Monthly Archives: January 2013

Doubt Clearing, Egos and Book Therapy

From what I have seen, there’s something we’re all obsessed with and before you go there, its not sex. We all want to belong and at the same time, we want to be special. I want to be special. I want to be special to myself, and I also want to be special to the psychiatric wards at all hospitals. I would also settle for being special for people I consider to be an important part of my everyday life. When I think about people on at least a weekly basis, and I don’t think twice about doing something for them, and saying nice things to them while I’m drunk, I would very much like those people to think of me as someone special. Its about the same logic as “Unforgettable” which not coincidentally, is one of my favorite songs.

We all want to be liked by the people we like, right? And I think at some level, all of us are afraid that it’s a trick – that you’re one of the unfortunate people whom friends talk about behind your back. That one day, you’re going to turn a corner and everybody is going to be there, like its an intervention, and it begins with, “We’re all here because we abhor you and think you should stop trying to do anything.” At least I feel that way sometimes, and Charlie McDonnell and Michael Aranda and Hank Green, all assure me that its not an abnormal feeling. That doubt is a part of the lifelong process of creating yourself from scratch every day, every week, year after year, with person after person. But then, I suppose when you really get down to it, this idea of everyone you give two fucks about dispassionately informing you of their indifference and their loathing is one of the doubts with a capital D. As far as I’m concerned, the only doubt bigger than that one is my own massive doubts about my capabilities.

To wit, I will be figuring out as I write about the many neuroses I have. I will intersperse this with neuroses I believe other people have more than me. You can play a guessing game and figure out who has the most acute case of each of these. This way, you can follow my example in not ending up in the green pastures of insanity, and merely have a rest stop in the hills of absurdity. I know you’re at the edge of your seat with excitement. You should take a Xanax. I’m watching Silver Linings Playbook as I write.

The first major fear is of course the one I spoke of just now. The fear that everyone I like will one day turn around and inform me that what we had is not really worth any time and they don’t really care. For the few friends who do read this blog, let me assure you, this has nothing to do with you. As with most problems that concern me, this is all about me. I have this fear from early adolescence. I think everyone does – I just have a bit of it left over. Don’t get me wrong, its not something I worry about every day. More like on a quarterly basis, or around times when I feel useless and I subconsciously project that onto other people.

I deal with this by remembering all the times I have been an asshole to my friends. This makes me feel better because it reminds me that my friends have stuck around when I’ve been a huge pain, so logically they would probably stick around for normal days when the only thing wrong is that the moon is in the wrong place in the sky. Or that you feel like an ugly person. Another thing that helps in this situation is this thing called sleeping. Self doubt is self doubt, but doubting your friends usually comes around when la vie is not en rose (I know that’s probably incorrect usage – blogger’s poetic license to desecrate languages) and you really need some serotonin. Also, watching Grey’s Anatomy and crying deeply helps.

Chop chop to the next neuroses – fear that all people I come in contact with can see through bravado into the part that makes me want to curl up in the fetal position sometimes. This of course has a lot to do with career plans. I am very afraid of what will happen what with unconventional and risky career choices and sometimes the fear is a bit paralyzing. It’s nothing like the fear of not knowing what you want to do when everyone else seems to, but still pretty bad. Add to that the people who seem to think you have it together, and the fear that they will find out how afraid you are is a pretty toilet feeling. One way of dealing with this is to be loud mouthed and vocal. Pretend you have it covered and that you’re never afraid. Make sure everyone notices you as you do things that exhibit very clearly that you don’t care, you’re not afraid and you have everything under control.

While there is some merit in this strategy, it could backfire very easily if one is surrounded by people who are able to observe you for more than two days. After two days, if you’re still too loud and obnoxious, people in their amateur shrink ways will know you’re full of shit. I recommend a different strategy to get through this – ignore it, keep working at what you have to work at, and tell jokes about the fear. It helps because then people know it exists, you don’t have to hide it, and you’re not deluding yourself into believing that people can’t see you’re nervous. My personal favorite is – “I’m meant to be poor. It’s practically a requirement in my future career as ‘struggling writer’”.

