tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83653111696530309952023-06-15T20:39:27.181+05:30Stitches and StonesStutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-58757819217929599552011-02-20T16:29:00.000+05:302011-02-20T16:29:40.944+05:30All I ever want.<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/friskodude/1176902/" title="india calcutta bookstore by FriskoDude, on Flickr"><img alt="india calcutta bookstore" height="338" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/1/1176902_cf8a5fce00.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<br />
Ah, bliss.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-88468422974121065282011-02-13T21:34:00.003+05:302011-02-14T23:38:34.829+05:30I am angry. Very, very angry.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I feel a blood curdling rage as I read the phrases 'JNU sex scandal', 'JNU pornographic MMS' and the like. What is the scandal? That adults in India have sex? Or that two consenting adults had pre-marital sex? Were they 'caught' or 'involved' in some sort of criminal activity? Or did they record a clip and eventually sold it, thus rendering it pornographic content? Even after a closer inspection of the stories carried by the major leading newspapers in Delhi (The Times of India, The Indian Express, The Hindu and The Hindustan Times), I fail to pick out a problematic area which would bring out a conflict and thus render this 'story' anything more than just an outcome of a flawed editorial policy. </div><div>For starters, it is highly imperative that we question exactly why this became news. Why was this piece carried as a front page story on the aforementioned newspapers when there were other more important things happening in the world? And we still label two consenting adults who have sex as 'perverts'?<br />
<br />
I am incensed that people are speaking out against "degenerate morals of the students of this elite University who indulge in such filthy acts" (a comment on the The Indian Express website) and not questioning the very newspaper that brings the story to them. What about all those people who displayed a disgusting amount of perversion by trying to find the clip online? Oh but no, those are not the perverts. They are just by-products of a culture that is focussed on categorising sex as a purely biological act, a culture that seeks as much to dismiss all rational thought when it comes to sex, a culture that brands sex as 'immoral'. So let's do the needful. Let's do as the culture dictates. Let us participate in a mass ostracization programme. It is only fitting, after all!<br />
<br />
I am angry. I am angry that I feel a sense of crumbling despair. I'm anxious. I know that somewhere, we are all party to the notion of constructing new boundaries, to the notion of easy invasion into our lives. The realisation that we all have effectively lost all privacy has hit home hard. It's not just about public portals any more. Anyone can take a picture, a video or an amorous conversation and put it up for the world to see. Everyone you know will read it. They will watch it. They will torture you, condemn you. And then they will label you. Put you in a sad little compartment that they have titled in the choicest of words. But they're never wrong. No, how could we even suggest that they could be? No, you're not a victim. You're the accused. You're the degenerate they 'fear'. They can get you expelled, they can get you shunned by your family, they will get you fired, they can rape you in the name of honour, they can successfully destroy whatever semblance of a normal life you have. They say you brought it upon yourself. They say you signed up for it. You want to maul them. But they've left you amputated.<br />
<br />
I'm furious. I know I have a right to be. I urge you, too, to be angry. </div>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-2621630205639895912011-02-09T21:22:00.002+05:302011-02-14T23:54:28.239+05:30We are all aware of the now popular phrase 'fourth estate of a democratic realm' (coined by Sir Edmund Burke) . Over time, and especially with the emergence of the liberalised, corporate-ised channels of the media, it has come to acquire a rather interesting dimension. That of being 'saviours of a democracy.' This phrase rings especially true in today's context.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>We stand witness to a time when every news report assumes the role of a full fledged campaign. Effectively, one could say that campaign journalism in India really started with the idea of 'Justice for Jessica'. After a long drawn trial that lasted nearly six years, and yet resulted in the acquittal of Manu Sharma, the man who murdered Jessica Lall in front of 300 other people. In this case, there was a clear need for action, for action from among the people and the mass media. Justice was denied, delayed and subjugated in favour of power, politics and <i>paisa</i>. A massive campaign ensued. Justice was accorded. The public won. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Any campaign or any attempt at public service journalism taken up by the media is a blatant attempt at taking a position on a particular issue and then striving to pursue it, to bring a just conclusion, to bring about a desired result. It makes sense, too, ideologically. The media is an industry (let's just accept it <b>is</b> in fact an industry and move on, things fall into perspective more easily) that has been invested with (and to be fair, has fought for) a tremendous amount of power and position. In a world that is quite literally based on communication systems and networks, the media has acquired a level of previously unknown and unseen omniscience. It is clear where the role of the media as a saviour of democracies could figure in. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I can't help but feel a little hesitant about this new trend. Although it sounds extremely democratic on paper, it can lead to some rather problematic concerns. For instance, the Justice for Aarushi Talwar protests. When I first received a text urging me to join the protest, my first instinct was to look for Hemraj's name (double murder!) somewhere in the rather emotional appeal. No such luck. Nor has there been a mention of the families victimised in the Nithari case. It's interesting how priorities are set. The murder of an upper middle class teenage girl gets more prominence in the media than the murder (and eventual consumption, slaughter and burning) of 49 children who belong to lower income stratum.<br />
