Welcome to the 'Birdhouse'

Dear Reader, I have been so busy! I literally haven't had the time to breathe. The first half of last week was a nightmare. Days were spent filling up this awful proposal document that I had no idea about and then after hours spent slaving on the bloody proposal (because of a stupid deadline), I found the deadline had extended....well it was the pits!

I work with really nice people....at least that's what I thought! However, it turned out that certain individuals are not so nice after all! There are also those who are highly competent, and I quickly learnt that it is they, that  are lassoed into doing others' work.

I think that the office is like a bird-house, there are those birds that immediately catch one's attention...they of the bright plumage that are akin to a show of efficiency. They always seem to be busy and yet on a closer look, they are the ones with the least output, in-fact it is amazing how they manage to get so much work done with such little effort! Then there are the sparrows and wrens; they assist these exotic creatures and are generally the 'dogsbodies', they seldom seem to enjoy their work but manage to get it all done by the end of the day. For them, it is just something they  have to do as a habit.

This brings me to the category of the songbirds.They are generally not of the attention-grabbing exotic variety, in fact quiet plain, but these are the ones who volunteer to do most of the work and seem to enjoy it! They might be of the most nondescript variety, yet they are the most captivating on closer inspection.

The next variety is my favourite. The large birds of prey. They are beautiful,with an elegant plumage, yet they are also dangerous. They are the hawks and eagles in the office, deadly if provoked but magnificent allies who are the most competent of the lot due to their keen intelligence. Nothing escapes their notice as they are sharply observant so it is nigh impossible to hoodwink them.

 Then there are also the scavengers, the scariest of the lot, they are the vultures and buzzards who swoop in and pick at all the pieces, they are deadly and prone be in chronic love with themselves, they are also the firm allies of the flashy, exotic ones and generally leave utter chaos in their wake.

So there you have it dear reader, my observations about a random workplace. Whether you work in a place like the one described above is something that you may have to observe on your own. All I want to say in the end is that through my interactions with all of the above, I have gained an insight into the 'real world'- one that we heard about as students. All I have to do now is determine the category to which I belong!

Dear Reader, the past two weeks have been really hectic and so, I couldn't take the time out to write a post. I have missed blogging. I never realized the fun I've had writing my posts until I was unable to do so. Blogging has given my writing a purpose, it serves as an outlet for my thoughts and ideas and your comments have become a source of pleasure as well as inspiration

.

Every time I see something amusing or interesting, I automatically start formulating a blog post in my mind. As a writer, I highly recommend blogging to all who have something to say.

Anyway, I was just thinking about the things I've written in my blog in the past two years. From a blog that began as a journal about my days as a journalism student in England to the triumphs and pitfalls of my personal life to my opinion about the world in general, it has taught me a lot about myself.

Two years ago, I was a girl with aspirations of becoming a journalist, now I am a girl in search of a vision. I would not call myself confused, rather, I have found within myself a thirst to experience all the myriad flavours that life had to offer.

In some ways, dear reader, I have grown up and in other ways I am rediscovering the inner child with all the freshness and curiosity that accompany childhood. So, all I'm going to do now is enjoy life and try to keep myself free of stress. Have a great week dear reader! :)

'Dear Reader'

My Dear, Dear Reader, I can't stop blogging....Today seems to be one of those days when all my creative juices are flowing like a water- fall really. I will not apologise for the borderline philosophical treatise on life from a few hours ago...I think I needed it. I can't talk today because of a painfully sore throat and black headache so I'm communicating through this blog.

However, after I posted the blog, I began imagining you, for me, the perfect you is a person who looks exactly like my grandfather, completely lovable with a healthy sense of the ridiculous ( You have to admit.. some of my posts are rather absurd! ).

So what are you? Are you a kindly lady like my dearly departed grandmother, A distinguished grandfather figure, a peppery but lovable guy like my father or the absolutely adorable and lovely person like my mother. You could be my own age (potentially amazing girl or guy) or slightly older and experienced....or you could be the younger sister/brother/friend who is just plain fun to be around. 

I soo hope that you have a sense of humour. I do hope that you are slightly outrageous but not obnoxious. The reason? Well, I adore people with an outrageous sense of humour but some are positively obnoxious and borderline rude! 

What I do know, and am really sure about is the fact that you are the best listener, and that you may even admit to liking me a little...eh? Well, I'm quite certain that you empathise with my way of thinking although you may agree or disagree with my statements. 

