Friday, April 27, 2012

Racist??!! More like 'Hypocrite'...

This is what happened on FB, today morning. A simple joke that turned out to be a 'racist' allegation! For obvious reason, I have changed the names and deleted the FB links. 
'Indian Guy' is on my friend list, a jewellery designer with a liberal 'think-tank'. 
I assume ' Ms. Anti-Racist' is someone who gets hyper for no reason and shouts 'Wolf, Wolf' for nothing. 
'Me' is of course Me. 
And 'Foreigner' is a genuine 'firang' - there now, I am THE 'racist' - damn!
And then we have Bystander 1,2, 3 etc etc.

Indian guy’s status message: A friend of mine from China was showing me some photos of his family, when I took out a pen and started drawing circles on them. It was only when he shouted "wa da fuk yu doing?" that I realised that it wasn't a game of 'spot the difference.'

Ms. Anti-Racist: aren't you sounding a bit stereotypical and vaguely racist?

Indian guy: Stereotypical - maybe. Racist - not exactly...i have got something against a country, not the race

Ms. Anti-Racist: Just one final question. In this status msg of yours, you are clearly implying on a race. Isn't this like counter-acting against your second statement -"Racist - not exactly...i have got something against a country, not the race"?

Indian guy: Seriously, have you never cracked/laughed a sardar/mallu/gujju joke? Haven't you ever enjoyed a russell peters act? If even vaguely yes, what was that if not racist? But that never meant that you would commit to racism in your actions. so relax. its quite late...enjoy a good sleep :)

Me: ‎@Indian Guy LOL! And We are all racists, at some point, and I find it hard to believe that there is someone who has never laughed at a so-called 'racist' joke or made a comment in ALL his years of existence on any 'race'. You have only made a simple remark about the Chinese, but of course it does not mean u want to kill them!

Indian guy: @Me - U got it! :)

Foreigner: not cool Indian guy not cool :(

The problem is when we Indians make jokes against our own countrymen, against the neighbour, against the servant, against the anglo-indians or the millions of people in our country, it is not Racist! Why? Because we are Indians , all of us, aren't we all dancing happily away! One country, ain't it? So within our country we can call a Punjabi Pinda, someone from UP 'Bhaiyya', a South Indian 'Madrasi' and a Haryanvi 'Jaath', but oh when it comes to another country - 'My God aren't u a racist?' Show me one Indian who has never ever made fun of his own fellows! After having done this all my childhood, one fine day I grow up and decide to not tolerate any of the jokes I have laughed my head off all these years and catch you and say - 'How can say do that, u are a racist!' - then I should get myself entered in the list of 'great Hypocrites, if ever there be one. 

This is the update at noon. Guess what weapon was used? The deadly Dictionary which is available with only 3 people on earth. God, Satan and one more person whom I don't know.

Indian guy: Well Foreigner, it may or may not be cool, but that is each individual's own thinking, right? If I start thinking about whether a topic/joke is considered "important" and "significant" to other people, this sort of stops being fun for me, isn't it? At a personal level, I enjoy all kind of jokes (yes, racist and sexist included); and that is all I consider it to be - a 'joke'. I am perfectly ok when people crack jokes at the expense of my race/community. I laugh along. A lot of others do the same when joked about them (respect to Sikhs for their supremely sporty nature about sardar jokes). I don't understand, why a joke about 'Asian' race (yes, Chinese is not a race, Asian is) raises so many heckles, when people can easily be joking about others.

Indian guy: For those who are still agitated, this was just supposed to be read, laughed upon and moved on. But people always want to decide what is 'right' or 'wrong' on behalf of others. Please spare me your judgements. My customer service representative will get in touch with you shortly. You may claim a full refund of whatever money you have paid to me for subscribing to read my updates.

Bystander 1: Y r ppl gettin so serious.. evry1 cracks jokes on diff communities n laughs at dem.. dere r jokes on gujjus/sikhs/baniyaas blah blah blah.. b a sport.. laugh n move on!!

