Via
Thursday, February 28, 2008
A Serpent in Paradise
Yesterday, to celebrate Black Mamba's visit to Hyderabad, BM, Ludwig and I went to Paradise.
Paradise even has a tree. It grows through several floors and instead of apples, what you get there is biryani. Which, though you wouldn't know it reading the previous sentence, doesn't grow on the tree.
When BM called, I asked her if she had a cellphone.
"No," she said. It was a long story, apparently.
"Then how will I recognise you?"
"I'm wearing pink."
No, really. That's what she said. This after Veena assured me that actually BM didn't like pink, therefore I should be sure to wear it when we meet.
So. Many parcels exchanged hands and Ludwig turned up and we went off to sample Paradise biryani. BM was very thrilled with the fingerbowls at the end of the meal and was indignant when I sent away mine untouched (I rolled up my roti and ate the sabzi with a fork. What can I say?)
Before that we went for a drink and were invited by young man with very straight hair to flirt with one of three VJs of our choice. BM won a White Mischief glass and Ludwig and I won coasters. His said, "take me home?" and mine said, "Take a shot. Ask him out." But this was after the exchange, because Ludwig flatly refused to ask any man out and I declined to sound as paavam as the coaster made me sound. Turned out, though, that we had several of these things inside. We were also promised free drinks as a reward for answering four stupid questions but the drinks never arrived. Instead those guys got our email ids. Good thing we've all created special ids for just this sort of thing.
There are a couple of photographs but I'm too lazy to post them.
Paradise even has a tree. It grows through several floors and instead of apples, what you get there is biryani. Which, though you wouldn't know it reading the previous sentence, doesn't grow on the tree.
When BM called, I asked her if she had a cellphone.
"No," she said. It was a long story, apparently.
"Then how will I recognise you?"
"I'm wearing pink."
No, really. That's what she said. This after Veena assured me that actually BM didn't like pink, therefore I should be sure to wear it when we meet.
So. Many parcels exchanged hands and Ludwig turned up and we went off to sample Paradise biryani. BM was very thrilled with the fingerbowls at the end of the meal and was indignant when I sent away mine untouched (I rolled up my roti and ate the sabzi with a fork. What can I say?)
Before that we went for a drink and were invited by young man with very straight hair to flirt with one of three VJs of our choice. BM won a White Mischief glass and Ludwig and I won coasters. His said, "take me home?" and mine said, "Take a shot. Ask him out." But this was after the exchange, because Ludwig flatly refused to ask any man out and I declined to sound as paavam as the coaster made me sound. Turned out, though, that we had several of these things inside. We were also promised free drinks as a reward for answering four stupid questions but the drinks never arrived. Instead those guys got our email ids. Good thing we've all created special ids for just this sort of thing.
There are a couple of photographs but I'm too lazy to post them.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Taare Zameen Par for adults, and for children
Also on Open Space.
I watched Taare Zameen Par with my son in the first week of its release. Though I had read a little bit about the film, I deliberately stayed away from the reviews so that I could view the film with no preconceptions. Like every other adult I know, I enjoyed the first half more than the second for generally similar reasons: I liked the unhurried exposition, the ‘real’ situations and unprettified locations but most especially the child actor playing Ishan, Darsheel Safary.
My seven year old son, on the other hand, abandoning his popcorn and drink, spent the entire time until interval with his face half turned into my shoulder, sobbing and insisting that we should leave immediately because this was a terrible film. It appeared that other children in the theatre were similarly afflicted: I heard at least two other children in our row crying loudly from time to time. If the adults accompanying these children also felt teary, they were keeping a tight rein on their own emotions in order to comfort their children and not distress them further.
After the interval, though, everything changed. With the appearance of the art teacher Nikumbh, played by Aamir Khan, the turnaround from unbearable reality to easy denouement was rapid and clearly more palatable for my son. He laughed and clapped his hands and was aware – as he hadn’t been in the first half – that what tension there was, was temporary and that all would be well at the end.