Whatever may be the case dear reader, you are the one constant in my life that is wholly amazing and wonderful. You have made a writer out of a simple girl and helped me combat loneliness. You give me pleasure by your, silent yet comfortable presence. So thank you...thank you for just being my Dear Reader. 

'When life hands a lorryload of lemons, keep churning out lemonade'

Dear Reader, I believe...I believe...I believe, that we should live life with positivity. However, I couldn't help but look back at the previous year and dwell on the sheer amount of negativity that saturated 2012.

The past year has been one filled with realisations; some necessary and some unpleasant. 2012 for me began on a high note, I graduated with a Masters and got to travel around England with my mother. I realised how fortunate I was to receive a good education and also the support of my parents. On the flip side, I was physically unwell for most of the year (I still am), I still suffer from bouts of extreme and debilitating bouts of melancholia and realised that although my parents love me and I love them, they don't trust me at all.

I know that I am to blame, with my education I should have landed a comfortable job immediately, yet for some odd reason, I was unable to. I moved back to the 'deadbeat, small-town nightmare'(a quote from someone in my family), it was indeed a quagmire of spiritual and mental decay that I quickly sank into.

Still, I can't help but ask the question as to Why my Parents don't trust me? I am 25 and can be described as a 'good girl', I have lived my life the way my parents taught me to live and have tried my best to be understanding.

Still dear reader, I find that I am hurt.... I am strong but nothing in the world has the power to hurt me, except my parents' lack of trust. Do they really think that I am their problem child? Do they really think me a failure? Do they really feel that I have in any way dishonoured them?

I don't want to be whiny......I don't want to be negative...I have lived Dear Reader....How I've lived....I love life even when I am miserable.....I laugh at my shortcomings, not cry.....I laugh with people when they ridicule me. I know that you're thinking Why? Well, it is easy to make people cry and so difficult to make them laugh and also I would not give them the power to hurt.

I feel blessed in a way, perhaps I needed all  this time at home with my parents. I got to hug them, and hear them and bask in their love. They might worry about me but they love me. I have known the kind of love that all of us receive but few appreciate....And that is why my dear reader, I love life...I savour each and every moment, whether they be luminous or dark, like honey on my tongue.

So, here is the lesson I've learnt in the 25th year of  my life -- "When life hands you a lorryload of lemons, you shouldn't taste each one and turn sour, you should  use it all to churn out lemonade " (this is a quote I read somewhere and instantly loved). So I have endeavoured to learn from setbacks and turn their lemony sourness into lemonade, something refreshing and positive.  

An old article...Story of a Survivor of Rape

Dear Reader,
Happy New Year!!!

The Article below has been taken from the archives of a magazine. It was written by a survivor of Rape.. I call her a survivor and not a victim because she experienced brutal physical suppression and like Lazarus rising from the dead she embraced life...a true survivor, an inspiration and a font of positive energy.

“I Fought For My Life…And Won” – Sohaila Abdulali #mustread #Vaw #Rape

I was gang raped three years ago, when I was 17 years old.  My name and my photograph appear with this article.  in  1983, in Manushi.

I grew up in Bombay, and am at present studying in the USA. I am writing a thesis on rape and came home to do research a couple of weeks ago. Ever since that day three years ago, I have been intensely aware of the misconceptions people have about rape, about those who rape and those who survive rape. I have also been aware of the stigma that attaches to survivors. Time and again, people have hinted that perhaps death would have been better than the loss of that precious“virginity.” I refuse to accept this. My lifeis worth too much to me.

I feel that many women keep silent to avoid this stigma, but suffer tremendous agony because of their silence. Men blame the victim for many reasons, and,shockingly, women too blame the victim, perhaps because of internalized patriarchal values, perhaps as a way of making themselves invulnerable to a horrifying possibility.

It happened on a warm July evening.That was the year women’s groups were beginning to demand improved legislation on rape. I was with my friend Rashid. We had gone for a walk and were sitting on a mountainside about a mile and a half from my home inChembur which is a suburb of Bombay. We were attacked by four men,who were armed with a sickle. They beat us, forced us to go up the mountain, and kept us there for two hours. We were physically and psychologically abused, and, as darkness fell, we were separated, screaming, and they raped me, keeping Rashid hostage. If either of us resisted, the other would get hurt. This was an effective tactic.

