tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87380682052219922472024-03-19T08:20:16.348+05:30sleepless in the cityjenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-5492608963933574912010-03-15T02:27:00.001+05:302010-03-15T02:27:42.424+05:30lines written for A...the turbulence of my mind, <br />
written on the scraps left-over<br />
of an old happiness<br />
when i used to harness the wind<br />
on rickshaw rides of love stories and music <br />
the turbulence of my mind, scribbled in loneliness<br />
of a strange kind<br />
growing like a child within<br />
sprouting hands and feet<br />
waiting unseen <br />
for phones that do not ring<br />
of my lover shifting his sand feet<br />
to new postures of power and defeat<br />
the turbulence of my mind, <br />
encountering the days that went <br />
when i played woman, to your penis, <br />
inside my mind..<br />
a turbulence of this kind.....jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-43821724292099862762010-01-08T10:44:00.003+05:302010-02-15T18:33:27.241+05:30BACK IN-ACTION<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
a new beginning. in the whispering cold. summersaulting sleep.<br />
i reach paradigm shifts hastily, in the surprise of your latest political<br />
maneuvering tricks and the very same I the very same rhymes subsist<br />
<br />
there is no political action without a spiritual reaction<br />
is what i want to surmise<br />
<br />
from mountain cave and forest of the insane<br />
and those who cant rest<br />
<br />
we talk of anarchy<br />
we think of an alternate media scheme<br />
we plan knowledge<br />
social engineering<br />
<br />
i am an ant still, in a fat woman's swollen blouse<br />
all this can burst me up, the dreams can get so crowded<br />
my days can fill up, with faces i have never seen<br />
<br />
and today i can be a delhi middle class woman<br />
visiting an up-town restaurant with her husband and kid<br />
<br />
to dine at united coffee house on steak and potato chipsjenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-86966738146247516182009-12-15T19:10:00.000+05:302009-12-15T19:10:40.336+05:30in memory of a great day in college and at home !!! the good phase begins !!!!!!!!!!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiij0L12PB49Mn1zx3Fk_JOPZcMD0IH7aOtyoWo6RYvac9_OMBjmA2VCXxTj0rcqhjMxwD_FkOLIf0DuU-0SOuJYmnHMvd8n05iF7ycvnGaURenO8I3JmhFSiVpRwmFr1i0wjyjCiXqwjM/s1600-h/Image083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiij0L12PB49Mn1zx3Fk_JOPZcMD0IH7aOtyoWo6RYvac9_OMBjmA2VCXxTj0rcqhjMxwD_FkOLIf0DuU-0SOuJYmnHMvd8n05iF7ycvnGaURenO8I3JmhFSiVpRwmFr1i0wjyjCiXqwjM/s320/Image083.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-39703525393185785762009-12-14T13:00:00.008+05:302009-12-16T13:45:05.877+05:30dream work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">manic days end with strangest dreams. a moon boat.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">shimmering in a sewage drain. and prithviraj, the film<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">actor, pretending to be a god-man. but no one takes<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">him seriously. i am a woman in a water-lily-blue-painting.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">and always i stare outside the scene. as he cajoles, trying<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">to draw me in. row row row ur boat, mr movie star,<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">gently down the stream. there my daughter lies sleeping..<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i don't want to wake her up and force her to watch your next<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">new film. and my nose starts bleeding. blood like thick honey<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">made-over with oil paint and water colors. i am not afraid.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">i am not in pain. i know that everything is destined to be good.