I’m constantly afraid someone will find out when I’m going commando. Its something I do every now and then to take the edge off. Underwear is restraining and sort of purposeless if you’re twenty two and have some basic hygiene. I recommend a long loose sweatshirt for this.

I’m afraid people will find out about white lies I have told in the past, whether its in exaggerating stories or lies I told to excuse myself, including but not limited to – “My parents refused to let me”, “No, I’m sure he’s a nice person”, “Sure, I like your boyfriend”, “I can see why other people are friends with him/ her”, “I read that book”, “I have to go because I have to go pee”, “I don’t really care”, “I don’t like porn”, “I’m sick so I can’t do that”, “No, I never fantasized about that”.

For this, there is nothing you can do. You can not lie as much, but that’s just crazy. If and when shit hits the fan with one or more of these lies, the best thing to do would be to own up and immediately apologize if need be. Or you could make up an even more elaborate lie.

I’m afraid I’m not as smart as I’d like to be. One day, I’ll realize that all the things I have cultivated and trained my brain to be good at are useless, a sham. Even worse, that the things I think my brain is actually good at, its not really good at. Which basically puts my whole existence and perception of myself into question. The way I deal with this is to read a book.

In this unfortunate and unimaginative world, people ask me only too often why I read books. The answer I came up with recently was taken from Paths of Glory – because it’s there. But it’s a bit more than that. I read because when I read, I understand more about anything and everything than when I listen to someone speak. When I read, I understand the significance of my life and the insignificance of it in the measure of billions of years of lives lived.

Reading means that I find out how people thousands of years before now thought and felt and did things like I did, and it also means I find out what is unique about me. Reading means I find information and it also means I find people, even those who are not real or dead and buried, who felt like me and thought like me and made the same mistakes as I did – which means that I’m not alone. Which means that I’m only as smart or as dumb as anyone else and I really don’t have to be afraid. Really, reading a good book or watching a good movie is a solution to all neuroses.

Also, there’s alcohol. And music.


I finished Silver Linings Playbook. The strangest thing about that movie is that I can’t find anything wrong with it and I want to watch it again and again. Note that I didn’t say it’s an excellent movie and I loved it and it gave me goosebumps at times, which is what I say about Les Miserables. I liked watching Silver Linings Playbook and there was no part of it that I didn’t like. This has never happened before.

I’m currently reading a really old copy of O. Henry’s short stories. It smells amazing. I also love how there are some lines in stories that you know are going to be special – “It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.”


I may not be able to write something tomorrow. I’m dull and bored.

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Posted by on January 25, 2013 in Bakchodi


Cleavage, Bootybreaks and Sessuality

The reasons for writing this blog – (1) The subject came up; and (b) My bossy friend (who will live a long life) suggested I may be good at deconstructing sexuality. Also, the title may be misleading you pervs.

Last night was one of the good nights with friends. It was one of those nights where you sit around and talk and joke and everybody’s in sync with everybody. Punchline follows punchline at the speed of sound and by the end you’re falling off beds laughing and getting yelled at by neighbors. And you didn’t even need alcohol before you laughed so much you nearly peed. So of course in the midst of this discussion, the subject of boobs (brreasts! – Jeff) came up, as they do in all girls hostel conversations. I am not making this up – they do come up every now and then.

Which got M and S and everyone else talking about the possible pornographic implications of me talking about bra shopping on the web, where men presumably read about it. I personally did not think of it as something gratuitous and don’t really care if others do. We did however end up taking a picture of me right after I got a champi so my already shabby, in-between hair looks like a chipmunk on my head. We believe that if I were to post said picture on this blog, it would be a boner killer bar none. Coming back on point, it got me wondering about the lines between storytelling/ word-vomiting-about-your-personal-life and pornography; and how much responsibility an author (Yours truly. That’s right, I’m an ‘author’ for the purposes of this post, bitchas) would have. And as you whores already know, I have a slip of paper from all of my gay/bi and/or promiscuous friends that qualifies me, in an academic capacity, to talk about sexuality and expressions of sexuality. I keep it in my cupboard next to the thing that qualifies me to say “You can suck my dick, asshole!”

