In Defence of Sidney

To Maggie, this in spite of myself!
To Samarth Chandola, the only one who believes the author is still alive!

“I just want to make you guys aware of other interpretations.”

Interpretations. Interrogations. Connotations. Analyses. Criticism.

Brrrrrr!

Why? Why do we always have to analyse, critically comment on, discuss with reference to the text every single piece of literature that we come across? Why! Why! WHY!

OK, I know I’m being too passionate, too warm for the cold, rational, balanced critic that I’m supposed to be, that of all of us Literature students are supposed to be. I know I’m letting my emotions unhinge me, that they’re making me narrow minded and with every passing alphabet clouding my judgement. I know too that you, you being the immaculate critic, just smirked maliciously at this and possibly dismissed this as the ravings of a completely deranged lunatic. Yeah, yeah, I know that.

But still, why?

Why can’t we for once let a work, or ‘text’ as we prefer calling it, be? Is it that big a crime to take things at their face value, to dismiss a complex derivation when a simple when will suffice?

“No, that cannot be!”, our critics will cry. It is the critic’s job to dispel illusions, to push back the boundaries of darkness and illumine reality with all its complex paraphernalia of layers and overtones and so on. To accept things as they are will be to give in to mortal temptation- that we cannot do; nay, we must constantly rise above and have nothing but the bare, stark, cold truth.

And when it comes to something as artificial as romantic sonnets, we certainly cannot do with anything else.

The way we critics rave and rant-hold your horses critical reader!-about interpretations and connotations and what not is enough to make me feel sorry for Sir Philip Sidney, the English Petrarch. Poor fellow painstakingly composed a series of 108 sonnets and 11 songs and what does posterity judge him as?

A clever versifier, a shrewd manipulator, an ambitious aristocrat...

Anything but a sorrowful lover.

History tells us that Sidney started writing Astrophil and Stella in 1581, after the marriage of his childhood love Penelope Devereux-whose father’s last wish too had been for her to marry him-to Lord Rich. Is it so very unnatural for a man to lament the marriage of his life-long beloved to another? For him to escape thus into fantasy with his grief and there attempt, as best as he could have, to express all the ramifications of his love in words? Consider the following…

“The first that straight my fancy’s error brings
Unto my mind is Stella’s image, wrought
By Love’s own self, but with so curious draught
That she, methinks, not only shines but sings.”

And these…

“True that on earth we are but pilgrims made
And should in soul up to our country move
True, yet true that I must Stella love.”

And these...

“Peace, foolish wit! with wit my wit is marr’d
Thus write I while I doubt to write and wreak
My harms in ink’s poor loss. Perhaps some find
Stella’s great powers that so confuse so my mind.”

And yet these…

“Then think, my dear, that you in me do read
Of lover’s ruin some thrice-sad tragedy
I am not I: pity the tale of me.”

And finally these…

“I call it praise to suffer tyranny;
And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make myself believe that all is well,
While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.”

Are these not brilliant professions of love, of devotion, even idolatry? Are not the lover’s pangs, his great sorrows and dilemmas patnelty visible? Is this not beautiful, uplifting, noble?

No, it’s all make believe, unreal, with dark, covert purposes. Sidney’s not really in love you know, he’s just pretending. He’s this cunning, foxy player of words, he’s lulling his readers into this fell trap of believing he’s madly and desperately in love- he’s actually projecting his own grand ambitions, he wants to impress everybody but Stella. Stella’s not even a real person- she’s many people: Penelope, the Queen, some unnamed Lady of the Court…in fact, she doesn’t even matter in these sonnets: she’s really more, much much more of an afterthought than a significant presence in the sonnets.

Bosh! If this be the truth, then I would rather believe in lies!

Yet, supposing all this were true, that Stella was just a medium through which Sidney-Astrophil was articulating his desires, his ruthless ambitions, supposing all of this was true, even then I would believe in what the critic decries as base illusions. Do not all of us need some sort of opium, some illusion, maya, to keep on living? Is truth really all that desirable? What would you rather have, a beautiful lie or a tormenting truth? Beauty, it must be remembered, lies in the yes of the beer-holder: not, certainly not, in the eyes of the cold, rational critic.

