘The Second Sex’ was in vogue. Girls and boys who never paid enough attention to high school biology lessons became followers of Simone De Beauvoir. They never understood what parthenocarpy and parthenogenesis are, yet, thought that respective processes of creation of seedless papaya and recovery of tail of lizards were proof enough that human females aren’t childbearing machines. Tapeworm alone, while, proves that human males, too, are birthing machines.”

Shruti seconded, [“Funny! Each grown tapeworm has both female and male parts in their bodies. Yet they can’t breed singly. They need to pair. Also some algae, with both female and male parts in their bodies, form conjugation tubes between bodies of one another. Copulating algae resemble ladders.]#”

Granny continued, “Since college Sikha lived in discord between her notion of patriarchal oppressions and her actions including falling for Samir, marrying him and birthing. She never found that marriage binds men to the responsibility of raising offspring. Intoxicated by indoctrination, she never realized that men themselves framed and propagated the idea that monogamous wedlock is patriarchal design to put women in shackles of childbearing and cooking, so that men can have their ways with women yet can relinquish responsibilities of children, thus, compelling women to remain fettered in eternal servitude of responsibility of child rearing. ”

Shruti teased, “Watching Wonder Woman?”

Granny smiled, “The franchise is the new shiny bottle of old wine, the myth of patriarchal ploy.”

I complained, “I once saw Pa slapping Ma.”

Shruti was indignant, “Did Ma slap back? Called the police?”

I felt hurt, “She kept mum for three days.”

Granny lamented, “Sikha could always stay with me till she would have got her own footing. She jumbled up being nice and being conformist.”

Then Granny scolded, “This’ same with you girls. You daren’t say even if you’re tuned on with the snares of Donald Trump, fearing alienation in the social circuit by your peers. The Associated Press told the world that Trump’s misogynous, women all over the world started chanting it, crushing dissent. Oh, I bet nobody would’ve loved Fleabag as much if she would’ve been musterbating with Trump’s face on her laptop. The girls worshiping Judith Butler, memorising seventy two genders, would never realize that they are enslaved by the media for propagating a designer narrative. Misconstruing biology lessons has made this generation mix up sexuality and genders. They’d never discover their own voices lost in pandemonium.”

Shruti inquired, “Granny, do you watch the Jimmy Kimmel Show?”

Granny spat, “Not since he started selling terror and grief by weeping on his shows like Amir Khan.”

Shruti mentioned, “In 2013 or 2014 he and Halle Berry both on his show spoke irritatingly raunchy about Ms. Berry’s then newly stylized mammaries. They have taken down this video from YouTube after the emergence of Trump’s ‘Grab them by the pussies’ video.”

Granny slandered, “YouTube did nothing to stop those videos from propagating, but took down some preachers’ videos!”

I murmured, “At least Ma’s generation followed a philosophy.”

Granny rectified, “Philosophy is nothing but popularized opinions of celebrities of an era. Now, who does popularize individual opinion to build public opinion?”

I mechanically answered, “The media.”

She asked again, “Who are always tetchy, anxious about their fragile, ever jeopardized freedom?”

Shruti quipped, “The Media.”

Granny concluded, “Only the media remains free while they enslave thoughts and opinions of  individuals.”

Her pronunciations made my Independence Day.

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Hello Everyone.

In my last Write...Edit...Publish Flash Fiction Challenge in June, 2021, I have rattled a little bit, intentionally, though. I was quite suffocated with the charade that covered convenient lies. The outcome was amusing.

Comments were edited. It was fun to see authors at a loss of words and claiming my post to be “something” instead of labelling it with an appropriate adjective. Alas! I did not keep the screen shots of those comments. I was too occupied with publishing my fifth Indie book “Indian Citizenship Decoded” [now available at https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09875SJF8].

However, I can help with that “something”. It is “calling a spade a spade”. It is opposite to hypocrisy.

Actually, my stance was redundant. My bad. I did not notice until July 7, 2021,that the preacher of the pie (hot propaganda) took an ‘hiatus’ as the propaganda went bust on accounts of financial, moral and above all, idealistic irregularities. LoL.

Attempting to be serious, I must mention that my conception about feminism has been challenged. Really? When did feminism become a concept? Last time I checked, it was a glorified opinion of a person who misconstrued biology and could barely come to terms with (t)h(i)er own bisexuality.

Believe it or not, my entry to the August 2021 Challenge, “Granny’s Philosophy” was formulated in early May, 2021 [as I'm still occupied with post publications and troubled by yesterday's all day scheduled electric supply maintenance power mishaps,  I was about to miss this challenge]. Eventually, it all seems well spiced up. 

Hence, relish. 

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Can’t stop sharing my association with feminazi’s on the occasion of Women’s Day 2017.

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[]# Edited on August 24, 2021, on March 08, 2022

Word Count: 1000 (one thousand) Words

FCA : Full Critique Acceptable

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