And as usual here’s the disclaimer before I approach a potentially dicey subject – I consider myself a feminist (The way I define feminist is none of your business. Ok maybe, but that’s for another post, about two years after I run out of other things to talk about), and therefore will probably be coming at this topic with prior knowledge and literature that is largely from a feminist perspective. I have tried to get myself acquainted with opposing viewpoints as well, but clearly not as enthusiastically. I will try to be reasonable/ fair. If I’m not its too bad, and you can go fuck yourself because its my blog, comprende?

I begin with a few situations.

I write about bra shopping. It’s a rather fluffy piece of writing that has more to do with the difficulties of engaging in conversations with the shop girls and the problems of trying out the bras when you have four layers of clothing on. Very little mention is made of breasts themselves and only where it qualifies and explains the irritating banality that is bra shopping for a minimalist shopper. I have no idea if this is the sort of thing that gets men off. I personally doubt it, if for no other reason than the fact that with most men, actual images of breasts are a few clicks of the mouse away. If you need my blog about comfortable underwear to get you off you clearly haven’t explored the internet properly.

On the other hand, if for some twisted reason said post does give you a boner (or get you wet – I didn’t get that nod from my LGBT and horny off their minds friends by ignoring the possibility of lesbots liking my blogs) how much of that boner am I responsible for? Am I responsible for it at all considering the fact that the sight of a bra strap can set some men off? And more importantly, am I expected to censor myself in order to avoid being labeled a pornographer/ writer of erotic realities? And am I expected to stop writing about stuff like that because it may give someone a boner and that’s not considered acceptable behavior/ writing on my part?

God knows the internet/ wordpress seems to think I will be only too interested in pornography – most of the computer generated spam comments I get are from sites called gratis-sex or something like that. Not that there’s anything wrong with pornography – there’s just something a bit wrong with labeling something to be nearly pornography when its not, because the leeway and qualifiers for both are different. Its like how one shouldn’t call a science fiction novel a religious text, because it just doesn’t make sense, and nobody would ever do that, right?

Here’s another nail biter. If a friend of mine wears something that shows a certain amount of mammaries (I’m not being pornographic – I’m using the term Howard Hughes did in The Aviator), disregarding any opinions one might have on the aesthetics thereof, what – if any – amount of concern is appropriate for other people to express when it comes to ogling? Does she (or he – I didn’t get that nod from aforementioned friends by ignoring body types either) have to necessarily be held responsible for any and all boners/ wetness this may cause? If so, is she expected to be ashamed of it or embarrassed by it? Nothing wrong if she is, but if she isn’t, is it expected of her to act and adjust herself accordingly? And taking that one step further, how much care should be given to the concerns of her significant other with regard to said boners/ wetness?

What I’m going to do is try to look at this from the perspective of someone who does get a boner/ wet because of something presumably unintentional done or said by someone else. It makes this more coherent and clarifies my train of thought.

What I find to be arousing on the internet would have to be straight up erotica or erotic fanfiction about Rochester and Jane, Jayne and River (see what I did there?) and others. Also, please don’t judge – I can’t help the Jayne and River thing. But this is porn. The people who write this intend it to be pornographic. So I guess I can’t do the reader’s perspective well. Whatte fail. I should just explain myself – I don’t think writing about changing rooms and underwear shopping is tantamount to pornography. And I don’t feel embarrassed by it. If people do get horny about it, well good for them, but its none of my concern or business. For the record I want to say I don’t intend it to be pornographic and that I will be very surprised indeed if it actually does get people horny. This may just be something my friends tease me with. But it makes a good, personal-story style intro into the subject and I’m just a whore for that shit.

I can talk about the viewer/ reader’s perspective when it comes to the whole checking out/ ogling problem. When I check out a man, my internal monologue is as follows – “Fuck, that guy is working it! He should wear that shit more often. No intense staring Billy, just watch by flitting your eyes in that direction every ten seconds or so. Damn! That boy should know better.”