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">from the very beginning. then suddenly i turn queen. in ten<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">acres of green land, with a compound wall that has pretty holes<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">in it, through which i see my brother on a cycle. <i>you bought </i><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>us a new house?, </i>he asks. and comes cycling to where i stand. <i> </i><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>yes yes yes. come in. </i>B's mother gifted me this. she stands<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">behind in gloomy silence. but i trust B to help me, to <br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">save me. and there is this doctor who says that my ulcer<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">is not a wound. its just a floating foreign object. and he can<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">heal it in three days. and i can drink again. i come home to a<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">huge hall to tell B this. i wake up this morning in the happiness<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of these dreams. which gives me everything i need. i am kind to<br />
my daughter and my husband. i make them eggs with orange<br />
sunny sides. and for myself a capsicum omlet. what a wonderful life !<br />
</div>jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-91323606893169725552009-12-10T13:41:00.001+05:302009-12-10T13:48:40.255+05:30<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8GVnkH9eiXSuQL98ssMNLg_6DChgAZhknfs_vzUEn0LmkuCDZpJHTdvNJxfheZdHC99kajOdcfUdPGVIDuDg_uZpWzRRvx0K2S3cMuLMGrpoWEzEj7218LhYFfLzgkIpfL6bE9wS9wTI/s1600-h/agitateedorg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8GVnkH9eiXSuQL98ssMNLg_6DChgAZhknfs_vzUEn0LmkuCDZpJHTdvNJxfheZdHC99kajOdcfUdPGVIDuDg_uZpWzRRvx0K2S3cMuLMGrpoWEzEj7218LhYFfLzgkIpfL6bE9wS9wTI/s320/agitateedorg.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
i wish i could make J understand how much i am an activist inside<br />
and how little i have to do with academics<br />
<br />
i wish i could make J understand how much i still want to change the world<br />
with my tiny life.<br />
<br />
my blood stinks of this sin<br />
i grew up for this<br />
i stayed alive for this<br />
<br />
in kerala a generation of people live and die like this<br />
with their sexuality and desire tied to the vigor of protest and change<br />
i am one of them - this is the only thing that really turns me on<br />
<br />
its the streak of the red left in me, maybe<br />
seeing my father losing his job<br />
building a trade union in the company<br />
where he worked as a minor chemist in a huge laboratory <br />
<br />
then watching the red, terricotton ezhavas in my house<br />
the bearded ones,<br />
the very thin, reedy, big-diary and huge-ideals souls<br />
who would go hungry<br />
who would give up anything<br />
who would sell their girl friends and their family<br />
to win a political argument<br />
<br />
and my father who always abused us<br />
even as he protested against everything that was wrong, un-fair and unjust <br />
<br />
how can i not <b>educate organize and agitate </b>!!<br />
<br />
how can J expect me to hold a cinema camp and not bring any activist spirit into it??!!jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-59635722187540395562009-12-08T08:32:00.001+05:302009-12-08T08:32:01.282+05:30wasted days<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSGK64B5kw658VM_SHNv_tQs4UBX08HBjZtY5b99nZh6-iER01cT0UBK68UX7hyMCH0EQwwtn_7bP_bBe9QLpij2UAXEqaOKyRK5ZrwubBODLw2CLFbLZxk_BRAilOnTPmSsj8UGOa4M/s1600-h/sad_smiley_by_shangyne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSGK64B5kw658VM_SHNv_tQs4UBX08HBjZtY5b99nZh6-iER01cT0UBK68UX7hyMCH0EQwwtn_7bP_bBe9QLpij2UAXEqaOKyRK5ZrwubBODLw2CLFbLZxk_BRAilOnTPmSsj8UGOa4M/s200/sad_smiley_by_shangyne.jpg" /></a><br />
sat, sun, mon - now theres just tue, wed and thursday left. i can do many things.<br />
i can finish all my work. but not only can i bring myself to work, but i am also<br />
looking for all sorts of ways to waste my time - like going online in chat -<br />
and like trying to think that i am indispensable for those who have left me behind.<br />
i dont understand this pattern - this need that i have to waste time<br />
this passion to procrastinate - i really dont understand these wasted days..jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-55335311799509207242009-12-07T10:26:00.002+05:302009-12-07T10:31:17.953+05:30yesterday<i>life was a ball </i><br />
<i>i wanted to throw down the terrace </i><br />
<i>of my five floor apartment </i><br />