In any case, there is not value of Sidney’s sonnets today, some 500 years or so after they were composed. Yes, yes, one can glean out lots of socio-cultural stuff out of them, establish the position of women, find out the attitudes towards gender and ascertain a zillion such like fantastic things of topical interest from them. All that can be done, is done- it is the natural province of the insufferable busybody of a critic. To the normal student, the real charm, if any, of a work as artificial as romantic sonnets lies in its aesthetics, in the oh-so-romantic sensibilities which it expresses. Who has not dreamt of the knight in shinning armour, of the damsel in distress? Sure, patriarchy is bad and oppressive, but is one justified for being so when the same is so universal? Is one justified in condemning Sidney for being so when it was the only mode of being in existence?

As good old Mr Kitto said, to understand is not necessarily to forgive completely. Yet, one can still try and understand…

Teri Ma Ki: An Analysis of Common Swear Words

To You Know Who and would-be Bhaybheet’s father, thanking them for their valuable inputs.
To TVS R S: thanks for the encouragement!

The Compact Oxford English Dictionary defines the word ‘abuse’ as “insulting and offensive language” and the phrase ‘swear word’ as a “an offensive or obscene word”. In common parlance, a swear word is a ‘dirty word’, something odious and vulgar used to express anger, astonishment, shock and other such like extreme emotions; a medium of not just expression but also of pleasure, if on may say so, sadistic pleasure- of hurting people, of taking out one’s frustration by attempting to degrade somebody/thing else in a given socio-cultural context. It is a word which essentially evokes stock images and ideas: indeed, it’s very strength lies in hitting the receiver with very powerful sexual taboos and bamboozling him/her with great, onerous challenges, things in essence the cornerstones of society. A swear word is, therefore, extremely subversive, a sign of marked rebellion against established social norms and customs.

This paper will critically analyse five genres of the commonest Hindustani swear words in context of the socio-cultural make-up of Indian society so as to establish the same as a genre which subverts by direct attack at the fundamental constructs in a society as well as a set which reflects attitudes towards numerous contentious issues of topical interest. To do so, it will begin by ascertaining the nature of Indian society and then move on to discuss in separate sections the import of each of these terms with reference to their etymologies. It will conclude with an overview of the arguments so presented.

*

Indian society, to an overwhelmingly large extent, is patriarchal. Since the writer happens to be Indian and the readers, if any, too will be Indians, or at least those well acquainted with India, it will be not only redundant but also extremely tedious if a comprehensive description of Indian society is brought in this work. Yet, for purposes of this study, it will be useful if some salient features of this patriarchy were discussed briefly.

The father is undoubtedly the most important member of the family. The sole breadwinner, he is the solid bedrock upon which the entire family is built. The family, each of its members, derives expression, identity, from the central father figure: without him the whole structure breaks down, dissolves to nothingness. The honour of the family is reflected in his person and conduct; further, as the only link between the microcosmic family and the macrocosmic society, his role as the ‘protector’ is of prime importance.

The notion of honour, of course, is central to this analysis. The Hindustani word izzat, which is translated as “honour, respect or dignity” and hence means more or less the same thing, has various connotations. A man’s, and by extension his family’s, izzat is determined by numerous factors, most significantly by the izzat, or honour, of the women under his care. It is his sacred duty to protect and uphold the izzat of his womenfolk and it is his performance in this field, as a protector of his women from the sexual dangers outside the safety of the home in the wide world of men, which ultimately decides his mardangi, manliness, and establishes him as a mard, man, in society.

Hence, though ambiguous, honour, specifically men’s honour, can, and usually is, defined through the aforementioned parameters of chastity and conjugal faithfulness.

*

Let us now turn to our case studies. We will begin with one of the most elementary of all Hindustani swear words (hereafter referred to as gaalis)- haramzada.