Admittedly, my monologue does ascribe some responsibility on the guy by its very language. On the other hand, I have never been caught staring or even looking. Also on the other hand, I don’t think that the guy is somehow to blame for my thoughts. I don’t see the logic behind finding someone hot and then expecting them to do something to avoid being found hot. To begin with, I don’t consider the fact that I found someone hot a shameful one. I don’t have to ascribe any responsibility to them. I’m quite comfortable with and a wee proud of the fact that I am a green blooded female and I know where my sexual tastes lie. As far as I’m concerned nobody else is bothered by it and frankly, its nobody else’s business unless I choose to tell them over a few beers. And I definitely don’t think that the guy should feel uncomfortable with his expression of himself through clothes or the lack thereof simply because I find it appealing. If on the other hand, he does feel uncomfortable, I am subtle for a reason. I may take a booty-break in the library but I don’t ogle at real live men.

I guess it will be too ‘feminist’ for you motherfuckers if I say that you can’t define what this guy or my friend (who in this situation is a female, really) should feel about other people sexualizing them, but more often than not, my friend will be expected to feel bad about it, and consequently feel responsible for whatever ogling or more she has to deal with, and the guy will be expected to feel proud of it. Neither expectation is a reasonable one to place. One’s own expression of self image and sexuality should ideally not be subject to that of others. Responsibility for boners/ wetness should ideally and logically lie with the getters of the boners/ wetness; not with the objects of sexual attraction and definitely not with anyone else.

And this brings me to the diceyness of the issue. A batch-mate of mine who likes picking arguments mentioned that while he doesn’t want to dictate what girls wear, he still thinks it’s a ridiculous idea to wear short clothes in areas where you may get ogled at, eve-teased or worse. This was in the context of a conversation about the rape. Our response – “We know you just want to pick an argument, but really, none of us are going to take the bait. And you should seriously shut the fuck up before we are inclined to.”

My batch-mate (who I sincerely believe/ know was playing Devil’s Advocate just to get a response) let the subject go with “You wouldn’t go into a battlefield without a helmet.” Our response was “It’s not supposed to be a battlefield! Our problem is with the fact that such an analogy can even be drawn. You walk into a battle voluntarily. We don’t want to walk into the street thinking of it as a battlefield just because our genitals don’t hang.”

After a few beers I explained to the guy that the problem was not so much the fact that he thought it wasn’t safe. We all agree its not the safest decision we can make to walk around in Shameerpet (that’s the hamlet where our campus is nestled) in short shorts.

The problem with saying that it’s idiotic is simply that half a millimeter past that concern is the idea that a bad decision to wear said clothes makes one responsible for any unwelcome sexual accosting. And a little further down that line of argument is the idea that men are driven by their hanging genitals and therefore cannot be held responsible once a certain amount of skin is exposed. And thus begins the argument of contributory negligence in rape, which is as unreasonable and logically ill-founded as any of the threads of argument leading up to it. I hope that was made clear with this…

Is this too feminist? I don’t think you have to consider yourself a feminist before you disagree with people about whether a girl was “asking for it.”


In other news, I have found people with whom to fangirl over the Lizzie Bennett Diaries with. This is good for me because I really need a buddy for this or I’m very likely going to bite my knuckles till they bleed.

Also in other news, I will be going to Vizag and all warnings are welcome because whenever someone warns us about where we’re going we invariably have a good time.

Oh, and this is a bootybreak, for those who don’t know – Earphones are reccommended in the library and other public places. I like the guy in the formal clothes. He is surprisingly enthusiastic.