<div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kevinstilley.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/anger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://www.kevinstilley.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/anger.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>yesterday</b><br />
<b> </b><i> <br />
</i><br />
<i>this room was an explosive, </i><br />
<i>bursting out in expletives</i><br />
<i>with which i hated my daughter, my husband, my friends </i><br />
<br />
<div style="color: black;"><b>yesterday</b> <br />
</div><br />
<i>living with me was dangerous </i><br />
<i>as dangerous </i><br />
<i>as standing at the feet of an elephant</i>jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-83389406250446090532009-12-06T10:14:00.000+05:302009-12-06T10:14:25.628+05:30sunday morninghere i am - sitting with this sunday in my hands. <br />
i know i am going to throw it away. need years of healing<br />
to get myself even to feel...<br />
<br />
i dreamt strange things. i asked people i hate in dreams<br />
to make me a dream plan - a house, a telephone conversation,<br />
that would burst into fire works in the middle of a sentence<br />
and then i could crumble into peace - <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_6GL6Cbf2fYDGdNU6SnVzOMjo-Qaf1aUJf_ipBarbFbkx3n2912AeE0fSUoSvTBnnORfB2y_ptMr4E186G8emtgdxf3UCfEfF1VGt3J4ajbOOYYJBKUbrAQSOMpQAmFOiksE1bRMxzQ/s1600-h/sorr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_6GL6Cbf2fYDGdNU6SnVzOMjo-Qaf1aUJf_ipBarbFbkx3n2912AeE0fSUoSvTBnnORfB2y_ptMr4E186G8emtgdxf3UCfEfF1VGt3J4ajbOOYYJBKUbrAQSOMpQAmFOiksE1bRMxzQ/s200/sorr.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
mania is not a disease, its a way of looking at the world<br />
with eyes of endless video streams, running<br />
hot water pipes in a cold snow desert, wanting to squeeze<br />
your heart out in trickles of love<br />
<br />
maybe i am ill<br />
but i still want to make the best of my life-jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-46071424400844137282009-12-05T20:19:00.001+05:302009-12-05T20:21:30.840+05:30i am hungry. constantly. i am angry. constantly. i am tensed. constantly.<br />
<br />
i want a bright pink mobile. i don't know why. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://newpinkmobilephones.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/pink-group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://newpinkmobilephones.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/pink-group.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
i hate the publicity that comes with taking up any project. i hate any situation which asks me to face a set of faceless people. i am not interested in people. not anymore. everybody is pathetic. this is what i know. <br />
<br />
i cant see myself as being capable of any position. i hate myself. i hate myself more than i hate anybody else around.<br />
<br />
i dont know how people finish writing books. how do parents bring up children. am i turning the corner into the next phase of my moon???<br />
<br />
i hate to be fighting myself all the time. i want to sleep and never get up !!!jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-24355851646542626622009-12-05T19:16:00.001+05:302009-12-05T19:16:43.641+05:30<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 10" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 10" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5Chany%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">can i say abracadabra and would all the earlier posts disappear please ?? presenting me with a brand new blog? in the best colors that anyone’s ever got???<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">shall i parade myself here, stark naked? shall i shout and holler? run to the edge of the parapet, stick my neck out, sing a song? re run blogger clichés? repeat everything that everyone has always already said? gift myself this new notion of neo-space? which would hide from me the fact that this world is actually so ugly? <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">anyways going to start writing here again... <br />
<br />
</div><br />
jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-67851792182523223032009-09-06T00:45:00.008+05:302010-02-15T19:02:42.379+05:30mes amistous mes amis sont cowards<br />
by god<br />
hiding tails among teeth<br />
lying like fish<br />
she garnered up man, thin,<br />
solid<br />
she knows he going to make it.<br />
he roams seminar stalls<br />
pen in hand<br />
dream in eye -<br />
"the prototype of poverty<br />
in southasia<br />