This is a composite made of haram and zada; while the meaning of the latter is not very clear, some taking it as signalling agreement, the former refers undoubtedly to forbidden, sinful activities- things not exactly permissible in the normal framework of society. This comprises of a lot of things, including extramarital sex: the same is apparent from the connotations which the word harem brings to the mind. In fact, the word harmazada itself means progeny of an illicit sexual relationship, someone who in English is known as a bastard. To call somebody a haramzada is to question his/her (the female equivalent is haramzadi) parentage: specifically, to question the identity of his/her father. As children derive expression and identity from the father, this gaali, by effectively de-stabilising and jeopardising the same, seeks to establish a person as a social outcast, one who stands out as an ‘other’ in hordes of ‘acceptable’, ‘respectable’ people…

The very nature of haram makes it a convenient prefix for a number of other gaalis. Notable amongst these are haramkhor (one who refrains from doing what is right) and harami (an illegitimate child or one who refrains from what is acceptable), both of which attempt in their own ways to establish a person as an aberrant break-away in society and thus disorient by dislocation.

*

Other commonly used gaalis include kutta, saala, kameena, chutiya and thukai. The first of these means dog, the second brother-in-law, the next bastard, the fourth ignoramus and the last refers to violent sexual intercourse. As is apparent, the first two are more or less incongruous, with no evident reason for causing offence except for the fact that they are now part of genres of “obscene” language. However, the last three, with clear sexual implications, do have basis for causing offence and hence their presence in this study.

*

Next on the list is chode, taken unanimously to be the Hindustani equivalent of the English fuck. It, like fuck, refers to sexual intercourse in a derogatory sense, having more to so with sex that is the consequence of not love but lust. Forced sex and perversions, all of these come under the ambit of chode. Further, as for haram, the graphic universality of chode makes it a suitable descriptive suffix for numerous types of sexual intercourses, all of which, needless to say, fall outside the domain of accepted sexuality.

Chode usually refers to incestuous, extramarital or casual sexual intercourse: hence the gaalis bhainchode (one who has sex with his sister), machode (one who has sex with his mother), betichode (one who has sex with his daughter) and ladkichode (one who has illicit sex with a girl). The intention here is to establish a person as a licentious misfit with a dangerously aberrant sexuality, something which threatens the existing order of society. The fact that all of these gaalis are usually directed at men makes this genre all the more interesting as one which, by attempting to show the man disastrously incapable of performing his duty of upholding the existing moral codes of society, exploits fully the old motif of protector turned predator/assaulter. This further attempts to strengthen the ‘otherness’ of the unfortunate receiver, making him a creature who deliberately breaks one of the worst possible taboos for his own gratification.

*

While chode includes all types of sexual orientation under its ambit, there is another genre of gaalis that deals specifically with anal sex, something which, continuing from the nineteenth century, is widely held to be unnatural. Prominent amongst these are gaand marane aya hai, gaand sil de and gaand phat rahi he kya, both of which clearly have connotations related to anal sex. This, combined with the fact that these are generally used in context of male homosexual relationships, makes the two extremely loaded terms. All of this helps advance the aura of unnaturalness which these gaalis attempt to create.

*

Till now we had been considering genres of those gaalis which attempt to establish those at whom they are directed as deviants indulging in or party to some of the worst possible sexual taboos. We will now briefly consider those which directly attempt to undermine their honour by challenging their mardangi, i.e. their capacity to defend/protect the honour, izzat, of their womenfolk.

Popular amongst these are the fill-in-the-blank gaalis teri/uski ma ki… and teri/uski ma ki aankh[in this context vagina]…, both of which attempt to pose grave challenges to a man’s mardangi by threatening to violate the izzat of his mother, or mother-figure. For one, leaving the threat incomplete, by not mentioning what dire fate awaits the ma, heightens the sense of insecurity. Then, issuing such a threat, of the destruction of that cornerstone of familial and, by extension, social life- the sanctity of the mother, is in itself one of the gravest possible challenges to a man’s mardangi and therefore, to his izzat.

*

As these arguments conclusively establish, gaalis or swear words are essentially subversive terms which bring into public consciousness some of the fundamental taboos in a society and hence, by exploiting these fundamental fears, attempt to threaten the very fabric of that society. Not just that, by the very virtue of being exploitative, they also highlight attitudes towards, amongst other things, gender and sexuality and so provide valuable insights into the socio-cultural framework of a society.