Adults know this about representation: that what we see is at least once removed from reality; that though a film is set up to appear like the world as we know it, it is just a film; though when pressed we can rarely explain in greater detail what we mean by that statement. But this, in fact, is exactly what we offer our children as comfort: ‘It’s just a film. Please don’t cry - they’re just acting. It’s not real.’ And we say these things as a sort of short hand for what is, after all, a very complex mode of negotiating our ideas of reality and representation.
Classically, all dramatic art holds the suspension of disbelief in delicate balance with verisimilitude. Things should correspond with the world as we know it just enough so that we can accept other things we have never experienced for at least the duration of the act. The payoff is a graph of emotions along a path charted in advance by the director. At various points in our cultural histories one or the other of these two factors has been given greater valence.
But in the more fantastic films that are the staple for children of a certain age, disbelief is suspended with greater ease: talking animals and objects, the magical and the absurd are par for the course. They are asked not to recognise the duplication of the world in representations of it, but to see how the strange can be familiar. The bitterness of separation, rejection or loneliness is sweetened with the distance that fantasy offers in exchange for the time in which to process what is not pleasant. In the words of Mary Poppins, just a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down.
Two things made Taare Zameen Par interesting to watch in the company of a child. One: though the film is about a child, it is not made – at least in the first half – for a child to view. The experiences that Ishan goes through frequently cut too close to the bone for a child watching the film. How is a child, who has been harried to complete her homework or taunted by classmates, to know that what Ishan is experiencing is ‘not real’? In the eyes of the child, there is no ‘problem’ that has a ‘solution’ in such a film; there is only a world as incomprehensible and unmanageable as their real one. To be told, then, that what appears to correspond so directly with their lived life is ‘not real’ is a patent absurdity - a contradiction so large it is not easily digested.
After the interval, when Nikumbh helps to identify Ishan as dyslexic, it seems like a cheat to an adult because it fails to answer the question of what one is to do with children who are not dyslexic but in every other way like Ishan has been portrayed. To a child watching the second half of the film, however, this is an unexpected reprieve. It arrives on their horizon as information usually does to the very young: as entirely new but easily accepted and accommodated in their constantly expanding world. Ishan’s dyslexia and the astonishing (to an adult) ignorance of the condition displayed by the teachers and parents explain much of what has happened in the first half. For the child viewer, the film ends satisfyingly, with adult repentance, due acknowledgement of Ishan’s talent and his right to take his place in a world that has a place for him.
In this sense, Taare Zameen Par is actually two films: the first one is heartbreakingly ‘real’ in that it pushes the limits of verisimilitude; the second one demands that we suspend our disbelief with equal elasticity. The transition is not easily made but it would be a mistake to dismiss the second half of the film as a cop-out for this reason. At the very least it raises some interesting questions about how children view films differently than adults and how narratives need to be designed when both adults and children are the intended audience.
I watched Taare Zameen Par with my son in the first week of its release. Though I had read a little bit about the film, I deliberately stayed away from the reviews so that I could view the film with no preconceptions. Like every other adult I know, I enjoyed the first half more than the second for generally similar reasons: I liked the unhurried exposition, the ‘real’ situations and unprettified locations but most especially the child actor playing Ishan, Darsheel Safary.
My seven year old son, on the other hand, abandoning his popcorn and drink, spent the entire time until interval with his face half turned into my shoulder, sobbing and insisting that we should leave immediately because this was a terrible film. It appeared that other children in the theatre were similarly afflicted: I heard at least two other children in our row crying loudly from time to time. If the adults accompanying these children also felt teary, they were keeping a tight rein on their own emotions in order to comfort their children and not distress them further.
After the interval, though, everything changed. With the appearance of the art teacher Nikumbh, played by Aamir Khan, the turnaround from unbearable reality to easy denouement was rapid and clearly more palatable for my son. He laughed and clapped his hands and was aware – as he hadn’t been in the first half – that what tension there was, was temporary and that all would be well at the end.