– Billy

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Posted by on January 19, 2013 in Bakchodi


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Why I have a shitty law school career

It’s because I don’t study. And when I do, I am so unused to studying, my brain retains nothing. It can remember things such as “Laughter, like love, is stronger than death” – an obscure line from The Cardinal Sins (a book which made me realize that not all catholic priests are diekholders), but it cannot remember Section whatever of the Companies Act, or Section some-other-number of the Workmen’s Compensation Act. I am not trying to hide behind my brain, believe me. I don’t have an actual mental problem. I am just supremely lazy when it comes to things that are not fun for me. It’s a shitty way to live for four years, and I don’t recommend it for anyone.

For what remains of law school, I will most likely have to give only one exam before I get out of here forever. And hopefully I will be able to take what seminar I like so that shouldn’t be a problem. In the meantime, I am sharing my average to above average knowledge of and immeasurable enthusiasm for literature with packs of second year students as a Teacher’s Assistant for a course called Law and Literature.

In some ways you could predict that this will end in naught but endless grief. Naught but grief! But the way I see it, I could either help a little or totally ruin some poor second year’s life via law and literature grades. And either way I’d be having fun so I’m cool with both likelihoods. Haha. Ha. Just kidding. I really don’t think I could ruin a life with Law and Literature. Hehe. Seriously though, I only want to help mold the mind of the next Chetan Bhagat.

Getting back on point, I also have shitty grade because I really don’t try. I didn’t like law school much as an institution a few months into it and I didn’t try, at least subconsciously. To be really honest, I didn’t like the institution form the moment I sat in a classroom where a senior was introducing us to the concept of mooting and the first words out of his mouth was – “If you want to be anyone of significance in NALSAR, you have to moot.”

Don’t get me wrong. I know that’s not true. I knew even back then that the guy was talking out of his colon. But I hated the institution and the people in it for thinking that this was the right guy to introduce first years to any extra curricular activity. I didn’t like NALSAR as much as I had thought I would. Except for friends, I actively disliked it and that combined with a requirement of hard work did not do me good. No sir. Again, this was entirely on me. I had high expectations and when they got blown to smithereens, instead of taking it like an amazon warrior I just retreated into TV, movies and the personal lives of other people.

The thing I most regret about this stage of my law school pussyfooting is that I stopped reading. The one thing that kept me sane through a good three years of hellish adolescence and I just left it. It was as though I decided that if I wasn’t going to be good at reading required readings, I wouldn’t be good at any reading. For anyone who knows me or has seen me in the past year or two, it would be hard to think of me without a book. That was me for the first three years in law school. The horror!

Another reason for the shitty grades was of course, that I am very lazy.

I also got shitty grades – and this is the only place where I will concede some responsibility to “the system” – is that I’m not good at memorizing dates, numbers, names, etc. So you can imagine the hellscape that remembering more than seventy sections was to me. Add to that case names and the importance given to remembering sections and dates, and it was like struggling with my seven times tables again. I don’t often admit it, but it took me at least two to three years to memorize multiplication tables up to ten. Up to five was only marginally easier. Once I had memorized the tables, math wasn’t as big a problem as it used to be.

Also, the laziness was a huge impairment to the getting of good grades.

Another mistake was going off acceptable standards on unhealthy lifestyles. I ate a lot more than I ever did and I wasted a lot of time being fat (heheheheheh. Whats-her-name lip biting woman from Dabangg can eat my poo and fucking die), and I hardly ever slept enough at night. I normally got to classes on time but I did spend quite some time either sleeping or using all of my energy to not sleep. the fact that whatever was being said/ taught in class was boring as dead babies only added to the sleepiness. I always say that if ever you have to live an unhealthy lifestyle, it might as well be in college. But I could also add that when it starts to make concentrating on anything substantial hard, its a wee bit too far.

Of course, we shouldn’t forget that sloth is my middle name/

Then of course there was the really depressed stage of life which I have already talked about in the blog titled “Perspective…” – I forgot the rest of the title. I I have to write that shit again I will have to drink Sangria.

ME: And again, cue uncomfortable fake laughter…

I will add this much though. One of the saddest part of that whole situation was that I stopped talking to myself. I know most people consider talking to oneself as not very healthy, but let me assure you, if I didn’t talk to myself, I would go quite mad. If I didn’t talk to myself, all the things I imagine and all the weird thoughts popping into my head would have no release.