<br />
</div><div>Surely, I am not entirely wrong if I think a lot of these new styles and issues raised in the name of public service journalism are merely placebos? To placate the angry people of the country. To distract them from other more pressing, more urgent concerns. Illegal, extremely detrimental to the environment mining in Bellary by the very rich, very powerful Reddy brothers? No, too important to campaign against. Let's save the tiger instead. I am not for a second insinuating that the dwindling numbers of tigers isn't significant enough to deserve its own campaign. But on what level can we work to save a tiger, except for maybe boosting the sales of a Telecom company? The silence of the media on a lot of issues, it's outrage on some others, and its treatment of some more; these are notions that we need to be extremely critical of. The idea of the media conglomerates definitely working towards greater good is highly romanticised. Stock market swings, ownership patterns and organisation policy are all factors that zero in when it comes to what campaign is 'permissible' and what just isn't. There is also the idea of the continuance and establishment of hegemonic ideology. Urban, English newspapers will steer clear of a campaign on farmer's suicides, smaller newspapers are at greater risk, no matter what the nature of their campaign is. All campaigns are event-based. A murder, a political scandal, a corruption charge has to happen in order for there to be some stir of action.<br />
<br />
What is more problematic is the idea of believing that an entire nation is swept along with an ideology that has been imposed from above, by a media 'corporation'. As a nation, we forget to take into account the agenda setting that goes on in the same. The dangers are many, as are the consequences, not all of which are necessarily 'bad'. In that note, though, public service, or campaign journalism, is most definitely an idea that stems from an active people, and for an active people. </div>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-53335023838492216292010-12-20T20:59:00.000+05:302010-12-20T20:59:12.644+05:30Lights will guide you home.It was never my intention to leave this blog ignored and neglected for so long. I don't even remember taking a conscious sabbatical from writing. Before I knew it though, I was going through a dry spell, one of the worst I have faced in a long, long time.<br />
<br />
It's funny, this whole writer's block thing. For someone who believed that writer's block was just another excuse to not write, to hide comfortably under the pretense of an established condition most writers go through, grappling with it was strange.<br />
Contrary to popular belief, it does not set in whenever there's a dearth of passion. It just does. It creeps up on you, when you least expect it to. You ignore it at first, you pretend you're immune to it. You burst your bubble soon enough. And it just becomes easier to sway, to sway to a tune you don't set, a tune you have no knowledge of. Six months pass and you feel like you are never writing again. You lose the right to call yourself a writer anymore, hence rendering the very term pointless.<br />
<br />
But, you want to write. More than anything else. More than you admit. To yourself. By now, you've reached far beyond the point where you could blame it on 'writer's block' and shrug it off. So you wait. You wait for when you think you'll be ready. In truth though, you're only fooling yourself, pretending some more. That mythical, magical day you wait for will never come till I beckon it.<br />
<br />
This is home. This is my space. I have come to reclaim it. I created this space for a reason. It was meant as much for catharsis as an almost introspective glance. Without it, I felt like a part of me was just barely hanging in there. Suspended. Perhaps it was an over-dependence. Perhaps it just meant I wasn't committed enough, or that I felt a little like Alice. Either way, it's real. It's happening. I'm reclaiming.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-71888643154296163832010-08-08T23:17:00.000+05:302010-08-08T23:17:10.396+05:30<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/p62rfWxs6a8&hl=en_GB&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/p62rfWxs6a8&hl=en_GB&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Regina Spektor, you are a beautiful creepy genius.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-58094371608805848392010-07-06T14:53:00.000+05:302010-07-06T14:53:09.841+05:30"She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew." - Extracted from Jhumpa Lahiri's short story, 'A Temporary Matter'.<br />
<br />
This story is without doubt, one of the finest short stories I have read. Certainly nothing dramatic, or even life-altering. Except that it is. The varied range of emotions Jhumpa inspires in you, by simply painting an ordinary (even mundane) event in the daily course of life, is bound to leave you wistful. Each sentence is quotable, each sentence applies to you in a twisted, inexplicable manner. <br />
What constitutes a person? Why is it that our lives are thought to be part of a rigmarole? Isn't it a wonder just to be alive, just to experience? Most importantly, who needs fantasy when you have <em>real</em> people with their awe-inspiring tales?<br />
<br />
I don't know the answer to those questions, I do not know if they hold relevance. But each time I read any of Jhumpa Lahiri's works, I find myself asking these same questions, over and over again. Perhaps therein lies the beauty if her work, not in incidents but in the course of incidents. Not through powerful emotion, but with a perpetually nagging feeling. <br />