Adults know this about representation: that what we see is at least once removed from reality; that though a film is set up to appear like the world as we know it, it is just a film; though when pressed we can rarely explain in greater detail what we mean by that statement. But this, in fact, is exactly what we offer our children as comfort: ‘It’s just a film. Please don’t cry - they’re just acting. It’s not real.’ And we say these things as a sort of short hand for what is, after all, a very complex mode of negotiating our ideas of reality and representation.
Classically, all dramatic art holds the suspension of disbelief in delicate balance with verisimilitude. Things should correspond with the world as we know it just enough so that we can accept other things we have never experienced for at least the duration of the act. The payoff is a graph of emotions along a path charted in advance by the director. At various points in our cultural histories one or the other of these two factors has been given greater valence.
But in the more fantastic films that are the staple for children of a certain age, disbelief is suspended with greater ease: talking animals and objects, the magical and the absurd are par for the course. They are asked not to recognise the duplication of the world in representations of it, but to see how the strange can be familiar. The bitterness of separation, rejection or loneliness is sweetened with the distance that fantasy offers in exchange for the time in which to process what is not pleasant. In the words of Mary Poppins, just a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down.
Two things made Taare Zameen Par interesting to watch in the company of a child. One: though the film is about a child, it is not made – at least in the first half – for a child to view. The experiences that Ishan goes through frequently cut too close to the bone for a child watching the film. How is a child, who has been harried to complete her homework or taunted by classmates, to know that what Ishan is experiencing is ‘not real’? In the eyes of the child, there is no ‘problem’ that has a ‘solution’ in such a film; there is only a world as incomprehensible and unmanageable as their real one. To be told, then, that what appears to correspond so directly with their lived life is ‘not real’ is a patent absurdity - a contradiction so large it is not easily digested.
After the interval, when Nikumbh helps to identify Ishan as dyslexic, it seems like a cheat to an adult because it fails to answer the question of what one is to do with children who are not dyslexic but in every other way like Ishan has been portrayed. To a child watching the second half of the film, however, this is an unexpected reprieve. It arrives on their horizon as information usually does to the very young: as entirely new but easily accepted and accommodated in their constantly expanding world. Ishan’s dyslexia and the astonishing (to an adult) ignorance of the condition displayed by the teachers and parents explain much of what has happened in the first half. For the child viewer, the film ends satisfyingly, with adult repentance, due acknowledgement of Ishan’s talent and his right to take his place in a world that has a place for him.
In this sense, Taare Zameen Par is actually two films: the first one is heartbreakingly ‘real’ in that it pushes the limits of verisimilitude; the second one demands that we suspend our disbelief with equal elasticity. The transition is not easily made but it would be a mistake to dismiss the second half of the film as a cop-out for this reason. At the very least it raises some interesting questions about how children view films differently than adults and how narratives need to be designed when both adults and children are the intended audience.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
(Poem for) Space Bar
By Heather McHugh no less, in the latest issue of Poetry.
What can I say? I'm deeply flattered.
And while you're there, do read this older article by her. Wonderful.
(poem link via email from Equivocal. Thanks!)
What can I say? I'm deeply flattered.
And while you're there, do read this older article by her. Wonderful.
(poem link via email from Equivocal. Thanks!)
Monday, February 25, 2008
‘Blood is unreliable’
Writing a graphic novel must be somewhat like translating the subtitles of a film: the graphic novelist must find a balance between text and image so that the one does not overwhelm the other. While there are no constraints on time as there are in cinema, in a graphic novel words must be teleg
raphically precise. Or so one would imagine.
raphically precise. Or so one would imagine.Amruta Patil’s first graphic novel, Kari, is emphatically not stingy with words. On average, every page carries at least the equivalent of one paragraph; often there is only one panel on a page and a whole couple of paragraphs of text. Not being a graphic novel aficionado, I have no preconceptions and this does not put me off; on the contrary, I am struck by how text and image interact more vividly. In Kari, the text does the work of a voice over: the voice is poetic and introspective; often the text sits perched atop a single panel as if poised for flight. This is not a fanciful conceit: Patil’s work frequently invokes images of flight and falling, and the thin edge of indecision on which her eponymous heroine teeters.