Of course, the lazy did as the lazy had to do too….

The I got better at dealing with myself. Nothing to take away from the damage done over the years, but I started writing and figuring out what to do. And people seem to like reading this crap especially when I talk about the nonsense of my life. So I may not live a life worth writing about but my depressingly comic take on myself sure may make it worth reading about.

And adieu!

– Billy

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Posted by on January 17, 2013 in Bakchodi, Random, Reminiscing


Just by the way

I have a friend who is in my opinion one of the most successfully bossy people in the world. She has somehow used the force on me and now it’s all “These are not the droids we’re looking for.” Well, in the context of this blog, she’s making me say the following – I will be posting twice a week instead of once. This is despite me assuring her that my barrel of acceptable embarrassing secrets to reveal is nearing its end. Why else would I publish that turd of a post last week? But no, I could make up the embarrassing secrets for all she cares. So this is me, saying I will be posting twice a week.

That’s all



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Posted by on January 17, 2013 in Bakchodi


Make Up your face

Many things have changed in the last few days. I went on an alcohol fueled rampage for the latter four, that made me mean, honest and shy in quick successions. Somehow when I wake up each morning, one of these feelings would remain. Coated over by the gloss that alcohol leaves on my skin. I have also started doing the Teacher’s Assistant thing which is making me question my existence in many ways. I always thought ensuring minimal interaction with society was one of the hallmarks of my character, my innermost self. And yet, I find myself not entirely disliking teaching, if you can call it that. No wonder I need alcohol to find clarity.

I have also let what miniscule success this blog has afforded me, go to my head and have invested in a book called “Social Niceties for Dummies” which is painstakingly informing me about when I should say “Thank you”, “Sorry” and “I don’t like you”. Apparently, the first you say when someone says something sort of nice about you. The “sorry” thing you say when you feel you’ve done something wrong or if someone is harmed because of you. And the “I don’t like you” part you say never, no matter how true it may be; though if in the oft confusing world of alcohol one does end up saying it, one must try and restrict it to once, followed by a “sorry”, which we have discussed previously. As I mentioned, the apparent popularity of this stuff among denizens of the Boys Hostel (at least from what I had heard) my friends (who shall remain unidentified) suggested I write a blog comparing the size of melons in the girls hostel. But I always thought melons are a gratuitous fruit, and I personally don’t stand for them in art, so I will leave that for a day when I have nothing better to talk about. Instead, I will be writing about things less than melons.

One of the oddest things about being female is how much of your behavior people attribute to other people. This is irritating because people don’t seem to understand exactly how self-oriented and self-involved most of the things we do are, and this includes the girly ones. Getting the pleasure out of life is one of the foremost things on our minds, and for a lot of us, including me, pleasure has a lot to do with our physical selves. And thus goes the first paragraph introducing you suckers to the idea of make-up and wardrobe – it is an exercise in self indulgence and a cyclical, beautiful process of self loathing and confidence.

“One of those days” with any inflection are the ones that require make-up as far as I’m concerned. One of those days is those days when you wake up and all you can think about is the crap that will be the rest of the day. Its the days when you get up and instead of the strategically placed Johnny Depp poster beside your head, you see the face of your biggest mistake in your mind. When the blanket is too warm and the outside is too cold, literally and metaphorically.

On “one of those days” of this type, I drag my fat ass out of bed and go defecate in the toilet, having forgotten to bring my mobile along for company. And then I brush my teeth enough for my toothbrush to feel violated and put on my lenses, which will take me at least three tries, because it’s one of those days. And then I look at my closet and find something I know I look pretty good in, put it on and go to the mirror. Here, I make sure every hair is in place, or in the case of stray eyebrow hair or errant chin hair, not in place.