If you haven't read the story yet, please do, here: <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/books/first/l/lahiri-maladies.html">A Temporary Matter</a>.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-58190147710463913742010-07-01T21:35:00.000+05:302010-07-01T21:35:15.998+05:30<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/TCy54UVY-LI/AAAAAAAAAKM/p6c5JflTrAw/s1600/Amrita_Sher-Gil_in_her_studio_in_Shimla,_1937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/TCy54UVY-LI/AAAAAAAAAKM/p6c5JflTrAw/s400/Amrita_Sher-Gil_in_her_studio_in_Shimla,_1937.jpg" width="372" /></a></div>There are not enough words that can sum up <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amrita_Sher-Gil">Amrita Sher-Gil's</a> legacy. She wasn't just an artiste par extraordinaire, she wasn't just a beautiful, free-spirited and intelligent woman. She was all that, and much much more. <br />
<br />
To say I am enamoured by her would be say too less. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/TCy8f3-C_gI/AAAAAAAAAKU/cgYNWQP9E_o/s1600/amrita-sher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" rw="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/TCy8f3-C_gI/AAAAAAAAAKU/cgYNWQP9E_o/s400/amrita-sher.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>And to even think I can begin to rationalise her work would be scandalous.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-70155256747442204822010-06-29T21:47:00.000+05:302010-06-29T21:47:25.652+05:30Of Atticus Finch.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/TCobxNP6faI/AAAAAAAAAKE/8Ovl2j00gOk/s1600/to-kill-a-mockingbird-at-intiman-theatre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" ru="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/TCobxNP6faI/AAAAAAAAAKE/8Ovl2j00gOk/s400/to-kill-a-mockingbird-at-intiman-theatre.jpg" width="337" /></a></div>"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions, but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience." <br />
<br />
So true, Harper Lee, so true.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-88488615401190374922010-06-25T09:50:00.000+05:302010-06-25T09:50:20.129+05:30<blockquote>"This is what happens when you haven't written for years: every moment takes on a startling clarity; small things become the world in microcosm." - Extracted from The Hungry Tide.</blockquote>Exactly, Amitav Ghosh. Each day that has passed right by me has witnessed my almost physical longing for pen and paper. And yet, when you start to write, it is not words that evolve. It is a concoction of feelings, of experiences, of observations you make while trawling through the mundane. <br />
<br />
But then again, isn't that characteristic of, and even exclusive to, people? <br />
<blockquote><blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-68061969912539122922010-05-29T23:07:00.001+05:302010-05-29T23:08:53.546+05:30<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S_6a5O0ix4I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/HVBZ53wdUts/s1600/virginia_woolf1.jpg"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S_6a5O0ix4I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/HVBZ53wdUts/s400/virginia_woolf1.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Virginia Woolf - A work by Roger Fry)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
"I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in. "<br />
- Virginia Woolf.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-63222253153159787792010-05-14T14:14:00.000+05:302010-05-14T14:14:17.315+05:30<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S-0NB0CF0WI/AAAAAAAAAJo/W2DLIQqy_yA/s1600/4571510502_0d6e1c2f7b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S-0NB0CF0WI/AAAAAAAAAJo/W2DLIQqy_yA/s400/4571510502_0d6e1c2f7b_b.jpg" width="267" wt="true" /></a></div> Because sometimes, you don't need to explain your presence.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-59782817964808824822010-05-09T18:34:00.001+05:302010-05-09T18:36:21.895+05:30<div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S-azGPY3xYI/AAAAAAAAAJg/B3WuGMfHSrs/s1600/4363478409_7cc55aa3bb_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S-azGPY3xYI/AAAAAAAAAJg/B3WuGMfHSrs/s400/4363478409_7cc55aa3bb_b.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">And then, there were none.</div>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-61324879512322323072010-05-08T18:15:00.000+05:302010-05-08T18:15:09.272+05:30The Great Gatsby.<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S-Vbv2k7cwI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/SFO6cOzKDEE/s1600/the-great-gatsby2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S-Vbv2k7cwI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/SFO6cOzKDEE/s400/the-great-gatsby2.jpg" tt="true" width="280" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment." - Nick Carraway.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The thing I absolutely love about the book is the way I find perfect solidarity in Nick's cynicism. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-46938899827395282082010-05-01T22:24:00.001+05:302010-05-01T22:28:35.163+05:30Open Letter.Dear Terrorist Organisation/Militant Groups/Religious 'revivalists',<br />
<br />
We get it. We do. Your modus operandi is to scare people, in order to change the world. Change it according to how you think it should be changed. <br />
For years now, our entire society is trying to rationalise why and how we are subjected to such mass destruction. When we did finally arrive at a conclusion, it was not all that complex. Dare I say, it was an overly simplified notion. Your activities, riots, bombings, assassinations and the like were an indication of a combined desire to instill, and simultaneously maintain fear in what is a large collectivity. <br />
In keeping with that, it almost seems rational that we bear witness to not only sporadic, but directed, terrorist attacks on a very continuous basis. Every day becomes a testimony to having lived. Every day tells you it wasn't you. Every day is proof that they haven't gotten us. Yet.<br />
<br />
