The shitty business of bathrooms

Moving from one office space to another is a trivial matter of discussion—there’s nothing to it. But finding solace in a washroom, whether it is to relieve oneself or to cry secret tears or even to control that fit of giggles is almost a matter of life and death—to me, it truly is! So when I heard that my team is moving to another space, what bothered me the most was not the sub-zero temperatures or clinical lighting of the new workspace; but the fact that there were no loos inside the office. Imagine having to ping yourself out from the office and walking more than a couple of meters away, to a space that’s shared by a truckload of employees from different companies! I was appalled. What would happen to touch-ups or even quick gossip sessions that ladies’ washrooms are so known for? The more I thought about it, the more devastated I felt.

I have an unexplainable obsession with loos. I am not sure when I was struck by lightning, but I remember being revolted by school bathrooms—where little (and sometimes not so little) dumplings lay casually on the floor, when they should really have been inside the pot. In college, the situation was definitely much better; but I had ample opportunities to witness the “gross” underbelly of public toilets.

Train toilets were frightening. For long journeys I completely skipped the big business, sticking to just number 1 because THAT I cannot control! But bus journeys—and I have limited their incidence for this one obvious reason—were the worst. Stopping at roadside “rest rooms”, was more “unrest-ing” than anything in this world. You see, adult dumplings are not exactly, well, dumplings. They are humongous mass of grossness left in the open, with the cruel intention of psychologically scarring unsuspecting individuals who are looking for that one clean, dry spot they can squat on. But hell no! That one square centimetre spot is not to be found in a wayside loo.

Airline loos on the other hand are a nightmare for Indians like me, who believe in the indispensability of water. Plus, the flush sounds like the roof came down, and the lack of space just makes you feel so much closer to what’s going down under, it’s not funny.

Then there are loos in railway stations, restaurants, shopping malls, and more that offer plentiful opportunity of ‘visual treat’ and ‘olfactory pleasure’ that I have gone through, not only because of my seemingly tiny bladder; but also because the daughter wants to go at all the wrong places and at the wrong time.

All said and done, I love the peace and quiet of a bathroom. My own that is. It’s where I read – don’t look shocked. A lot of people read in the loo, and I admit to being one of them. The loo is also where I don’t (usually) get harassed by the daughter. Or the mother. Or the husband. It’s my “me-time” place, believe it or not.

But coming back to the problem of the washroom at the end of the 100 feet road in my office building (dripping with sarcasm coz a 1000 pound migraine is blinding me as I write this) – it’s put everything in jeopardy. From having to “hold it in” because the loo is too far, to having no access to all-anytime preening, this has been quite tragic. Not to mention, no toilet paper! But in spite of the headache, I’ll try looking at the bright side. The distance ensures I walk longer, faster, which turns out to be good exercise – I am in the “let’s get my body moving” phase right now.

Look at this blog! I have rambled about bathrooms way too much. But hey, my tryst with washrooms is far from over. There are so many more to explore and experience. So much more to witness and run away from. And many to find solace in (provided there are no dumplings!).

The angry young woman

Anger. Women aren’t associated with that kind of strong emotions.

She’s expected to be the epitome of love, patience, sacrifice. And if she is a wife and a mother, the sobriquets just make you want to gag and die. So, while the whole world is allowed to raise its voice and make its grievances heard, the woman is expected to bottle it up and endure.

Haven’t you seen how at public spaces an angry woman is viewed with disgust? So much so that even other women are embarrassed by her brazen outspokenness. Whether she’s making her dissatisfaction evident with the service at a restaurant or is pulling up a driver for rash driving on the road or is haggling with the guy at the snacks counter of a cinema hall for balance change that is rightfully hers, people around her just want to judge her. “Look at that fightercock!” “Women these days are impossible!” “Gosh, her husband looks so embarrassed, see!” Comments come aplenty.

But clearly, this is the age of the angry young woman. Her anger is fitting for an era that pretends to be modern and open, but its bedrock is still some archaic set of rules and regulations. Women today are “allowed” to be liberated. They aren’t born free. So if their fathers, brothers, grandfathers, uncles, boyfriends, husbands and sons “allow” them to enjoy a sense of freedom, then they can have it. But they can have it only as much as they are allowed to. Anything more, then what was offered on a platter will be taken away as a form of punishment. What a truly enjoyable game!

Why wouldn’t the woman of today be angry then! You say it’s okay to work and earn your own money, but it ain’t okay to choose your life partner. You say it’s okay to be out at night, but you rape her and leave her to die. You say it’s okay to dress the way you like, and then look at her like you are going to tear her apart, and do. You say she can speak her mind and then remind her that women should be mild-mannered and soft spoken. Honestly, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO MAKE THESE RULES ANYWAY? Did she ask you for your “permission” to live her life? And who the hell gave you the right to humiliate her, abuse her and violate her?

Women don’t want your bloody rules. They just want to be left alone. Just don’t pretend to be their benefactor. Don’t try to bottle her into constricted gender roles. Remember, women are unlearning, and it won’t take too long to turn the tables. Don’t push it too far for your own well being.

Have your B***S been stared at today?

Let me first tell you why the headline of the post does not spell the word out. It’s not because I won’t, ahead in the post. It’s because I didn’t want to sensationalise the post; because it must have already got you thinking what this post is gonna be about. Half my work’s done :)

Okay, so let’s get to business. Why this post? And what’s it about anyway? Let me begin at the, well, not beginning, but somewhere in between. I recently started going for morning walks (the treadmill has been given a break for now). So, dressed up casually in my Capri pants and a simple, workout-favourite pale green Reebok tee, I set out. In Cochin, even that can attract attention. But let me tell you, my intentions were not such (have you even seen the crowd that’s out here for morning walks!!!?).

And as I happily swayed my arms (and my plentiful hips), I was, for obvious reasons, stared at. The question is, where? Not my hips, as I would have thought; but at my—you guessed it right, I’m getting to the point—my boobs!

Most glances were pretty casual—“I shall gaze at your face for a good 3 seconds but as a parting gesture will take a quick look at your boobs so they don’t feel neglected.” Thank you, I say!

But there are other, more intense ones—“Hello boobs, you have a person!!!”—that drive me up the wall. I like being acknowledged for my womanhood. But this…is something way off the mark.

Boob-ogling is a hobby that cuts across men of different classes, castes, creeds, ages, social status and marital status. So, yeah, I have encountered many of them:

• The I-don’t-intend-to-stare-but-my-eyes-have-a-mind-of-their-own colleague;
• The I-am-in-love-with-your-boobs creep on the street;
• The you-are-my-daughter’s-age-but-not-my-daughter elderly ‘gentleman’;
• The hello-how-are-you? How are your mother-daughter-husband-doggie-job ‘friendly’ neighbour.

…and so on (please feel free to add your own versions of boob starers).

The fascination with boobs, I can understand. But how they become independent entities, and take over the person we are, is simply amazing! It’s also amazing how some men pay individual attention to them. I don’t mean to be vulgar here, but if you are a woman who has ever been stared at, at you know where, you’ll know what I mean. It’s infuriating, belittling and objectifying.

But what’s even more appalling? Not strangers doing it; but people you know doing it to you. Some even have conversations with the boobs. Like a woman colleague once said about one of our male co-workers who was a compulsive boob-talker, “I always wanna ask him—ABC (name withheld to protect privacy-LOL!), please, the face… the face… look at my face…” :D

Maybe an Anti Breast Staring Campaign can help. But what would that entail? Staring back at their privates? Nah! That would only delight them. An any such sort of delight will be ‘uplifting’ for them, and hair-raising for us! So, no thank you… 

Solutions?