Bystander 2: haayyee !! Itna dimaag Indian guy !! :P

Ms. Anti-Racist: Firstly, I did have a good sleep. Thank you. Secondly, I'm here to reply back. "Seriously, have you never cracked/laughed a sardar/mallu/gujju joke? Haven't you ever enjoyed a russell peters act? If even vaguely yes, what was that if not racist? But that never meant that you would commit to racism in your actions. so relax. its quite late...enjoy a good sleep :)" I don't like Russell Peters and I don't like his sense of humor/standup comedy. It is a pity that he does not have anything better to joke about other one type race or the other. He is not evolved. The mallu/sardar joke, yeah, when I was a teenager. It is racist, and I am as guilty as everyone when I laughed at them. I don't find them funny any longer as I have started to look inside people and not out side. Perhaps if you did that too, and if the world did that too, "we can spot the difference" like how your not so tasteful joke claims. PS. While we sit around crack such tasteless "Chinese" jokes, they are busy taking over the world.

Bystander 1: Ma'am whoevr u r... y cant u give it sme rest n let other ppl enjoi it!

Ms. Anti-Racist: PS: And if we are talking about a global village, the onus is on everybody to stand against racism. You might think that your little joke is harmless, but that is how it all starts. In case, you didn't know what racism means, rac·ism (rszm) ; n :1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others. 2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

Bystander 3‎: @Indian guy : u could actually spot the difference? wa did u use .. a freaking super microscope?? :P

Bystander 4: racist!!!!

Bystander 4: OK when i wrote in the previous comment 'rascist'.. i was only KIDDING! people... like seriously! you guys almost sound like addressing a sardar as a sardar is racist, since you are 'not treating him like any other person'.. its all in good humour - Russel Peters and our man Jayvir Mehta!!!coming up with such kinda jokes, on the other hand, makes them all the more sensitive as people.. they are seeing things n traits which people like u n me dont... at least give it to them for their sensitivities, creativity and above all SENSE OF HUMOUR! its slightly narrow-minded thinking to take something like this n hold it against a person

Me wanting to write (but did not write since she did not address me directly): @Ms. Anti-Racist: I noticed that u mentioned, about how u laughed at all the mallu/sardar jokes as a teenager. Well, there u go. As on today, we just saw Indian guy's remark and laughed at it and moved on. One fine glorious morning, we will , like u, suddenly grow up and look at people's kidneys, livers, bladders, intestines and feel guilty and decide not to be a 'racist' any more, and then go about bashing 'racists' like Indian guy above. Till then, please bear with us.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Delayed Reaction to an Incident in a Mallu Hotel in Bangalore.