It’s time to put on the war paint. Cold cream goes first – dab all over the face to try and soften up that hide you call your skin. Then you put on the Kajal – its forms a rim around your eyes – this will make them seem brown instead of what they really are this morning – the endless depths of Tartarus. Then you pick up the Eye liner. This will go on your eyelids – one thin line at a time, till about a quarter of your lid is black paint. This will help disguise any instinct you have to cry over the course of what is going to be a turd of a day. This is because no matter how much you want to cry, you will not be the girl with the streaks of cheap sixty buck eye-liner down her face. Then you lay on the lip balm/ gloss. Take that, you whore of baby lips, if you dare to get dry and flaky after breakfast, I will personally make sure I put a permanent smile on that ugly mug, a la Joker. Now you are prepared for the day. No matter how terrible things become, and no matter how much you want to bathe your insides throughout the day, you will at least look good. At least the face in the mirror won’t depress you any longer.

And yet, there are “One of those days” with an entirely different inflection. This is the day when the first thing your eyes see is the leather-bound copy of The Scarlet Letter, you smile automatically, turn your head and see the strategically placed poster of Johnny Depp. Your day is clearly going to make love to you like James Kellern made love to Ellie in the very first M&B you read – with wild abandon at times, and with languorous yet strong strokes at others. You get out of bed and go to the toilet. Is it just you or does your shit smell of sunshine and recently bathed puppies? Nah, it has to be you. You go to brush your teeth and holy god, is that you in the mirror? Even with foam in your mouth, you look beautiful! Your skin has a glow that usually takes about half an hour of exercise followed by a certain amount of exfoliating. Your lips have managed to acquire the exact shade of pink that suits your complexion. So you go to your closet and you pick out the piece of clothing you saw one day in passing and knew you had to have. You go to the mirror put on the Kajal. Because while our eyes are already the stuff of legends this fine morning, they could be even warmer. You paint on the eye liner because at times during the day, you know you will look at reflective surfaces and if your eyes look big enough you will share a look of inside jokes with your reflection. You pause to think about this and wonder if sharing private jokes with your reflection could be a symptom of some form of madness. Never mind, at least its one of those days. Those days when everything, absolutely everything is going to go great.

I personally find it a fun activity to wonder if a girl who seems to be wearing a special piece of clothing, a little more make up than usual, or even just unusually intricate shoes on a normal day, is doing so because she felt bad in the morning or good. Either way, one of the few things I truly enjoy about being a girl is the fact that there are so many things at our disposal for us to control the “Feel good, look good, feel good” cycle.

Goodbye male readers. See you next week, when I talk about who makes out with who in the Girls Hostel. And also, melons.

ME: This is not very good.

me: Yeah well, I had nothing else to write about. I was hoping something would turn up but we can’t always get what we want.

ME: I want to stone you with a million tiny stones.

me: …….


– Billy

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Posted by on January 12, 2013 in Bakchodi


Horrible things and all of us

I leave for law school tonight for the last time. I have some stuff to understand and  I will try to do it as coherently as possible. Maybe it won’t suck.

The rape incident and the protests. I would love to live in a world where horrifying things did not happen to people. Personally, I would even settle for being of an age and disposition where I cried about this; because I have cried about things like rape, molestation, eve-teasing and all of the above in the past. There was a time when I felt that much. Now, I feel bad and I can’t seem to separate the bad feeling from this, from the bad feeling I get from every other crappy thing that happens in the world.

The way I seem to be looking at this is as a bucket (not a drop) of dreadfulness in an Olympic size swimming pool (not an ocean) of horrifying things. And that is not good, because it takes away from exactly how dreadful something like this is, no matter what scale you use or what you compare it against. Having admitted to my own limited emotional and mental limitations, I will try and overcome them when talking about this. If I don’t succeed, I apologize in advance.

I am not a big fan of most protests. I don’t understand what they want, especially when the participants live in a certain comfort. I’m not saying they don’t have a right to for better things. I mean that the way most protests go, it always ends up looking like a demand for near anarchy or an utter loss of democracy and due process. And while anarchy is an understandable goal for someone who doesn’t live in the cocoon of a well to do society, it is a puzzling one for those who do.