They could not decide whether or not to kill us. We did everything in our power to stay alive. My goal was to live and that was more important than anything else. I fought the attackers physically at first, and with words after I was pinned down. Anger and shoutinghad no effect, so I began to babble rather crazily about love and compassion,I spoke of humanity and the fact that I was a human being, and so were they, deep inside. They were gentler after this, at least those who were not raping me at the moment. I told one of them that if he ensured neither Rashid nor I was killed, I would come back to meet him, the rapist, the next day. Those words cost me more than Ican say, but two lives were in the balance. The only way I would ever have gone back there was with a very, very sharp instrument that would ensure that he never rapedagain.

After what seemed like years of torture (I think I was raped 10 times but I was in so much pain that I lost track of what was going on after a while), we were let go,with a final long lecture on what an immoral whore I was to be alone with a boy. That infuriated them more than anything. They acted the whole time as if they were doing me a favour, teaching me a lesson. Theirs was the most fanatical kind of self righteousness.

They took us down the mountain and we stumbled on to the dark road, clinging to each other and walking unsteadily. They followed us for a while, brandishing the sickle, and that was perhaps the worst part of all—escape was so near yet death hung over us. Finally we got home, broken, bruised, shattered. It was such an incredible feeling to let go, to stop bargaining for our lives and weighing every word because we knew the price of angering them was a sickle in the stomach. Relief flooded into our bones and out ofour eyes and we literally collapsed into hysterical howling.

I had earnestly promised the rapists that I would never tell any one but the minute I got home, told my father to call the police He was as anxious as I was to get them apprehended. I was willing to do anything to prevent someone else having to go through what I had been through. The police were insensitive, contemptuous, and somehow managed to make me the guilty party. When they asked me what had happened,I told them quite directly, and they were scandalized that I was not a shy, blushing victim. When they said there would be publicity, I said that was all right. It had honestly never occurred to me that Rashid or I could be blamed. When they said Iwould have to go into a home for juvenile delinquents for my “protection.” I was willing to live with pimps and rapists, in order to be able to bring my attackers to justice.

Soon I realized that justice for women simply does not exist in the legal system. When they asked us what we had been doing on the mountain, I began to get indignant. When they asked Rashid why he had been “passive”, I screamed. Didn’t they understand that his resistance meant further torture for me? When they asked questions about what kind of clothes I had been wearing, and why there were no visible marks on Rashid’s body (he had internal bleeding from being repeatedly hit in the stomach with the handle of the sickle), I broke down in complete misery and terror, and my father threw them out of the house after telling them exactly what he thought of them. That was the extent of the support the police gave me. No charges were brought. The police recorded a statement that we had gone for a walk and had been “delayed” on our return.

It has been almost three years now, but there has not been even one day, when I have not been haunted by what happened. Insecurity, vulnerability, fear, anger, helplessness—I fight these constantly. Sometimes when I am walking on the road and hear footsteps behind I start to sweat and have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. I flinch at friendly touches, I can’t bear tight scarves that feel like hands round my throat, I flinch at a certain look that comes into men’s eyes—that look is there so often.

Yet in many ways I feel that I am a stronger person now. I appreciate my life more than ever. Every day is a gift. I fought for my life, and won. No negative reaction can make me stop feeling that this is positive.

I do not hate men. It is too easy a thing to do, and many men are victims of different kinds of oppression. It is patriarchy I hate, and that incredible tissue of lies that say men are superior to women, men have rights which women should not have, men are our rightful conquerors.

My feminist friends all assume that I am concerned about women’s issues because I was raped. This is not so. The rape was one expression of all the reasons why Iam a feminist. Why compartmentalize rape ? Why assume rape is only an unwanted act of intercourse ? Are we not raped every day when we walk down the street and are leered at ? Are we not raped when we are treated as sex objects, denied our rights,oppressed in so many ways ? The oppression of women cannot be analysed unidimensionally. For example, a class analysis is very important, but it does not explain why most rapes occur within one’s own class.

As long as women are oppressed in various ways, all women will continue to be vulnerable to rape. We must stop mystifying rape. We must acknowledge its existence all round us, and the various forms it takes. We must stop shrouding it in secrecy, and must see it for what it is — a crime of violence in which the rapist is the criminal.

I am exultant at being alive. Being raped was terrible beyond words, but I think being alive is more important. When a woman is denied the right to feel this, there is something very wrong in our value system. When someone is mugged and allows herself to be beaten in order to survive, no one thinks she is guilty of willing consent to be beaten. In the case of rape, a woman is asked why she let them do it, why she did not resist, whether she enjoyed it.