       No idea why some Non-Mallus come into a Kerala restaurant and say 'Arrey u make this in coconut oil? I dont want it.' If I was the hotel owner I would add Pig-shit to their stupid order of 'Bhaiyya, normal aloo paratha bana do, groundnut oil mein.' and serve it to them with a fart. I dont go to a Punjabi hotel and say 'Shit, sarso ka tel...chhheee!'....or to a Kannada hotel and say 'Chhhee, raagi mudde tastes like mud.' or to a Gujarati restaurant and say 'Oh God, they put sugar in everything!'
       I am not partial to any cuisine. If I am in Tamil Nadu, I want to eat Tamil food. Same with Maharashtra or Bengal or Rajasthan. Right now I am in Singapore and we love savouring the local cuisine. We do not like all dishes, but everytime that we are out, we order a new dish. If we don't like it, we remember the name so as not to order it next time. We dont sit and crib and tell Singaporeans to stop making local food and serve us with food from our Indian kitchens. Simple.
       Did they go to sleep at night and on waking up in the morning, discover themselves in Kerala? Probably they were illiterate to not have read anything. Kerala is known as the land of coconuts and spices and bananas for no other reason than this. That these products grow in plenty here. Obviously when people settled here, they made use of the natural bounty. U don't need Darwin to tell u that unless u are living proof that he was wrong about his evolution theory. Coconut oil is used for cooking. Coconut oil is used on the hair. But obviously Keralites are not retarded enough to use the same bottle for both. If u don't like the fact that coconut oil is used for cooking, please travel with ur own gunny sacks of whatever oil u are using.
       Again yes, Kerala rice is different. The grains are big but softer than boiled rice. We don't need to polish the grains as long as they look like rice. But THIS DOES NOT MEAN that we cannot grow basmati rice on Kerala soil. The land obviously is one of the most fertile in India. We can grow live babies too!
       Also yes the Sea is generous to us. We eat seafood. A LOT. But it does not mean that EVERY family eats fish morning, noon and night.
       Neither does the fact that people drink Toddy, mean every man living here drinks Toddy.
       Again we use banana and mangoes and tapioca and jackfruit a lot - in our curries, in our kheers, in chips. But we don't eat only these four things. Kerala is blessed with a lot of vegetable and fruits most of which grow in our backyards.
       And yes again, we wear white. For the simple reason that it is so tropical and humid that we cannot go around in gaudy gold embroidered red synthetic dresses and do our work at the same time. The men wear 'mundus' NOT 'lungis'. There is a vast difference between both. It is the same for Tamilians. They also wear 'mundus' not 'lungis'. And they have an angavastram on their shoulders. Reading forwards and joking is all right. but laughing in their faces because they do not wear stuffy jeans like u is another matter altogether and I am always surprised why one of the natives does not just punch u in the face.
       For some reason I am unable to fathom, most foreigners are so much more open and interested in Indian culture and cuisine while thay are on vacation in India.
       The Retards above are not only limited to ordering food. They travel to places outside India and crib 'Arrey, there is no home-made paneer available. Arrey tamatar mein Indiawala taste nahi hain. Arrey these people eat only bread. Arrey this. Arrey that.' I mean yes it is a little uncomfortable to to be uprooted and we do want our old clingy comforts around us, but still. How can someone travel to a new place and NOT be interested in learning about the history, the customs, the cuisine, the local people? How can someone want to sit in the comfort of their house and say 'No I do not want to know anything about this new place I am in!'?
       To someone like me, That is pukish.

Monday, April 09, 2012

Look not See. Listen not Hear.

I hide my grief
sarcastic FB updates
make all of you
with my self-deprecating humor.
You come running
to me
when you are sad
asking me to cheer you up.
You invite me to all your parties
I'm the life of any party
you say.
You 'like' all my
and say you miss being with a
like me.
Not even once did you ask
'What is wrong' all those times
my throaty laughs
ended midway.

Saturday, April 07, 2012

The First Wife, The First Queen.

**I have read every book and watched every movie/series out there on English and French history esp the periods between 14th and 18th centuries! as to Tudor history, I'm obsessed with it!! This was written by hand on the back of a shopping bag just after I saw a hoarding for 'The Tudors' TV series! The idea was to write on behalf of all the 6 queens, however that moment passed by so quickly, I will probably have to wait until I am next gripped by the ghosts!**