Afterthoughts and Clarifications-

Being stuck on damn for quite some years and not in the mood to proceed, doing this was pretty difficult for me…in any case, since I have done this I intend to forget it. It’s quite a horrid thing!

To all those people who’re ready to condemn me to eternal damnation after reading my ‘description of the Indian society’- hold your horses/curses! I have described society as it is seen through the prism of conventionality: these do not happen to be my own views.

And yes, I know that nobody thinks of all of these things while swearing because unfortunately, that has become, and is increasingly becoming, quite an acceptable habit of so many people. Perhaps, though that’s not likely enough (yet there’s nothing wrong in being optimistic!), these will give them second thoughts…

In Guard of Honour

To Ananya Borgohain

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http://picasaweb.google.com/anubhav490/CommonwealthYouthRallyRamjasLeg#

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Life is so full of surprises. What is is not and what is not is. You never really know what you’ll come across at the next turn, what will pop up from the most unexpected corner…life is like that; that which you think you know can suddenly morph into something totally unfamiliar.

Which is exactly what happened to me and two other friends in the rehearsals for the Ramjas leg of the Youth Commonwealth Games rally.

Commonwealth Games. Splendid athletes. Noble personas. Exalted quarters. The Queen…

Abhimanyu, Ishaan and I, all three of us had found the idea of being Guard of Honour appealing. It had been on the grapevine for some days before it reached us and there was talk of a grand ceremony to welcome the delegates to Ramjas. The College needed volunteers to assist it in this very job, in making this “historical event” all the more historical, in a way, worthy of being historical. The Sports Department had issued an open invitation to all to “come and be part of this grand extravaganza”. After all, things like this don’t happen every other day in North Campus. It really was a historical event.

And we were to be a part of it.

Yes, a part of the grand extravaganza, a part of history. Our names would forever be there in the annals of history as worthy souls who answered the call, who made the making of history possible, who acted as Guards of Honour.

With eternal glory and posterity in our eyes we left the Canteen for the porch. A respectable crowd was already there- it was heartening to see other kindred spirits rising to the need of the hour. Very soon, the Sports Incharge descended into the crowd. A tall, stately figure, a firm, authoritative figure. All became silent as every eye went up expectantly to her. She began.

“You are all here to be part of history. We need volunteers to make this event a success. We need Guards of Honour…”

Guard of Honour. I heard not the rest of her speech, only the Guard of Honour part remains with me for with those very words I was transported by a flight of fancy to an old, bygone world. Would we be given swords and bayonets? What about uniforms? Would we be provided with the same of were we supposed to arrange them on our own? Where in Delhi would such clothing be got for rent? Was the Buckingham Palace prototype alright or would we be required to go further back in time? What about cannons, would they be brought in as well?

All these questions assailed me, vexed me from all sides till I broke off to find the Sports Incharge done with her pep-talk and now giving instructions to her minions. We were told to form a line, a human chain that would stretch across the length of the chosen path. Seeing this as my chance, I took the lead and with my honourable companions in tow, went ahead to be at the head of the line.

We three had almost done that when a few female classmates who were passing by spotted us and stopped in their tracks to comment on what they saw. With a mischievous, almost derogatory, smile, Ananya Borgohain asked us what we were up to. Ishaan explained the reasons for our presence there- the Youth Commonwealth Games Rally, the dire need for volunteers, the glorious event we were to be an integral part of. To all this I haughtily added that we were to be Guards of Honour.

I still remember that instantaneous burst of laughter.

“Humph!” I thought, “What do these Philistines, these wretched barbarians, know of honour! Let ignorant fools laugh- who cares about their incongruous cackle!” Raising my chin an extra inch or so above the usual level, I turned to look in a direction where creatures as hateful as these were not present to offend the sight. That was the end of that encounter.

Meanwhile, while all these aspersions were being cast on our honourable task, more kindred souls joined the group and the line, with I its honourable head, inched forward.