Rape is not specific to any group of women, nor are rapists a particular group of men. A rapist could be a brutal madman or the boy next door or the too friendly uncle. Let us stop treating rape as the problem of other women. Let us acknowledge its universality and come to a better understanding of it.

Until the basis of power relationships in this world changes, until women cease to be regarded as the property of men, we will have to live in constant fear of being violated with impunity.

I am a survivor. I did not ask to be raped and I did not enjoy it. It was the worst torture I have ever known. Rape is not the woman’s fault, ever. This article is one contribution towards exploding the silence and the comfortable myths which we build up to convince ourselves we are not potential victims, thus consigning actual victims to the most agonizing isolation a human being can know.

 ( This article has been reproduced from archives of Manushi, and was written in 1983)

Today, Sohaila writes, reads and walks. She has published two novels, The Madwoman of Jogare and Year of the Tiger; three children’s books; and numerous short stories, essays, news reports, blogs, columns, manuals, and just about every form of written material, which is in direct contradiction to her devotion to trees. www.sohailaink.com

In which I resolve to never be afraid....

Dear Reader, it was Christmas two days ago, Christmas for me is a special day and I crave spending it with my loved ones. This is the time of the year when we generally switch from stress mode to holiday mode. With Christmas over and New Years just around the corner all I should think of is making plans to usher the New Year with a bang.

But do you want to know something my dear reader? This year I just don't feel like it. With the events happening around me, it just doesn't feel right. All I keep thinking about is that poor girl (Delhi Gang Rape Victim), who is teetering on the precipice between life and death.

I woke up today to the news that she was moved to Singapore for further treatment after her condition worsened. Now, I can't stop asking - What did she ever do to deserve such pain? It makes me feel ashamed to live in these times. Ashamed, because as a woman, a feminist I went about my life meekly accepting the dangers of moving about in a city like Delhi; or for the matter my tiny hometown.

This incident has jolted all of us out of the lethargic attitude that we generally seem to adopt regarding the harassment and threats to safety faced by women from all walks of life. With the daily protests by the public demanding a change in laws, one would assume that would-be offenders would think twice about assaulting women under these tense circumstances.

Alas, in the past ten days, news of three other incidents, two of which are gang rape cases, came into light. In view of this one can't help but question the mindset that allows and ignores the brutal mental, physical and emotional suppression of women.

I am not saying that incidents of Rape occur only in India, they occur all over the world. However, India has seen incidents of such brutality as to shock even the most hardened criminals.In a society where children- innocents, are aware of Rape, it is deeply disturbing.

I would like to give my own example dear reader, I first became aware of rape as an eight year old girl when the news of the abduction and rape of a sixteen year old girl in my hometown created a huge furore. She had been kept in an abandoned cluster of buildings and was raped repeatedly by the perpetrators who were brothers belonging to an affluent local family. I am happy to report that they are now serving time in jail for their crimes.

This however, is not the case with most of the incidents of Rape and sexual assault where victims don't come forward due to fear and trauma and the perpetrators go scott free. So I leave you with this thought dear reader -  Yes, I feel ashamed to have meekly accepted the limitations of  being a woman and living with safety, but should I feel ashamed about any other thing? The answer is NO and I have resolved to speak against discrimination and injustice and never be afraid. 

Rape of Innocence

Dear Reader, as I write this in the safety of a cosy room just a feet away from my mother, a 23 year old girl is battling for her life a couple of miles away.

On Monday, India woke up to the news about a 23 year old para-med student brutally Gang raped and left to die on a street along with a male friend who was also severely beaten. What made it more shocking was the heinous nature of her injuries which are chilling.

I cannot think of appropriate words to describe this incident. It upsets me to think about it not only as a woman but also as a human being. I am a believer in humanity and our capacity to do good but there are times, especially now when one can't help but question everything one believes in.

First, the news about the death of innocent children gunned down by a killer in America and now the brutal physical, mental and emotional violation of a young girl in her prime have left me shaken.

We can just grieve, discuss, and call for actions against those blots on humanity that caused such pain; yet this look at the ugly face of the humanity is jarring.

I could say a lot about the girl but I won't. Her tragedy has been milked by the money-minded albeit well meaning media as well as various activists and women's groups (some of whom are publicity hungering opportunists), while she lies in that grey area between light and shadow.