blah".<br />
me want blank<br />
me want delight<br />
this in deep of night<br />
from fear we hide<br />
such cowardice<br />
tous mes amis sont stingy<br />
silent<br />
they copies<br />
scares<br />
sick.jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-53461109413341191212009-08-28T02:10:00.003+05:302009-08-28T12:47:30.068+05:30backsteeped in hiding. away from the luxury of fluorescent words,<br />
those that sparkle in the dark, like i need no streetlights or taxi rides -<br />
i cant publish the drafts about ecstasy, the slow ride<br />
through the streets of paradise, lined with fantasy, <br />
music....i cant speak of the upheaval, with my shovel -<br />
the court-martial of an ordinary woman's life -<br />
and the journey back -<br />
through the thickets of myself, creepers that grow into my eyes,<br />
nails entangled in mush - as i looked for a way out -<br />
through the song- infested streets of a heartless city, <br />
the ever growing markets...<br />
and the endless desires of my insomnia, to sleep -<br />
i am back and this time i will not leave -jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-7669042168780238862009-02-19T00:14:00.011+05:302009-12-05T18:44:55.793+05:30nothing matters as much as these jumbled up<br />
moments. of incongruence, feeling powerful,<br />
feeling dead, suddenly enlightened, flying, together,<br />
afraid, alone...jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-9825446518061425422009-01-30T17:37:00.082+05:302010-02-15T19:01:52.808+05:30blue and a promiseyou walk on a cloud of innocence. auto rickshaws don't touch the ground.<br />
the bed is a water bed. where you float. your husband is a velvet blanket.<br />
your child a priceless doll. the best job in the world, less than 6 hours of<br />
teaching per week. misty, green campus. faceless colleaugues, whom<br />
you dont even have to meet. the song playing is "yellow".<br />
your mood feels so mellow, you want to scream:<br />
-look i have come through!<br />
-i have made it!<br />
-at last!<br />
-cured!<br />
<br />
and even as you speak, you notice the first tremor.<br />
the first stab of the first knife of the month. the pain that begins<br />
somewhere beneath your rib bones and breast. in the place<br />
they call the heart, and you call hell.<br />
<br />
coz now its burning, its squeezing tight, its beating loud,<br />
red wings, flapping hard, like a trapped bird, in a closed lift..<br />
soon your fingers will start to shake. your eyes will not focus.<br />
you will try to read, but the words wont make no sense.<br />
<br />
they would be so wordless, moving about, all over the page.<br />
you will try to blog, and it will not work.. phone calls & emails<br />
will make you cry, and when you open the door,<br />
you will see the stairway, strewn with the shadows of all your<br />
friends.<br />
<br />
black is the only lollipop left for the dead child.<br />
she wants to savor it, till she dies.<br />
she loves it so much, she sees it everywhere.<br />
and everywhere there are ceiling fans looking good in<br />
turquoise duppattas, razor blades so sexy inside<br />
silver tank-tops, gaudy terraces with their long trains<br />
zooming down to granite earth.cocktails that mock<br />
sleep and all those dreams, hallucinations and<br />
visions of the unknown, the metro, rash<br />
buses on the road, path-breaking,<br />
epoch-making accidents.....<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">you may say i am a dreamer</span>, but i am really<br />
waiting for that moment, when nothing can stop me,<br />
and i give in to all my fantasies to celebrate<br />
myself..<br />
<br />
coz i am tired of struggling against this violet<br />
of whirlpools that scatter everything you have..<br />
stopping by road side stalls that sell wisdom...<br />
taking the time off to drink from the cup of my<br />
wine-red tears..<br />
looking for a cure and being asked to hold on,<br />
<br />
how long can a balloon bear a safety pin,<br />
and how can you still expect it to bubble<br />
and swell..?<br />
<br />
and that is the most magical thing - to add a dash<br />
of white, to this blue blue post ...<br />
slowly i <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span>, this balloon will float again<br />
<br />
the clouds will start feeling light again, instead of<br />
hanging heavy on my head, and my baby will<br />
be a song that i love to sing ...<br />