Kari begins with two women on the terraces of their respective buildings. They step off, one after the other. Ruth’s fall is broken by a safety net and she survives only to leave the city, flying out. Kari falls into a sewer and survives.
Kari is concerned with birth and death. Not just the character, but the novel itself. As boatman, Kari is midwife to those who make the crossing from birth to death willingly or unwillingly. She comforts both her colleague at the agency, Lazarus, and the discarded foetuses she f
inds in the sewer in the same way: with gentleness and honesty. Two chapters towards the end are significantly titled ‘The Umbilical’ (which is also the title of Patil’s blog) and ‘The Boatman’. Birth – the untimely, the difficult, the reluctant and the painful – is separated from death only by a page. In the penultimate chapter, Kari is witness to Angel’s death. Kari, whose attraction to the dying Angel just avoids being voyeuristic (Angel says to her at one point, ‘Looking for your fix of decay again? Go play with people your own age, Kari.’) turns up in time to listen to ‘Angel’s drowning breath’ and watch her slip away. With delicacy, Patil shows only Kari receiving Angel’s call and then, once she is dead, taking away her cat, leaving Angel’s immaculate apartment.
inds in the sewer in the same way: with gentleness and honesty. Two chapters towards the end are significantly titled ‘The Umbilical’ (which is also the title of Patil’s blog) and ‘The Boatman’. Birth – the untimely, the difficult, the reluctant and the painful – is separated from death only by a page. In the penultimate chapter, Kari is witness to Angel’s death. Kari, whose attraction to the dying Angel just avoids being voyeuristic (Angel says to her at one point, ‘Looking for your fix of decay again? Go play with people your own age, Kari.’) turns up in time to listen to ‘Angel’s drowning breath’ and watch her slip away. With delicacy, Patil shows only Kari receiving Angel’s call and then, once she is dead, taking away her cat, leaving Angel’s immaculate apartment.Patil’s images are distinctive, with thickly drawn outlines and a strong use of vertical and horizontal lines. She references Klimt in one of two memorably bright panels. 
But that is a rare reference*. Most of her panels are the equivalent of close shots or close-ups. One chapter, where Kari recalls how she met Ruth for the first time, reminded me very strongly of a scene in Chungking Express (this scene also, coincidentally, takes place in a station), where two people walk towards each other in a signature Kar-wai/Doyle step-printed, slow motion style and there is instant recognition. ‘Whatever love laws have to be broken, the first few seconds suffice. Everything else is a matter of time and incident’ the text under these images goes. It might be a voice over straight out of a Wong Kar-Wai film, except he would have been talking about the loss of love rather than the finding of it.
But that is a rare reference*. Most of her panels are the equivalent of close shots or close-ups. One chapter, where Kari recalls how she met Ruth for the first time, reminded me very strongly of a scene in Chungking Express (this scene also, coincidentally, takes place in a station), where two people walk towards each other in a signature Kar-wai/Doyle step-printed, slow motion style and there is instant recognition. ‘Whatever love laws have to be broken, the first few seconds suffice. Everything else is a matter of time and incident’ the text under these images goes. It might be a voice over straight out of a Wong Kar-Wai film, except he would have been talking about the loss of love rather than the finding of it.Kari ends on a fairytale note, invoking the ad campaign that Kari and Lazarus worked on and won awards for: ‘In a faraway city where the palette was pure and bright, Ruth stirred in her sleep, and smiled.’ But the accompanying image – a full-page illustration that is neither in colour nor hard-edged and exact – seems to say something else. If this is a promise, it is an unstable one, an invitation to step off the ledge once again. If Patil indeed intends to have a sequel, it will be interesting to see where she will take this.
A short graphic story can be found here. It appears to share several concerns with Kari and makes for an interesting juxtaposition, though I’m not sure which came first. ** (link via Ultrabrown.) Amruta Patil’s website is here.