The common folk however are out on the streets with candles and banners in a show of support for her family. All we can think of is "it could have happened to one of us".

Thus,all I can now do is pray for her recovery to a higher power and that she may have the strength to live with all that happened to her.

Cotton fluff snowfalls and warm winter sun

Dear Reader, winter afternoons are the best! They are meant solely for lazing around and soaking  the gorgeous winter sun ( the best kind! ). However here I am, stuck in a lounge area waiting for something that should already have occurred. So, all I could do was sit back and reminiscence about things that give me happiness.

Winter in India is the best! I love monsoons but winter, especially in India is the best season and my favourite. There is a refreshing nip in the air and the sun isn't at it's scorching best. And every where one looks, there is a riot of colours in gardens. Absolutely beautiful!

Oh how I love winter! My dear reader, the flowers...Chrysanthemums, roses, marigolds, dahlias, lilies, pansies, they are everywhere! One can sit in the garden with a warm cup of tea/coffee/hot chocolate and enjoy a tete a tete with loved ones. Perfect, isn't it?

When I was a little girl winters would start by the sound of the "Dhunia" - these are a group of wandering weavers and quilters who go from house to house and reweave feather mattresses, pillows, duvets and quilts stuffed with cotton. The Dhunia used this bow-like instrument which made a peculiar sound like the twang of a base guitar whilst the quilts and duvets were being rewoven and the entire air was then surrounded by cotton fluff which refused to settle down.

This, to my 6 year old self was like my very own private snowfall! It was like one of those fantasy sequences from Disney movies and I absolutely loved the contrast of the warm winter sun, soft sunlight and the shiny cotton in the air.

Childhood is a time when little things and day to day events can be magical. This sense of wonderment is lost as we grow up. So dear reader, take time off from our daily lives and spend some time doing what makes us happy.

Excuse my French....Really???

Dear Reader, it's 6 am on this fine December morning and I have been up since 3..I have a bad cold and am pumped full of drugs and am unable to sleep. So in this current state of sleep deprivation I got the time to think about what I said in the last post the Phrase "Excuse my French"

I have often wondered about this phrase. If one thinks about it why do we use it after we swear; we didn't even swear in French so why..why do we do commit  this unintentional  offence?

In my defence I am completely under the weather and didn't know any better. However this phrase kept ringing in my mind incessantly and I couldn't help but feel  guilty. Now, I can be described as a self obsessed, slightly neurotic liberal. I also like to think that I am fair and logical and I hate being put into brackets and stereotypes.  

So what does my tilted view about my own writing say? Yes you're right! I unintentionally succumbed to a stereotype. I know dear reader, that I have this habit of over-analysing things but that's just the way I am. 

So let us start this day by thinking of stereotypes that are positive...I know one..."The French are the epitome of culture". Is it really true? I think to a large extent that it might be. Do you know that I once sat in an Air France lounge surround by French speakers for five hours just listening to them speak! I was in the middle of a riveting thriller and yet, all I could do was listen to them speak in this beautiful language which was so lyrical. I couldn't really understand all that they were saying (they were really quick) but, it was still a joy to listen to them. I like to talk but, I LOVE to listen (not many people know this!) For all I know, they could have been discussing the weather or describing the state of the Parisian drainage system yet, it was like they were praising one another. 

Someone called French the 'language of Love' and I totally agree. I believe that even if someone calls me a scatterbrained, simpleton idiot in French I would think that they were singing my praises. So then dear reader I end this post with this question-  am I really the only one who wonders about the irony of the phrase "Excuse my French" being used after swear words in another language?

Hello my dear reader, I am sorry but I really don't have anything special to relate......oh wait I have a double attack of the sniffles and the blues in fact I have been so blue I am positively purple which matches my extremely pink and itchy nose...Eeewwww! I hate the common cold I am all tired clingy and weepy and hate the world in general.

I am also not the best person to have around in this time..to be honest I am a huge pain in the arse  (excuse my French). I don't know about you but I always crave endless cups of soup and tea when I am sick and in general want my mum. Since I am at home right now my poor mother has practically become a slave and do you want to know something weird she is ever ready with a supply of tissues, hot drinks and cuddles even when I am absolutely gross.. MOTHERS..they really are the world's most confusing creatures are they not.

Anyway, I am now finished and am signing off for a Lord of the Rings movie marathon. Till the next post...

PS: this post contains nonsense and grammatical errors.