Half an hour later, it was still inching forward- and it wasn’t even halfway through the entire length of the designated road. With the sun glowering on my back and the humid monsoon clime sucking out the life from my frame, my strength started failing. Yet, it was just the flesh which was tired: the mind, the Spirit, was raring to go in pursuit of that exalted end, to be a Guard of Honour…

Another fifteen minutes passed. By this time I was fairly tired. My bag is seldom light and what with the added baggage of the new found Honour, the weight on my shoulders seemed more and more out of the ordinary. I was sweaty, thirsty, hungry and tired- in short, wanted to take a rest, sit down and relax. But this was an honourable errand for which I had voluntarily enlisted myself, to have deserted my honourable post now would have been sheer sacrilege. So what if the other, equally honourable kindred souls had fallen- they were greater fools and to be ridiculed even more than Ms Borgohain and Co. for failing to understand the gravity of the task which they were honour bound to see through. Let others fall, Anubhav Pradhan is an honourable man…

Yes, an honourable man. So honourable that even when the other two suggested, after yet another quarter of an hour had elapsed, that we leave this now fruitless task I at once rallied them to stand and see the whole affair to its logical end. That, gentlemen, was the only honourable thing to do- to honourably see the honourable job to its end.

Hark! What was that! A call from the nether ends of the line! Attention! A call to duty, to arms and to honour! The time had come at last, honour, true honour, was now to be rewarded!

Down the beaten road came the Sports Incharge and her entourage, now jogging, now running. Now was the time. Chin raised high in proud determination, I joined my legs together in attention and positioned my right hand by my side (the left already being behind the back) in readiness for a salute. Her at-first-incomprehensible call to the honourable souls in eager attendance now became audible. The order was to “raise your hands, raise your hands high up in the air”.

I was ready. This was to be the crowning glory of my honourable life. A fitting tribute to not just that which was being honoured but also that which was honourable.

“Raise your hands high up in the air”, came the inexorable cry of the Sports Incharge and as I raised mine in a prefect salute came her final injunction- “Clap!”

Lost in Transaction: Gurgaon to Karol Bagh

“Well I’ll be damned!”

As I stood on a dusty, excessively pot-holed road with equally dusty and pot-holed vistas on either side, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was damned…

Let me start from the beginning. My prospects hadn’t been so damning then; indeed, things had been on a roll and there was every chance that the mission on which I was about to embark would end in naught but victory and satiation.

Yes, I had been confident that I would make it safely, if not comfortably, to Karol Bagh from Gurgaon.

After a year’s experience of shuttling around town in Delhi’s notorious buses, I had acquired the air of a seasoned traveller. I had been there, done that. The very route which I usually took from home to North Campus was a circuitous one, slowly traversing two urban villages and the dreadful Azadpur Mandi. Only Bluelines plied on this narrow, bumpy and serpentine route and jams were not rare occurrences. Yet, I had seen it all off, had emerged with my body and, more importantly, my sanity intact. I had passed the test; I was now an established traveller.

With so much experience in my kitty, taking the straight road from Gurgaon to Delhi seemed child’s play to me. The expressway was smooth, the inter-state bus frequency tolerable, the luggage on my shoulders light- what more could a seasoned traveller like me have needed?

Luck.

In a case fit for demonstration of Murphy’s inexorable Law, everything which could’ve gone wrong did go wrong.

To begin with, just as I reached the bus stop at IFFCO Chowk the monsoon clouds which had till then been promising good weather parted to reveal a merciless Sun. The breeze stopped in its track and suddenly things began to look different.

Now, all those poor souls who have taken the Delhi bus from Gurgaon’s IFFCO Chowk know that it’s a harsh, hostile place. There is no bus stop on the Delhi side of the road, no tree to give its blessed shade to the hapless people awaiting their tryst with destiny. In mid-summer May the place is hell; in humid, sunny July, it’s worse than hell.

Fifteen minutes in that worse-than-hell were enough to not just drench me with sweat but also make me impatient with frustration. All the buses which had appeared till now were the Dhaula Kuan ones, the people standing there could not tell when last a Karol Bagh bus had been sighted. All of this combined with the humidity was threatening to unhinge me; I yearned for some action, for something to happen, to escape this torture by any means.