* There are other echoes in Kari. Does the Boatman have webbed feet, I want to know. Do the inhabitants of the Crystal Palace
** The quote that is the title of this post comes from this story.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
'more music about makeup'
The Mumpsimus is a man after my own heart. In his Obligatory Oscar Post he says:
I would love offer unsolicited advice and useless opinions - in fact that is all I do on this blog when I do do it (doesn't that sound like a silly song?). I realise, though that this year will forever have the distinction in my mind for being the Year In Which I Have Not Seen A Single Oscar Nominated Film.
I can't believe it myself. And it's true; I haven't. This is tragic.
So go read Mumpsimus. I have to say, though, that he hasn't, after all, aired any opinions on films he hasn't seen. Instead he's done what any right-minded person would do: rooted for the one film in any category that he has seen.
ps: he has nice things to say about Tony Leung Chiu-Wai in Lust, Caution. Ha!
...the Oscars are a ridiculous ritual and by my fascination with them. They are, as somebody (I don't remember who) once said, the Superbowl for gay people, and I have often dreamed of tailgating the ceremony whilst wearing my pink feather boa. (Or maybe Tayari Jones's coat. Except I think I somehow look like Rudy Giuliani in that picture.) And yet I also agree with a lot of what A.O. Scott said about them: "The Oscars themselves may be harmless fun, but the idea that they matter is as dangerous as it is ridiculous."
So I'm going to give up on matter for the moment, and instead indulge in harmless fun by offering unsolicited and utterly useless opinions on films I have seen and not seen.
I would love offer unsolicited advice and useless opinions - in fact that is all I do on this blog when I do do it (doesn't that sound like a silly song?). I realise, though that this year will forever have the distinction in my mind for being the Year In Which I Have Not Seen A Single Oscar Nominated Film.
I can't believe it myself. And it's true; I haven't. This is tragic.
So go read Mumpsimus. I have to say, though, that he hasn't, after all, aired any opinions on films he hasn't seen. Instead he's done what any right-minded person would do: rooted for the one film in any category that he has seen.
ps: he has nice things to say about Tony Leung Chiu-Wai in Lust, Caution. Ha!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
word du jour
Punk.Puncture. Punctual. Punctuate.
*
The man grinding the coffee beans is not in uniform. As a concession to the demands of his job he has pasted a Coffee Day sticker on his breast pocket.
Will it wash away? For how many days will he wear that red checked shirt? How many stickers does he have? Will each of his shirts have a sticker on the breast pocket?
*
The man grinding the coffee beans is not in uniform. As a concession to the demands of his job he has pasted a Coffee Day sticker on his breast pocket.
Will it wash away? For how many days will he wear that red checked shirt? How many stickers does he have? Will each of his shirts have a sticker on the breast pocket?
Friday, February 22, 2008
The A to Z of Space Bar
Shouldn't that be, A-Z-but-don't-forget-the-Space-Bar-after- each-letter tag? Whatever.
First of all, I have to say how mysterious this tag is. It appears that one should not mention the people who're being tagged. Instead, one goes to the blog of the victim, um, that - and leaves a comment on a post, any post. One also takes care that no other tags are taken up on one's own blog in the meanwhile, so that when one of the tagees come to see what they've been tagged with, they don't add confusion to the mix of emotions that are roiling in their breasts.
But Dipali has tagged me and I'm being ungracious, so ignore all snarkiness and go on to the main stuff.
Okay, so this tag. I apparently have to answer 26 questions. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to compose each question with one letter of the alphabet. So in celebration of which, here goes (I haven't actually read any of the questions, but I'm going to answer them as if this was some kind of personality test thingy and I have to say the first thing that comes into my head):
A -Available?
For what?
B-Best friend:
These days, it'd have to be the comp, no? How paavam am I?
C-Cake or Pie?
Cake, but only if it's deepest darkest chocolate. And then only a little bit.
D-Drink of choice:
Wine. Or single malt. (we are talking alcohol, aren't we?)
E-Essential thing used everyday:
Spectacles.
F-Favourite colour:
Pink! Pink! Did you doubt it?
G-Gummi bears or worms:
Worms. Nobody loves me, every HATES me, I'm going to eat some wer-er-erms.
H-Hometown:
Hyderabad. How halliterative his that?
I-Indulgence:
Books. I buy 'em even when I Can't afford 'em.
