SubTexts2PostScripts

Internal dialogue, externalized

  • Search results for women
  • Pecking order and pandering egos

    Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship. – Oscar Wilde

    At a wedding party I was nibbling on hot, crisp starters; winter weddings are great, you don’t sweat in your Kancheepuram saree I insightfully thought; as I was drifting into my slumber with another paneer tikka in my mouth, my friend’s daughter slipped next to me; after a few pleasantries she asked a question that was bothering her; ‘What should one do when you know at work you are stack ranked by men?’ I said ‘For what? Ask them to focus on their work’. She looked pensive and exasperated, ‘NO! they are stack ranking all women based on looks, fitness, smartness, coolness, oomph, shapes and brains!’

    Well I choked on the tikka I was enjoying; I’ve been working for many years and now I wonder if this is what these stupid guys do? Went back to my girl/women gangs and posted to understand the reaction; they went berserk, talked of how they have heard or experienced or both; ‘Men are so dumb, after few drinks they let the cat out while socializing after work, that is how I know this exists’, ‘Half the guys go around showing their bum cleavages, can’t hold their pant on hip! They are talking about us’,

    Some demeaning/unsavory details got bumped off; in all this mess the question, ‘Does this happen’ got addressed, but ‘Why’ was muddled and up for debate; why objectify and quantify? A regressive thought of looking at a woman as sex object? Fantasy or belief that women are there to serve his lord and master? Is it a gender thing? So, what does civilization and education taught us? instead of groping upfront, do it in your free time and at private places mentally? What does this mean to women? Knowing covertly or overtly of being ranked? Does this make women anxious, competetive?

    Do women in the pecking order unconsciously push to race? Do they come dressed to be noticed, starve to look a size less, spend to stay ahead, fight and bitch each other to be up in the ranking? Its predatory and primitive, a raw sense of animal instinct drives the thought, even if it is covered by a linen jacket or Diesel jean; there is no winning at the top for any woman, remember where the list got generated, in the reeking space between men;

    As for men in their la la land of visualization at that sleazy moment of ranking, for a split second, if one of them looked at himself in a mirror he would probably wake up to a reality that no women out there are even thinking of him or any of them!

    Female gangs when they get together think, talk, laugh and discuss more exciting stuff like food, hopes, dreams, aspirations, family, clothes, fragrance, health, fashion, travel, flowers, diet and in that list, comes last the noun called ‘men’!! Well that is the truth men must live with!

    Tell me a story of who you are, and see who I am in the stories I live. And together we will remember that each of us always has a choice.
    – The Dance, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

  • Random Thoughts and Rainbow Dreams

    “Can you suggest topics for the women’s forum we run in our organization? Every month we have a topic discussed by experts”
    Hm…interesting. “How about Domestic Violence?”
    “What! Come on, we don’t have a crowd with such issues”
    “Really? Is domestic violence specific to a market segment, city, economic class or street?”
    “No Sunitha, it is just that we have an educated crowd in our office, this population would not get into such bizarre acts.”

    Her bulging stomach announcing a life growing, she walked in distraught, beady eyes like faded marbles; her husband was beating her regularly, for no apparent reason or cause. Colleagues who noticed the long hours spent at work and the vacant, expressionless eyes, wondered ‘God! She is pregnant; doesn’t the husband have some sensitivity for it?’ He didn’t. Finally one morning, barely conscious and completely battered, she called her parents who live in the same city. Heart-broken parents carried the half-dead daughter home; I knew the father who used to come regularly to pick her up from office when she got delayed, happily feasting on dreams she used to wave at all of us, walking out breezily. One year and a marriage later, the father still comes to pick up a daughter married, beaten, pregnant, separated and bruised. He still does not want her to initiate divorce, as he is worried what family and friends might say; “We should try for reconciliation, he might change after the child is born.”

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