I boarded the next Dhaula Kuana bus.

So far, so good. “What if the bus ends at DK”, I thought, “I can easily take another to KB from there.” The fact that I did not know of any bus which would take me from DK to KB did not bother me- humanity was still alive and there would surely be some Good Samaritan amongst the teeming crows at DK to help me out. True this was an inconvenience, but it was far better than being stranded there waiting for Godot. I was off now and would reach the Promised Land in due time.

In due time.

At DK I was astonished by the size of the crowd. Teeming multitudes, waves upon waves of all types of humanity, boarding and de-boarding buses, going this way and that. My Solitary Man self shrank back at the prospect which lay before me. Yet, there was no turning back (literally, because the people behind me were almost pushing me out of the bus in their hurry to get off) and steeling my heart a la Livingston, I plunged myself into that dark jungle of humanity.

By now there was a conflict within myself. Should I approach any one of my fellow beings and ask them for guidance or should I trust in my own heart. The Solitary Man allied with the Seasoned Traveller cum Explorer. I chose the latter. I boarded a bus which I believed would take me to Karol Bagh.

No, please don’t condemn me outright as either hopelessly egoistical or insufferably idiotic. Its not as if I acted just on impulse; no, in deciding to board a 729 which had just come in I was influenced my three considerations, the first being that I had noticed several times while waiting for the Gurgaon bus at the junction of Ridge Road and Pusa Road a bus destined to the Kapashera border, the second being that this bus which had just come in had Kapashera boldly printed across one half of the board and the third, and most influential, being the bus conductor’s assurance that the bus went where I wanted to go.

May he rot in hell!

All those even remotely acquainted with the ways of Delhi’s Blueline-wallahs know that most of them stop at major fare change points to scoop in sawaris. Our bus-wallah was no different. He too stopped contently and let his minion the Conductor act as a vociferous shepherd to the stray flock of passengers in the human cesspool of Dhaula Kuana.

What a stop it was!

In about two minutes the bus was full with passengers, in five it was jam-packed with loads of them, in ten it was over-flowing with them, in fifteen it had become a serious contender against the Black Hole of Calcutta. All this time the Conductor kept on shoving more people inside, assuring those at the doors to get in, shouting to those in the middle to give space. Call it positive thinking or call it sheer perversity, but it’s a quality unique to bus conductors to create illusions about space. They’ll keep on telling you to move in, move in, damn it move in thorha aur till people are so close to each other that it’ll be obscene if I elaborated more upon the degree of closeness. All of them are inclined to think of their bus as the Knight Bus, a structure capable of magical bewildering of the dimensions- there’s always some more space in the middle, it’s always khali down the aisle…

These last fifteen minutes in the 729 had been far worse than those spent on IFFCO Chowk and I had almost decided to de-board when the conductor, now convinced that no more people could be got in by any amount of devious manipulations of bodies, called out to the driver, the ustad, to start. By now it had become exceedingly hot and asphyxiating and people had started shouting out for mercy and divine retribution, so the sudden movement was a welcome change. With a bang which would put Chitty to eternal shame, the bus lunged forward and started once again on the road which went forever on and on…

Reasoning that KB was not far from where I was, I purchased a ticket of the lowest denomination- the three rupee one. As the bus turned and entered the Ridge, I, displaying moves which would put many a Rakhi Sawant to shame, started inching forward towards the exit door: after all, the distance was but miniscule and in a crowded bus like that it’s always better to be at the door when your stand comes. After a ten minute long gruelling struggle at the prospect of which I would’ve readily baulked had there not been the inspiring force of freedom and fresh air forcing me forwards, when I did manage to reach the third seat from the door I unceremoniously pushed aside the arm of a man to eagerly look out for some familiar sign. What I found horrified me.

We were opposite RML Hospital.