If it wasn't enough that the 13th and the 26th of each month were when we felt most anxious about not coming back home (thanks to repeated consecutive attacks on the same dates), we are now being given official and International warnings from the US State Government and Australia to not leave home. New Delhi, after all is a high-target area. Hence, traffic routes are clogged, police forces are installed at the entrances (and entrance only) of various shopping centres and heritage sites and regular information in the form of warning messages are being sent out by the media and it's new media avenues. Nobody knows whether there will be a blast or not. It's better to be safe, right?<br />
<br />
So, let's strike a compromise. Give us our life back. We have proven ourselves incompetent at not being afraid of these barbaric acts. Really now, are we to be blamed? It is such a potent and viable threat that you chose to shove into our throats, after all! <br />
What we propose is, since you have been proven right, perhaps it is time to back out from the realm of the business where you scare huge, heterogeneous masses all at once. In return to this, we promise to be scared of such methods, to acknowledge your pertinent presence and to not bracket you under 'terrorist nihilisms'.<br />
<br />
This culture of fear that we are forced to live in is all-encompassing in it's omni-presence. Maybe we do have a choice here. Maybe we can refuse to subscribe to this culture. Then again, we are no longer our own masters, are we now?<br />
<br />
Thank you,<br />
<br />
The Undersigned.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-68179160003611293172010-04-25T20:35:00.003+05:302010-04-26T13:21:40.591+05:30Red.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S9RZVx-re0I/AAAAAAAAAIo/875mn1bQXQY/s1600/colours_and_shapes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S9RZVx-re0I/AAAAAAAAAIo/875mn1bQXQY/s400/colours_and_shapes.jpg" tt="true" width="350" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Red Fort, New Delhi. Loving India just became easier.</div>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-69220724882280069362010-04-23T20:01:00.001+05:302010-04-23T20:02:26.146+05:30La Nausée.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S9GqbRKwj8I/AAAAAAAAAIY/ac4q9o7pxYM/s1600/b880d80a5c3cb1c7666eed492f32ded29b73851c_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S9GqbRKwj8I/AAAAAAAAAIY/ac4q9o7pxYM/s640/b880d80a5c3cb1c7666eed492f32ded29b73851c_m.jpg" tt="true" width="480" /></a></div>It is almost as if the child can experience and feel Antoine. I don't know if that is a good thing, twisted as it may sound.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S9Gu-A2-WzI/AAAAAAAAAIg/NMjlY-FP-M4/s1600/lehavre_big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S9Gu-A2-WzI/AAAAAAAAAIg/NMjlY-FP-M4/s400/lehavre_big.jpg" tt="true" width="400" /></a></div>Jean-Paul Sartre would have been proud.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-7341683031228334822010-04-20T17:09:00.003+05:302010-04-20T18:16:51.588+05:30Sita Sings the Blues.Written, edited, directed, designed, animated and produced by Nina Paley, 'Sita Sings the Blues' will remain an absolute delight. It is the greatest, most exalted story ever told, the Ramayana. But no, it doesn't stop at being a mere retelling of the ancient epic. <br />
The plot works in more or less four sub-plots, one dealing with scenes from an 18th century depiction of the Ramayana, one being the musical ('20s Blues) version of episodes from the Ramayana, one being a discoursive discussion of the salient points in the epic and lastly, the contemporary parallel. Even so, the film doesn't attempt to be a 'Modern Ramayana', thankfully.<br />
The juxtaposition of all these four tracks together culminates into one of the most sharply edited and beautifully animated film in recent times. What an absolutely brilliant film, and what splendid animation! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S82HKguGd0I/AAAAAAAAAHM/oMztpbJBgDo/s1600/Sita.Sings.The.Blues.2008.DVDRip.XviD-VH-PROD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S82HKguGd0I/AAAAAAAAAHM/oMztpbJBgDo/s400/Sita.Sings.The.Blues.2008.DVDRip.XviD-VH-PROD.jpg" width="282" wt="true" /></a></div>What lies at the crux of the films's brilliance is the contextualisation of how the story moves right from the explosive (literally) starting credits to the noisy intermission to the happy rendition accompanying the end credits. You would think that the presence of a four plot structure would make the film end up being clumsily executed and confusing, but you'd think wrong. The film moves absolutely seamlessly, leaving you in awe of the filmmaker and her screenplay. Stunning, on all counts. Also, at all points, I was stuck by the dexterity of how the Blues (an amazing choice of genre) music corresponds, synchronises and adds to the age-old story. <br />
The film raises pertinent questions about the legacy of Sita, Sita in Ayodhya B.C and the Sita that lives through the ages into contemporary life. The Sita whose entire lexicon corresponds with references to immense sacrifices that a woman "has to make". Nina Paley's groundbreaking film raises questions to the very identity of Sita. Why does Sita opt to sacrifice herself, to show she was a symbol of utmost chaste purity by being thrown into the fire by Ram? Why does Sita feel the need to glorify and worship the man who banished her to the forests simply because he wanted the support of all his allays? Is it merely coincidental that Sita finds maximum emancipation and freedom only after she makes the ultimate sacrifice, that of life, to prove yet again that she remained untarnished, untouched by worldly pleasure? <br />
The contemporary parallel story is an example of how Sita and her estate transcended beyond cultures, beyond boundaries and through times. Nina and Dave, the American couple form part of this sub-plot. Dave leaves for India, and gradually distances himself from his distraught wife. She, like Sita, hangs on to the hope he will take her back. She sacrifices her dignity and her pride to get back with Dave, Dave who doesn't care. Unlike Sita though, Nina doesn't have to die to be happy, to be free. <br />