but for the time being, let me give in to The Monster.<br />
let me forget and then learn to do it all over again...<br />
how to make tea, tie my shoelaces, how to breathe..<br />
but this time i promise<br />
<br />
when i get better, i will come here and<br />
write about blessed things.<br />
i really do promise.jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-62605493101226179792009-01-28T20:24:00.117+05:302010-02-15T19:01:19.269+05:30farzana shaithanathis is the most frustrated mother on earth, writing about the worst kid in the universe - farzana shaithana.<br />
<br />
i really do hate you. i want to lock you up, throw you inside a well, i want to hit you so hard, you will remember the pain for days together - i want to so badly hurt you and i mean it when i say that i just dont love you today. coz sometimes you're so diabolic, so un-believably naughty, demanding, screaming, screeching, running around, refusing, spilling things over, spoiling, untidying, bothering..words cant describe how bad you are..<br />
<br />
and me and B, we can clearly see that you are feeling that you can get away with anything, just because we are trying to be nice to you - you dirty, little fiend.<br />
<br />
let me put down some of your punch lines for the sake of posterity (and let the whole world read this and elect me the cruelest woman on earth - as if i care :p)<br />
<br />
thus spoke farzana shaithana:<br />
<br />
> other children eat, because they are afraid, i eat when I feel like it -<br />
> you better explain why you got angry with me first, after that i will listen to you-<br />
> you scolded me, now i'll not sleep, till you say hundred-times-sorry and massage my feet thousand times- <br />
> all your stories are rotten and bubbles and jina and jaffer and clint died in an accident-<br />
> when i grow up i will never even telephone you once- <br />
> this dress is <b>so</b> out of fashion, how can you ask me to wear it !!!- *when there is only 15 minutes left for the school van to reach<br />
> this dress is too gaudy, i wont even wear it to bed !! - *with only ten minutes left for the school van to come <br />
>i don't wear socks of this color !! - when the school van is waiting outside with its unbearably loud horn - <br />
> you are an idiot and baba is also an idiot and i hate you both-<br />
> NO. I DONT WANT TO-<br />
> AND SO I WILL NOT- <br />
> NEVER-<br />
> NO<br />
<br />
what do you do with a child who talks like this? was i like this? no never, i remember myself as so sad, always standing by windows and thinking :)<br />
<br />
<br />
today we had such a horrible day with this little rascal. i lost control and pinched her hard and she was threatening to call the the police on me for "hurting little children." says she will go up to a police man and lodge a complaint. i am sure she will do it too. <br />
<br />
<br />
but i am not even feeling guilty today. i just want to put her in a boarding school or sneak out at night and run away and not be part of this whole thing called family and life and raising kids.<br />
<br />
yes i am really not feeling any mother-guilt today worrying that i brought her up badly and that i should have been a better mother. i am fed up of all that bullshit rotten crap. <br />
<br />
and hey shaithana, do read this someday and realize what a demon you were, ok !!<br />
and know that today i really feel that you were specially packaged and sent to spoil my otherwise so perfect and idyllic life :))jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-6006888774368540242009-01-23T16:22:00.003+05:302010-02-15T18:59:36.466+05:30what is creativitymmmm... the man who makes 9 to 5 tea, in my college staff room, <br />
standing in a small cramped kitchen area, in an adhoc job for the<br />
past fourteen years, with the FM blaring morbid songs,<br />
<br />
sometimes i go in and see him putting in crushed <br />
ginger slices into the tea for the teachers he likes..<br />
they haven't asked for it, he just made it up,<br />
and i am sure he spits into the cups of all those bulldozers - <br />
those big ass mouth nose spectacle professors, <br />
who call out to him like he is a criminal.<br />
<br />
and my college-tea-man with those automatic arms, <br />
i see him so angry and irritated these days, something bad <br />
has happened to him, i am sure if he could, he would write <br />
poems and put them in a bottle and let it float in the yamuna..<br />