I was dumbfounded. All I could do was to stare out helplessly as the conductor shrieked to all RML-wallahs to de-board. I couldn’t believe this, my first instinct was to then and there get out of that accursed bus: I had almost stepped forward to step out when something inside told me to stay. The area was wholly unfamiliar to me and the bus stop looked lonely. “Perhaps the bus takes some sort of long cut to Karol Bagh”, I told myself, “If that be the case, then I should stay to my post and wait and watch. In any case, I’ve parted with three precious rupees and getting down will only result in more ill-advised karcha.”

Had I but followed the promptings of my heart! Had I not been such a Scrooge!

Assured with that flawless piece of logical analysis and deduction, I stayed on. The bus now turned into an area unknown to me even by name and went along roads which I never before had taken. With each passing minute my anxiety grew and I had once again decided to de-board at the next stop when I saw the rotund figure of the Grand Post Office come in sight. To my strained heart it was as the oasis is to the desert traveller. There was a way from the GPO to Karol Bagh, I knew that there was. The mystery seemed all but solved now. I chided myself for being my mother. I had been impatient; this must serve forevermore as a lesson in patience. A jam on the road ahead was visible, but arguing in the temperance of all worldly things, I braced myself to overcome that final hurdle with forbearance and lo and behold arrive at my destination.

We humans have a marvellous capacity for self-delusion. Even after half an hour in that wretched traffic jam and out of that on to Parliament Street, I still believed that the bus would take me to KB.

And why not, when there are others to contribute to our myths as well. The turn into Parliament Street saw me once again question myself and in desperation I asked the man standing next to me whether the bus went or passes through Karol Bagh.

May he too rot in hell!

As the bus passed alongside Outer Circle, I could not help feeling triumphant. Yes, triumphant. I was sure, cock-sure, that the bus was going to turn into Panchkuian and then go to Karol Bagh. “What if it did not enter Pusa Road from the Ridge?” I told my sceptical part, “Many buses have variations in routes and it seems that this is just one of them.”

Oh had it been that! Had it been that!

From Outer Circle to Minto Bridge, from Minto Bridge to New Delhi Station.

New Delhi Station. That was it. That was where the Sceptic rose in furious revolt. I could stand it longer. I had suffered innumerable privations in the course of the last two hours: had been shoved and pushed, been subject to immense body odour and other earthly smells, grazed by other men’s private parts…I could take it no longer. I had to find out-for sure this time-whether or not this bus was going to Karol Bagh. I made my way to a middle-aged Jat who was boasting to all around him his knowledge of Delhi’s buses and in general behaving very much like an animate bus-Bradshaw and asked him this simple question: “Excuse me, kya yai bus Karol Bagh jayegee?”

The look of incredulity on his ruddy face gave me my answer.

In between loud exclamations of surprise and pity at beholding such a pitiable specimen of the human race, he managed to confirm what then I already knew. Never in mortal human history had this route passed through anyplace near Karol Bagh.

That really was it. I pushed and shoved and excused and made my way to the door and got down at the first stop on which the bus happened to halt.

That was where I damned myself...

Blank Noise Spectators Special

The public on the street comprises of those who 'experience' street sexual harassment, i.e. the survivors; those who cause street sexual harassment i.e the perpetrators and those who witness street sexual harassment i.e the spectators.

Blank Noise Spectators Special asks members of the public, both men and women to share what they witnessed. What was your first reaction? Was it to intervene? Was it to ignore? What did you do? What would you rather have done? Can you share your thoughts about being a spectator. If you have been a 'special spectator' , that is, intervened in the situation, please tell us how! Was it with wit and humour? Or did physically assault the 'perpetrator'? Did you walk away? Or call the cops? Or gather a crowd? Or see another spectator take charge of the situation and participate in any way.

To participate in this online event please register by emailing us at blurtblanknoise@gmail.com subject titled Blank Noise Spectators Special. Link this post to your blog, and send in your blog address. We will add you to the list at http://blog.blanknoise.org
Deadline for your post on being a spectator is August 15th.

This event hopes to be one in the series of events planned in bringing together 'survivors'(http://blanknoiseactionheroes.blogspot.com), 'perpetrators' (male only event coming soon) and 'spectators'.

In spirit!

Blank Noise Team