Sita lives on through us. Who she really was, whether she did exist or not, we shall never know. But through Valmiki's Ramayana, Sita's story is one that has been told and re-told. 'Sita Sings the Blues' just attempts to analyse, to question and to glean that Sita does exist in the woman of today. The real question is, however, whether Sita was right in everything she did? Did she not come with her own issues? Is her constant praise of Rama and the willingness to prove herself to be moral result from unconditional love or is it merely an illusion of love? <br />
It is important to remember why Sita is still worshipped and idolised. Is it an attempt to create male hegemony through constant repitition of Sita's unquestioning, dolice self as being the 'Good Woman'? Or is Sita widely misunderstood? Maybe she did choose death over Rama (evident from her appeal to Mother Earth to take her right in if she has never committed perjury) to ascertain herself, her rights and her sadness.<br />
'Sita Sings the Blues' makes you look inside of you, think, and scrutinise the context in which 'Sita' lived and died and still somehow manages to live. A must-watch satire on mythology, on relatinships and, on Sita.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-27047706516159777492010-04-17T15:17:00.002+05:302010-04-17T20:00:00.930+05:30Notorious.<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/nostri-imago/2869514546/" title="Notorious! by cliff1066™, on Flickr"><img alt="Notorious!" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3136/2869514546_aaabed7626.jpg" /></a><br />
What an absolutely brilliant film. The genius that Alfred Hitchcock was, he was never an actor's director, a predicament that was heightened in the later years of his career. However, 'Notorious' easily proves that Hitchcock could be anyone, anywhere and at any time.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-49094431254089490082010-04-14T12:42:00.000+05:302010-04-14T12:42:50.658+05:30With a frenzy.If you, dear reader, are the sort of person who objects wholly to any form of personal rants or discourses, I implore you to please stop reading. However, if you are the kind who enjoys revelling in the misery of another, this is the place to be!<br />
The concern that has me up in arms imploring people and ranting is just that. You got that right. I am distraught because I feel this blog has turned into a journal of sorts. Not a diary perhaps (small mercies), but a personal, intimate journal nevertheless. <br />
"Why is this such a bad thing?", you may feel the need to ask when the Internet has close to 80 million blogs which deal with the personal, with the private. That, dear reader, is precisely the point.<br />
In saying that I have sincerely tried to not make this blog sound too blog-gy, I am not wrong. But perhaps it is time to admit that my plans didn't go exactly as they were planned.<br />
A narcississtic journey to the past always gives you the big picture. So that is exactly what I sought refuge in. After reading through a couple of my archive posts, I was stunned, to say the least. Hence, I was spamming the blog world with copyrighted pictures for the past week.<br />
It is not that I have aspersions about my talent or utter lack thereof, it is just that this was one thing I had to avoid. To me, blogging was an extension of myself, but not of me. With that in mind, I proceded to write, but not to record. I procede to opine, but not to judge. Or so I thought.<br />
Even I am getting tired of my obsessive drawl.<br />
<br />
What really should be the focus of this entire crusade is how much we have changed as a society. In my last lengthy post, I talked about voyeurism pervading into each section of the society. But voyeurism is not a one-way process. If people get pleasure from being Peepers into others' personal lives, the "others" too want to give a peep into their life. This process basically stems from an inherent need to gain acceptance, to expand yourself and your horizon, and finally, to brag about how much smarter/prettier/taller you are than the average Joe.<br />
The kind of society I live in has influenced me so much that even in my directed and concentrated efforts to not divulge any of those intimate details, I have fallen prey to the same. My only defence remains the unconscious. Sure, blaming the unconscious was a solution, but only for about a nanosecond. After all, the unconscious too is influenced by subversive details.<br />
When McLuhan talked about medium being the message, I feel safe to assume he didn't see blogs as a tangible platform. But he did see what was to be the outcome of this technological revolution. People are no longer private. People are selling themselves, marketing themselves to an anonymous, judgemental world out there. Obviously, given that context, it seems fair to post pictures of yourself in beautiful clothes, to talk about your take on existential reality (please forgive me, I am obsessed) and to post a discourse on structuralist influences in contemporary society. It all seems perfect.<br />
In my entire discussion, I seem to target the very crux of Internet usage and its purposes. Of course, we are marketing ourselves, let us. <br />
It is startling how an entire society, a collective so huge, keeps falling prey to the new. To the experimental. And to the personal. I am one to talk though. <br />
Perhaps that really is the message. Medium has to be the message, and thereby, it is.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-45883376312087071382010-03-31T17:46:00.001+05:302010-03-31T17:53:31.696+05:30Love, Sex aur Dhokha: Directed by Dibakar Bannerjee.I have a confession to make. I knew I would love LSD way before it was even released. Part of the reason to this was my complete, and absolute, adulation of Dibakar Bannerjee. Having fallen in love with him Post-Khosla ka Ghosla and Oye Lucky Lucky Oye, it would be pretty difficult for me to feel let down by his work. And of course, it would be almost implausible for him to make disappointing art. <br />
There is a lot you have heard about LSD, and most of it is not true. If you watch the film with that assumption, life just gets easier. There is virtually no sex, thus rendering the very title of the film useless and ironical. The film is not a documentary, a myth that hasn't failed to amuse me since I first heard it. And of course, the film is based on real life incidents. Just not these. <br />