Dear Holy Father,
I am to die today. I know it. I can feel it. My body has given up. My spirit is giving up. My mind is a refuse-heap of memories. Mostly of Mary. My daughter. My darling child. I have not seen her for years, it seems like ages. The King refuses to grant mercy. I hear, he is growing tired of that whore. I know that somewhere he still loves him. I have been his wife for almost two decades. His wife and Queen of England. Even now. They call me the Queen of Hearts. Yet, they, my beautiful people, know not that my heart is broken. Stamped all over. Anne gloats in my misery and she hesitates no more to say that she wished I would die. Yes, die I will, but with me a part of England dies too. And a part of Henry. I know. She has yet to bear him a son. There have been so many after Elizabeth, yet none survive. In a way, Anne and I share the same fate. That of dying heir-less. But at least I have people praying for me, sympathising with me, trying to help me in the little ways they can. They say, on their coronation day, there were no crowds. No shouts of 'Long live the Queen', nor flowers strewn from windows and roofs. None like the body of people thronging to have a glimpse of me, to ask for my blessing, to pray for me. But it takes a lot more to be a true Queen, a lot more than flirting and seducing and fucking. It takes courage. They say, Henry lies no more with her. They also say, that she is called the King;s Whore. This then is God's doing. The Lord, God, knows I was wronged. Yet, it is not in my nature to curse her, nor to wish for revenge. It is all in His hands. I wish the King would just come to see me, once, only once, just for a moment and kiss me on the forehead. Even if he did not speak to me, even if he stood at a distance, even if he did nothing, just stood there. I have loved him truly and rightfully, as a true wife should. Yet he detests me. He declared Mary a bastard. And all because of Anne. A common wench. Did I not say to him, I would recognize her a Mistress and even put her children in line for the throne? Did I not say to him, that I would let him spend every hour of the day with her, as long as I was still on the Throne next to him. As long as at Mass, they took my name with his? But what blinded him so much? He annulled my marriage to him. He says his conscience cannot comprehend the fact that he actually married his brother's wife, that he committed such a grievous sin? After almost two decades of being husband and wife, of sharing the same bed, of parenting the same child, he says to me - 'You are no more my Queen'? He insults the Pope by breaking away from His Flock and creating his own church. Is this not a sin, then? He has erred. He has been tricked. He had just wandered off the right path. But why will he not see reason? He says there is none. I was shooed off the palace without a farewell by him. I was so repulsive to him that he chose to get it done in his absence. My people howled in grief to see me go. They fell on their knees and begged me to not go. But how could I stay there one moment longer, when their King had forsaken me? And yet, I forgive him. In my heart of hearts, I forgive him. He has and will always be 'My Henry, My King, My Lord'. There was a time when he would untangle himself out of her arms and come running to me, when he heard I was unwell. Just that was a comfort in itself. The thought. The act of him still being worried enough to enquire about my health. For I am the mother of his child. And yet what is it now that has made him turn his face away from me? He will not grant the expenses of my household, he will not wear the shirts I sew for him, he will not attend the Mass I have organised in his name. And he refuses to see me in my final hour? The only solace I have is I will be gone from this world as his Queen, as his lawful Wife, as the True Queen of England. That is the only solace. And forgive him, I still do. Amen.

Reference: Henry VIII and Catherine D'Aragon.