J-January or February:
February. Lovely, lovely month. And it passes so quickly.
K-Kids and names:
erm...what? What about them?
L-Life:
The Universe. And Everything. Including salmons of doubt every now and again, when the restaurant at the end of the universe shows no signs of service, mostly harmless or otherwise.
M-Marriage date:
Can I give my divorce date first? Working, like, in reverse order?
N-Number of siblings:
0
O-Oranges or apples:
Apples.
P-Phobias:
Rats.
Q-Quote:
Misquote"
R-Reason to smile:
That another day's done. Sufficient unto the day and all that.
S-Season:
When it's summer I want the rains. When it's the rains I want the winter sun. When it's winter in Hyderabad, I'm happy. Everywhere else I'd want summer again.
T-Tag three people:
Oops. Ought I to go back and strike out all that I said?
Now who have I not tagged? Gah. I hate tags. Ok, here goes:
Mukul. Ludwig. Szerelem.
U-Unknown fact about me:
Who knows? It's kept its secret really well.
V-Vegetable you do not like:
Can't think of any. I like all vegetables. Even karela.
W-Worst habit:
Biting the skin off my fingers. The nails disappeared a long time ago.
X-x-rays you have had:
When my collar bone broke, ditto my right hand; ditto my left foot; a tooth; lungs.
Y-Your favorite food:
To the exclusion of all else? Nothing especially. I'm not a foodie.
Z-Zodiac:
Aries.
I now feel like a celebrity who's been interviewed for the books page of The Asian Age.
First of all, I have to say how mysterious this tag is. It appears that one should not mention the people who're being tagged. Instead, one goes to the blog of the victim, um, that - and leaves a comment on a post, any post. One also takes care that no other tags are taken up on one's own blog in the meanwhile, so that when one of the tagees come to see what they've been tagged with, they don't add confusion to the mix of emotions that are roiling in their breasts.
But Dipali has tagged me and I'm being ungracious, so ignore all snarkiness and go on to the main stuff.
Okay, so this tag. I apparently have to answer 26 questions. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to compose each question with one letter of the alphabet. So in celebration of which, here goes (I haven't actually read any of the questions, but I'm going to answer them as if this was some kind of personality test thingy and I have to say the first thing that comes into my head):
A -Available?
For what?
B-Best friend:
These days, it'd have to be the comp, no? How paavam am I?
C-Cake or Pie?
Cake, but only if it's deepest darkest chocolate. And then only a little bit.
D-Drink of choice:
Wine. Or single malt. (we are talking alcohol, aren't we?)
E-Essential thing used everyday:
Spectacles.
F-Favourite colour:
Pink! Pink! Did you doubt it?
G-Gummi bears or worms:
Worms. Nobody loves me, every HATES me, I'm going to eat some wer-er-erms.
H-Hometown:
Hyderabad. How halliterative his that?
I-Indulgence:
Books. I buy 'em even when I Can't afford 'em.
J-January or February:
February. Lovely, lovely month. And it passes so quickly.
K-Kids and names:
erm...what? What about them?
L-Life:
The Universe. And Everything. Including salmons of doubt every now and again, when the restaurant at the end of the universe shows no signs of service, mostly harmless or otherwise.
M-Marriage date:
Can I give my divorce date first? Working, like, in reverse order?
N-Number of siblings:
0
O-Oranges or apples:
Apples.
P-Phobias:
Rats.
Q-Quote:
Misquote"
R-Reason to smile:
That another day's done. Sufficient unto the day and all that.
S-Season:
When it's summer I want the rains. When it's the rains I want the winter sun. When it's winter in Hyderabad, I'm happy. Everywhere else I'd want summer again.
T-Tag three people:
Oops. Ought I to go back and strike out all that I said?
Now who have I not tagged? Gah. I hate tags. Ok, here goes:
Mukul. Ludwig. Szerelem.
U-Unknown fact about me:
Who knows? It's kept its secret really well.
V-Vegetable you do not like:
Can't think of any. I like all vegetables. Even karela.