LSD is basically divided into three storylines: Love, Sex and Dhokha. Each plot is resonant of something you have read about, something you have heard, or worse still, something that has happened to you. In this world of voyeurism and new technology, how do we live without being exploited? Do we come to know when we are being exploited?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S7M1dzo1XJI/AAAAAAAAAEE/MFdmfCG_LQE/s1600/love_sex_aur_dhokha_01_10x7_30277_420x315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S7M1dzo1XJI/AAAAAAAAAEE/MFdmfCG_LQE/s320/love_sex_aur_dhokha_01_10x7_30277_420x315.jpg" /></a></div>Apart from the masterful direction and editing (how I love a taut film!), perhaps what worked for me most was the singular aspect of not being too preachy or all-too-moralistic. To me, the film was more about the culture we are in the process of acquiring rather than the culture that we have given up. That treatment awarded was the defining moment for me. A film is no doubt about the filmmaker and his perception, but when his opinion stays throughout without him having to proclaim and take a moral stand is when I have officially lost my heart. <br />
To me, LSD remains an angry film. Not just in the violence and voyeurism, but even in acts of love, acts of selfless help and in acts of revenge. It comes through very clearly that Dibakar was angry at the sudden influx and influence of voyeurism in contemporary society and was as much amazed by the phenomenon as he was perplexed. In an interview promoting the film, Dibakar says he was surprised that all of a sudden, there are rules that govern social life, relationships, sex life, family life and the vogue. Suddenly, there is this huge internet revolution, and you have to do everything you can to avoid being labelled a 'frigid' or in other, more swanky terms, '<em>behenji'. </em>The assumption that the film is only about sex and sexuality in deeply rooted in the Great Indian Diaspora. Enough said.<br />
Also, LSD is more than just about making a statement of how this psycho-sociological disorder can wreck our lives. It is physically creepy. There is a part of me which is still reeling from an over-bearing terror. What if I were cut into 30 pieces for doing what I wanted to? What if I were to land up falling in love with a sado-masochist misogynist? And what if I were to be part of a deception so huge words fail to describe it? <br />
This crushing realisation of failure and fear governs our life today. There is no way we can escape hidden cameras. No way we can ask that creepy man at the petrol pump to not click a picture. With technology, easy access to aforementioned technology, there also comes vulnerability. It hurts just admitting that I am in fact, very vulnerable to such violence and abuse. <br />
And as I sat there, watching a too-short film pertaining to issues we hardly talk about (but experience, nonetheless), I felt a sense of shame. Shame for the society I am living in, shame for myself for daring to live in such a society and finally, a gnawing sense of apprehension. <br />
Before I forget, Sneha Khanwalkar deserves more than a mere mention for doing such a brilliant job with the music. Also, the screenplay is done in a way I could only expect out of filmmakers like Dibakar. <br />
Would I suggest LSD to anyone? Oh yes. Watch it for being explicit (and for not treating everything as clandestine), watch it for shrugging off the pretentious. Most importantly, watch it for yourself.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-34351221386877061532010-03-23T19:48:00.000+05:302010-03-23T19:48:40.171+05:30Remembering Benjamin.It suprises me, every day, how much of a genius George Orwell really was. Proof lies in his beautiful, and strangely poignant works, 1984, A Clergyman's Daughter and Animal Farm. Each work is so distinct and so skillfully written I cannot pick and choose a favourite. <br />
Perhaps what strikes me most wonderfully about any of his work, whether a short story or a full fledged 'novel', is the sheer dystopia. Enough of the utopian world, I say. Let's face it, the world we live in is bleak, and there is no limit to how cynical we are forced to get. Then why the reluctance to admit the same?<br />
But this is not about letting my derisive self take over. I write to reminiscence.<br />
The first time I read Animal Farm was when I was a naive 13 year old, and fell so hard for Boxer that I cried when he died. It is only with a little embarrassment that I admit that I cry each time Boxer is taken away. It is so sad, he was just a poor old horse. Now though, my absolute favourite is Benjamin, the aged donkey.<br />
Touted as grumpy and grouchy, Benjamin promised me he was sane, and had some sense in him. In an analogous comparison with the history of Communism, Benjamin is part of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Menshevik">Mensheviks</a> and represents any faction that has not been swayed by the enchating false promises of Communists. Socialism/Communism starts off as a euphemism to all things fair, all things just and simultaneously, all things which you wanted. <br />
And yet.<br />
For those of you who are not familiar with the plot, I shall not divulge anything (If you do not mind me being impudent though, please rent a copy and read it). Benjamin, though he may appear to be misanthropic at first, is virtually unaffected by any effects of propaganda directed at the poor, unsuspecting animals, whether it comes via Napoleon (the pig) or via Squealer. All he ever says, at being asked why he doesn't support the Revolution, is: "Donkeys live a long time. None of you has ever seen a dead donkey." This one sentence that he oft repeats is actually deeply seated in symbolism. He is definitely more experienced, and by way of the cynicism, is trying to convey to the other animals that Communism/Capitalism/even Liberalism are all a farce. All that you have left is a hope for a better day, and all you get to pick is between the aforementioned sham.<br />