Sunday, April 01, 2012

That Last Night.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 26; the 26th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'That Last Night'.
Saturday – 15th June 2013.
       The last memory she had of him was him chomping her breasts. She flinched. Then turned and looked at the body beside her. His snoring had always turned her stomach upside down, not to mention ruin her sleep. He was drooling in his sleep. Now the damned bed sheets would stink at that particular spot. It brought up a wave of nausea and she almost gagged. She was sick of him to death. 
       The unpleasant part was that it had nothing to do with the drool. She was sick enough to want to smother him with the pillow. But he was strong. It would never have worked. Unless she pretended that they were playing one of his kinky sex games and she would have to tie up his feet and hands to the bedpost. No, no. It would be all too easy for the police. What with the marks on the ankles and wrists, and the forced suffocation, they would unravel her so easily.
'There has to be some way to end this'.
       That night was the last one she wanted to spend together with him. That night was the last one she wanted him to touch her. But she would have more such nights. She knew. She knew that, that last night would be the beginning. She sighed. And tried to go back to sleep. But instead, the tears came. First as sniffles, then sobs. Little racking sobs which she shovelled into her pillow. Shovelled into, burrowed into, along with the snot and the grief. He must not wake up. She did not want to speak to him. Not now. For just some more time she wanted to be alone. She flung aside the sheets and rummaged for her slippers.
Saturday – 22nd June 2013.
       Groggily he called for her. His brain had just started to tune in to the sounds and smells of a Saturday morning. The coffee grinder whirring. The toaster tick-tocking. The juicer spitting out the seeds and rind. The weekend was here. A smile played on his lips. Wasn’t she just going to be surprised today! He had planned an impromptu dinner at The Regency tonight. He would tell her to wear the Mauve dress. Maybe with the brooch he had gifted her last week. And he would lead her by the arm and everyone would wonder how he could be so lucky so as to possess such a beautiful woman. His little own trophy wife. His little dirty mistress.
       Stifling a yawn, his eyes wandered to the framed photographs on the side table. And the portraits littering the wall. Regret clouded his mind. And guilt. And shame. He had been too rough with her that night. It was not that he wanted to. But when he saw her naked, the rage claimed him. Gnawed at him until all he wanted to do was to leave his mark on her. Disfigure her. Brand her a whore and parade her around. But he loved her so much. It was all because he loved her so much. He knew it. And she did too. That he would never be able to stop loving her. Her whimpers excited him and her screams filled his mind with fantasies for days together.
       He called for her again. “Darling, I am awake.”
       There, he could hear her faint answer from the kitchen at the back of the house. Not clear enough for his sleep-muddled ears to catch perfectly, but enough for him to know that she was coming to him. A rustle. A movement behind the curtains and she appeared. Freshly scrubbed. Smelling of lavender and soap. The serving tray in her hands. 
“Here is your coffee.” She said through gritted teeth. 
What was it about her that made him look up at her, warily?
“I have something to tell u”.
‘Not a baby. Lord. Not now.’ He prayed inwardly. He detested the little monsters. Whimpering, pesky little maggots. He had no time and no inclination to subject his house to their attacks.,
“What is it?” He flicked his tongue over his lips. And she would remember many a day later that he looked like a lizard eyeing its prey.
“I do not want to stay with you. Now now. Not ever.”
He flung the coffee at her. It soaked her silk robe. Burnt her skin.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“I said I cannot live with you.”
       He punched her in the face. Her nose bled. She clawed him. Across his cheek, she drew her nails.
       He was screaming. Incoherent. Flinging aside the tray and the sandwiches and whatever he could lay his hands on. Stamping on her face and hands. Kicking. Mouthing obscenities.
       She would have to endure this. She had to cry. Now. She had to feed his anger. Make him do the exact things she was scared of. The exact things she wanted him to stop doing to her.
       For some more time. Some more days. Just a matter of some more days.
       Her senses shut down. She swam out into the black salty sea.
Saturday – 13th July.
       He flung aside the sheets and looked around bleary-eyed. It was afternoon. Christ, he had slept all through last evening and the night and till noon! He called out her name. She did not answer. He waited and called out her name again. And again. She did not answer. He limped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. She was not there. then he made his way to the balcony. Neither there. Nor in the living room. Nowhere. She was out. He gnashed his teeth.
       The bitch had not woken him up. Nor told him before leaving. He went back to the kitchen and started to make coffee.
       He had just settled into his armchair when the door bell rang shrilly. He placed the coffee mug on the table. The bell rang again. And again.
“One minute. I’m on my way”. He wanted to punch the idiot in the face. Whoever it was. But of course he could not do that. He was a gentleman. At least everyone knew him as one.
       He blanched when he opened the door. It was a cop. No, cops. Almost a team. And there! There stood his wife. Almost unrecognizable because she was dishevelled and dressed down. The black spot around her left eye, the remainder of last night's coupling,  throbbed with a life of its own. Her split lip gorged red. The purple bruises on her cheeks glared at him. Where was her make-up and what the fuck was wrong with her?
“I assume we can come in, without waiting for you to invite us?” The inspector tapped on his chest with his baton.
Stupefied, he let them in. He let the men walk into the house. His wife started to follow them. “What is the meaning of this?” He whispered, grabbing her arm.
She looked at him. She smiled. It hurt her to smile, but she did.
“Ask the camera fitted on the AC vent.” She spat at him.

He knew. She knew. And now the police knew too.  

That last night had been the beginning. And the end.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.