W-Worst habit:
Biting the skin off my fingers. The nails disappeared a long time ago.
X-x-rays you have had:
When my collar bone broke, ditto my right hand; ditto my left foot; a tooth; lungs.
Y-Your favorite food:
To the exclusion of all else? Nothing especially. I'm not a foodie.
Z-Zodiac:
Aries.
I now feel like a celebrity who's been interviewed for the books page of The Asian Age.
Grandma's stellar advice
The Deccan Chronicle runs a weekly column that is not so much agony aunt as agony grandmother. The questions more often than not have to do with marriage trouble and the answers are mostly conservative and pretty much what you'd expect from a grandma stereotype: with emphasis on 'family values' and not rocking the boat.
Today's column, however just tipped that steady boat from inoffensive to obnoxious:
Oh, you know what the most ironic thing is? The header for this piece is called: Tips For A Happy Marriage.
Today's column, however just tipped that steady boat from inoffensive to obnoxious:
Q: I am a 26-year-old married woman. My marriage was arranged with my husband last April and I have not been in a happy state since then. His family had lied to us about his educational qualifications. While I was told that he is an MBA, my husband is a B.SC graduate. Further, my in-laws had told us that he earns Rs 25,000 but in reality he earns only Rs 10,000 per month. My husband has a tendency to lie and has even attempted to beat me when he gets angry. I am currently five months pregnant. I don’t want to live with him and yet when I think about my unborn child’s future, I’m not certain about divorcing my husband. Please advice.
Young lady,
A: It is unfortunate that your in-laws lied to you about your husband’s qualifications and salary. You are justified in feeling cheated. But having said that let me assure you that qualifications alone do not guarantee success or money in life. It also depends on an individual’s aptitude level and capacity for hard work. While I do understand your feelings of betrayal, it would be prudent on your part to handle the situation wisely now that you are pregnant.
You say your husband has attempted to raise his hand on you, while I definitely don’t condone his behaviour, are you sure you are not provoking him by making constant digs at his degree or salary? Perhaps, your condescending attitude is getting him on the defensive and forcing him to lie to you. Why don’t you try changing your approach by being more tolerant and accepting? If he is a decent guy he will definitely change his stance. Give it your best shot and see if things work out for the two of you. Sometimes, things do get sorted out with time.
(all emphases in the 'answer' mine).
I don't know which part makes me most annoyed. This thing about 'provoking' men to bad behaviour of all kinds is unfortunately too prevalent to be dismissed or laughed off or justified by pointing out to her face-saving 'I do not condone' line. When members of the judiciary and other persons who ought to know better say the same thing, this is par for the course. It is still outrageous.
And we're talking about someone who lied about qualifications, salary and who beats/threatens to beat his wife. There's still room for doubt about whether the guy's 'decent'?
What the fuck?Oh, you know what the most ironic thing is? The header for this piece is called: Tips For A Happy Marriage.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Castro's Tears
So Castro, with a fine disregard for round numbers, has stepped down.
There's no time like now to tell you about this wonderful film called Castro's Tears: in which Theo, a lefty oddball who collects the bodily fluids of his political heroes, goes to Cuba in search of something of Castro's that he can collect. Not buttons or flakes of dandruff, you understand, but fluids.
In his attempts to get to at least one meeting that Castro will be attending, Theo and his film crew land up at ICAIC (for permissions); consult a local santera to find out if they will succeed; and finally lay their hands on a drop or two of Castro's tears.
All faux but great fun. It's an old film, but don't let that stop you from watching it if you can.
There's no time like now to tell you about this wonderful film called Castro's Tears: in which Theo, a lefty oddball who collects the bodily fluids of his political heroes, goes to Cuba in search of something of Castro's that he can collect. Not buttons or flakes of dandruff, you understand, but fluids.
In his attempts to get to at least one meeting that Castro will be attending, Theo and his film crew land up at ICAIC (for permissions); consult a local santera to find out if they will succeed; and finally lay their hands on a drop or two of Castro's tears.
All faux but great fun. It's an old film, but don't let that stop you from watching it if you can.
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