And it is not that Benjamin isn't intelligent. He is as smart as, if not more, than the bourgeoisie pigs.He can read perfectly well, and yet chooses not to advise the animals when they are being sucked into the vortex of their own ignorance. Is that selfish? Or can that be construed as a benevolent gesture, making the animals learn on their own, freeing them from another imposed opinion? It gives me great joy to think that Orwell himself was not too sure. <br />
Lest it be assumed that Benjamin was a heartless, anti-social (hah!) creature, I feel the restless need to intervene your line of thought. Benjamin is sensitive, and loves Boxer (which makes him even better, in my eyes!) and the matriarch, Clover. His reaction to Boxer being taken away has been seen by many critics as delayed, and removed. I could not disagree more. We know Benjamin is not impetous, or impulsive. We know by now that spontaneity doesn't govern him the way it did other animals (hence the ultimate tragedy they get into). When Benjamin paused, he was composing himself, for he knew Boxer was not coming back. It was actually simple logic. Boxer was the working class, the proletariat. And the bourgeoisie wanted a crate of beer in exchange for his tired limbs. <br />
Yes, I am fawning over a donkey. But when he is so intelligent, is it really all that wrong of me to?Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-29325915729818505762010-03-15T17:24:00.000+05:302010-03-15T17:24:38.244+05:30Retrophilia.<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you haven't noticed yet, I am a confirmed, obsessive retrophile. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I think it is too late to change.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54eUoDjzFI/AAAAAAAAADM/kjDIQF3W6Sc/s1600-h/1895739889_cc40d7df49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54eUoDjzFI/AAAAAAAAADM/kjDIQF3W6Sc/s320/1895739889_cc40d7df49.jpg" vt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ah, Dior. I love you, John Galliano. Only, I loved Mr.Dior more. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54ejDMsJjI/AAAAAAAAADU/yW7YdZhZHio/s1600-h/saab_93_new_york_ny_1956_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54ejDMsJjI/AAAAAAAAADU/yW7YdZhZHio/s400/saab_93_new_york_ny_1956_small.jpg" vt="true" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What I would not give to own this car. In this exact same setting. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54fLH29__I/AAAAAAAAADc/WGSY4qZNycM/s320/MyVintageVogue+Photo+3.jpg" vt="true" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">To think this was Vogue. What happened? And yes, I am Dior obsessed. Look at how stunning this is. How could I not?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54fwMHgvzI/AAAAAAAAADk/KOQ_rCrpEZ8/s1600-h/art,color,photography,vintage,wind,back-6099e7266bec6c21a60ff892060dc548_h.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S54fwMHgvzI/AAAAAAAAADk/KOQ_rCrpEZ8/s320/art,color,photography,vintage,wind,back-6099e7266bec6c21a60ff892060dc548_h.jpg" vt="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I absolutely had to end with a burst of colour.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-56789168956267340342010-03-14T13:22:00.001+05:302010-03-14T18:45:09.203+05:30Precious: Based on the novel 'Push' by Sapphire.There has already been enough written and spoken coverage of the movie, 'Precious: Based on the novel Push by Sapphire' that I feel horribly late, and worse still, naive. <br />
In my defence though, I was dreading watching this film out of sheer apprehension. Not someone to physically weep because of a movie, it is obvious why I didn't wish to blemish that one characteristic of mine. <br />
But when I did get over my anxiety, I realised I had to see it. In one sitting.<br />
Portrayed beautifully by Gabourey Sidibe, Claireece Precious Jones is overweight, illiterate, and abused sexually and physically at home. She ceases to exist, and becomes an object to which things are done. Her rapist, incestuous father, who impregnated her twice, and began the assault when she was only three. Her abusive, unemployed and disgruntled mother, ironically named Mary (played by Monique), who is angry with her for stealing a man. For being obese. For simply existing. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S5zhIOrzp9I/AAAAAAAAADE/ghDxSeWg19E/s1600-h/Precious-Movie-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S5zhIOrzp9I/AAAAAAAAADE/ghDxSeWg19E/s400/Precious-Movie-.jpg" vt="true" width="270" /></a></div>It is in this context that Precious(as she is fondly called) is introduced to the anxious viewer. Through a horrifying glimpse into the incest, we first see her father raping her, while her mother watches in the background. It is also here that we come to know of her latent desires, of being famous, of being beautiful, and of being loved for the right reasons. <br />
Her escapes into this world are heart-wrenching, to say the least. To see how sad one child could be gnaws at you, and then keeps you at your toes.<br />
Precious is expelled from school, for being pregnant again, at the nubile age of sixteen. There on, she joins an alternative school where she meets her beautiful teacher, Miss Blu Rain, and confides in her. She begins to learn, to find solace in the English alphabet. And she writes. Writes about what she feels. All this while, her mother hits her with airborne objects, slaps her, makes her hog. And then Mary calls Precious names, while simultaneously blaming her for taking away her 'man'. As much as I am tempted to, I will refrain from ruining the plot for you.<br />
Precious' story is not extraordinary, it is her circumstances that make it so. Her mother refuses to acknowledge rape, she herself is so confused and so violated she doesn't know what to do, what to say, how to react. She doesn't speak in class, and on the occassion that she does, she finds it difficult to look anyone in the eye. Yes, she is a destroyed child, but she is more than that. She is beautiful and intelligent. What makes the movie for me is the fact that Lee Daniels let Precious be beautiful, intelligent, smart and a caring mother while still showing how much she has been affected by the perils of family life.<br />