I personally don’t abhor the death penalty at a certain level. Some people deserve to die. Some people deserve to be killed by a cold, cruel hand dealt methodically by the over-reaching hand of what we call the state. And there are a lot of these people. Child molesters, certain murderers and people who speak in the theatre (I couldn’t resist slipping that in, browncoats). But the people who get the death penalty when its dealt forth by the hand of “public opinion” are often not those who deserve so utterly, to die. Make no mistake, if it were left to me and the world was in my control and I could oversee everything that happened in it, I would not hesitate to give a death sentence in this case. Fundamentally, I think they should be dead. But that is the kind of opinion I would stick with if I hadn’t gone to law school and if I was still eighteen.

Violence against women will not be contained by the death penalty; at least not enough to justify it. It would be if it was an unusual or unacceptable practice. But the problem is that when it comes to permissibility of violence against women, we need only look at the mirror to find the guilty. Here is the actual extent of dreadfulness, the whole picture – rape happens every day, more times than we want to think about, and I know others have said it before, but the reason is simply that we haven’t actually rejected it from society. We have allowed the sexuality of women to be the subject of our derision, our opinions and our property, and in doing so we have permitted it to be subject to our anger, our frustration and our sense of duty or honor.

The reason I can’t get behind death penalty for rape is because I know of families and friends and groups of young people who don’t think too much about honor killings in their vicinity. Everybody knows people who think its alright to eve tease. And you can say its just expressing yourself and at a certain level its harmless. But you don’t express yourself so honestly when a beefed up guy cuts in line or when you are so irritated with your boss you want to tell them what you think of them. You don’t express yourself because you know its not acceptable. You express yourself to a woman on the street because you and everyone around you have made it acceptable. And so when one of your casual acquaintance who has a slight temper problem sees a girl alone at night, he would be justified in his twisted logic of thinking its acceptable to rape her, because how many times have you guys joked about it to women in the streets? It must be mildly acceptable if people can suggest sexualizing an unwilling participant so openly, right?

So when six people seem to get it into their heads that it is not a horrible thing to rape and torture a woman, they do deserve punishment. They deserve everything they get. But then you consider all the people who ‘lost their heads’ with a woman in the ‘heat of the moment’. You will find the number of people you are subjecting to the possibility of a death sentence is very high. And you may not want it when you think about the casual acquaintances, friends of friends, family members, neighbors who could ‘lose their heads with a woman in the heat of the moment’. I may be okay with executing them, but you may not be.

An eye for an eye is an extreme form of justice, one that not many people agree with. In fact I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that I think its very unpopular. And even that doesn’t allow for death penalty for rapists. In a perverse, entirely perfunctory and knee-jerk kind of way, I must say I don’t mind an eye for an eye method for rapists. But again, once you open that can of worms, it’s a bit hard to control it.

As for the protests, I don’t have a problem with people protesting. I must say I don’t know how it would help given that any changes or even an overhaul of the justice system or the law will not change the fact that people think its okay. That even if you don’t think its okay, you have no idea about how and where you may have given someone an idea that it is. I know it’s a far-fetched thought, and I actually have no fundamental problem with comedy or jokes, believe you me, but its an unfortunate reality that we have to face up to. I do understand why people protest. I understand that it is a legitimate expression of sentiment and frustration and anger. But its not for me personally.

I don’t have solutions for policy or compromise in law, but I do have an admittedly simple idea about what would actually help, though it would only take effect in the long run. Something as fundamental as a proper understanding of who is responsible for the sex of a feotus can actually affect the treatment of women. I could postulate from there to saying that a simple and entrenched understanding of gender equality and human sex and sexuality would be effective as well as long as it is successfully introduced into a mind to compete with bullshitty ‘traditional’ notions.

So there. I don’t agree with the death penalty because it doesn’t address the problem and it is a logistical nightmare. I understand why people protest, but I will not because its not my way. That’s all.


I will try to write another blog this week because I think this one has been a bit low on the fun quotient and I don’t like not having a fun blog.


That’s all.


Posted by on January 1, 2013 in Bakchodi