The portrayal of the intensely complex mother-daughter relationship was taut and resisted the impulse to be overly melodramatic. No, Mary doesn't hate Precious. She is jealous of her, she is jealous of her own grandchildren. Mary, too, is a woman who has been hardened by life. You almost don't hate her for treating her child like a beast. But then, each time she gets into a physical fight, you want her to keel over.<br />
I admit, I weeped like a little girl. A child (that is what she is!) is sucked into a vortex of hatred for herself and family, without ever realising that there are people who love her. There are people who want her to live. She looks into a mirror and wants to see a skinny white blond 'bitch' staring right back at her. She herself wants to be skinny, thanks to the innumerable comments and criticisms she has received for her weight. <br />
At some point during the movie though, it stops being about her weight. I couldn't care less if she weighed 62 pounds(yes, there is a model who weighs that much). What I did want, and care about was hugging the poor child. Hugging her to let her know someone will be there. <br />
Honestly, I cannot imagine how I would react if I were Claireece. Would I be the same? I think not. I am too small a person to even begin to comprehend being in her shoes.<br />
The one segment/shot that made me smile and cry, together, was when Precious escapes with her son, is walking along the subway platform and chants the alphabet. She seems to be in a trance, and latches on to the hope of being an educated and intelligent mother to her children. <br />
It was then that her short future was laid out for the mute audience.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-7797184726619046842010-03-10T19:52:00.001+05:302010-03-10T19:54:53.145+05:30<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/22685657@N05/2464770483/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Vivien Leigh by rhinestonerockinghorses, on Flickr"><img alt="Vivien Leigh" height="428" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3247/2464770483_9af95d0527.jpg" width="399" /></a></div><br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vivien_Leigh">Vivien Leigh</a> has to be the most stunning woman I have ever seen.Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8365311169653030995.post-81266560384934183612010-03-08T20:20:00.001+05:302010-03-08T20:27:06.619+05:30Your Size, My Size?If there is one pressure most women agree they feel through the majority of their lives, it is the need to be thin. What thin is, or what thin enough is, we do not know. Perhaps everyone I know has been through a phase where they were on a diet that involved shutting off food, or have pounded that treadmill for hours on end. I, myself, have been part of that large, large collective. In my defence, though, I was young, and consequently, naive.<br />
<br />
Thinking back now, I have to say, this apprehension regarding our bodies is probably inherent. Society, that vile concoction, has told us time and again. We need to be thin, or atleast, 'average' sized. Once again, the ramifications of those terms escape me. To think this process of angst toward your own body is a by-product of something your parents and your immediate family instigates in you is chilling, to say the least.<br />
As you grow up, and become more foolish by the day, all those contrived mediums of propagating hatred strive to make sure you hate yourself, your guts for biting into an apple. Our hatred fuels their profit. It is actually cold, clear logic. The more you despise yourself, the more some corporate gains out of you spending on pills, lotions, exercise machines, and even clothes that are maybe too small.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S5UOiy3VOpI/AAAAAAAAACs/7h8Wdsodxzo/s1600-h/WeightLossCartoon.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" kt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wwVnu9_TvjQ/S5UOiy3VOpI/AAAAAAAAACs/7h8Wdsodxzo/s400/WeightLossCartoon.gif" width="400" /></a></div>But, while I do enjoy corporate-bashing, I must not digress.<br />
The only question I am raising here, to myself, is the one question which is of absolute significance. Whatever happened to individuality? Why can't a woman be the size she wants to be and be happy with it? For the life of me, I do not understand the notion that you have to be reed thin to fit into the socially acceptable definition of beautiful, attractive or plain pretty. As far as my confused existence is concerned, there really are no rules which say that a woman has to slog herself to death to gain acceptance from strangers. Why is it then that people who have some flesh on their scrawny bones have to murmur something about being big-boned so as to avoid being judged? Why is it then that a Christina Hendricks is seen as an anomaly in that utterly perplexing world of beauty? And why is it that every time you Google Gabourey Sidibe, 6,40,000 results regarding her weight show up? <br />
Perhaps we are just raring to judge and to cast aspersions on people who are comfortable with how they look, what they weigh. The fairness, and the politics to that, we will never know. We are not supposed to.<br />
Before I am criticised for trying to justify and encourage obesity, I would like to clarify my stance. No, I am not doing anything of the sort. Obesity is unhealthy and rampant. But so is anorexia. And bulimia. And <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Body_dysmorphic_disorder">BDD</a>. It is sad to note how many, many young people are falling prey to mistaken perceptions about themselves. And yet, the onus is not on being fit, or even being healthy. Oh, that dreaded word! Laziness, or remaining inactive, is not my proposed alternative to this madness inducing regime people are adopting. Hardly. <br />
But is it correct, or even fair, to burden someone with the realisation of constantly having to lose weight when they take a walk, or when they are swimming? Where is the fun in that? And where, pray, is the fun in homogeneity?Stutihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11928249981997156478noreply@blogger.com2