and one day it would reach his sweetheart, and of course that <br />
day he would be made permanent,<br />
<br />
and when he comes to distribute his wedding sweets in the staff room, <br />
the quiet and morose looking teacher in the physics department <br />
would smile at him and say, <i>hey, i was in love with you, <br />
but now its too late, congrats anyways..</i>why not? <br />
and i will come here to write these lines...aren't we all creative?.<br />
what is the big deal, friend, i don't understand..jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-44094288491723108942009-01-02T19:49:00.000+05:302009-01-02T19:52:00.071+05:30: xo god i hate everybody so much i want to be on the street with <br />
words in my cheeks...<br />
<br />
its not bones i want to break, stab their hot face, <br />
just this ugly mistake, want to squeeze it into <br />
a mustard seed, and swallow this hate, <br />
<br />
and when my disease lies at their feet<br />
<br />
they can say<br />
<br />
she was just hot tempered, a barometer, <br />
got up in anger, came down like rain<br />
she was so loving, she was our best friend<br />
<br />
and then she went out and called a press conference on truth...<br />
<br />
o god what did she do !!!!jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-63754499812011934662008-12-20T16:35:00.004+05:302010-02-15T19:03:28.814+05:30Why i am still a hindu: as revealed in a bad dream<b>This is a real dream i had after i went to sleep, somewhere around 8 this morning. </b><br />
<br />
We want to talk. It is really late. But we are feminists. We are not supposed<br />
to be afraid. We are walking down a dark midnight kerala road. I start getting<br />
more and more afraid. I want to feel safe. <i>Lets go where there are some people, </i><br />
shyly i tell her. Did she want to walk on? I don't remember...<br />
<br />
We see a huge bulding. And even as i say, <i>lets go in</i>, i realize that it is a temple.<br />
Celebrating a midnight festival. Inside the temple in an auditorium made of granite<br />
stones, there are women in bright blue and pink Benares sarees<br />
(aren't dreams supposed to be black and white? But i am so sure i saw pink).<br />
And there are also those letchy, orange, hindu swamis, reputed to having killed many.<br />
We step in without thinking, and the swamis welcome us warmly, making me feel queazy,<br />
uncomfortable...<br />
<br />
We sit down on a cold granite seat, under the thick dark starless sky. We see a<br />
huge temple pond before us. And in it there are these specks of light floating.<br />
Something huge is about to happen and all the rich temple people are waiting.<br />
We start to feel guilty. I feel it most coz i am the one who manoeuvred this move,<br />
away from the rape fantasies of the dark, midnight road.<br />
<br />
I know we ought not to be sitting here. We who have renounced our crazy religion,<br />
that tells us that we are second hand citizens. That strips us of our healthy humanity<br />
and yet prods us to hate and kill. We try to read an intellectual magazine, which<br />
materializes from nowhere, in some show of feeble resistance.<br />
<br />
She lies in my lap. At that moment i find her way too attractive and<br />
i realize that i want to sleep with her. She plays with my hair. The temple<br />
awaits its festivities.<br />
<br />
Suddenly i spot Farida's face in the crowd that has formed before me.<br />
She still has her sweet flick on her forehead. It looks prettier than usual.<br />
But Farida looks like a ghost and she looks terrible SAD. Her face is pale,<br />
and she slants it sadly to one side. Her eyes are flowing downward with<br />
sorrow. And she sits there refusing to look at me.<br />
<br />
I feel i have done her immesnse wrong. Like i am a scrawny, brown,<br />
broomstick man, who can do nothing but hide his face in shame before<br />
his jilted lover. The way i always have felt with her, especially towards<br />
the end. Now that comes back a hundred fold and the dream becomes<br />
a nightmare.<br />
<br />
I want to get away, away from the temple. I tell the woman with me that<br />
i want to leave.<br />
<br />
We are on the road now which suddenly turns into a long glass-<br />
framed airport corridor, which is endless. The woman with me<br />
becomes a ballerina in a white billowy skirt and stands talking to a man<br />
in a velvet suit. I am left alone in the corridor.<br />
<br />
The glass frame is so transparent that it almost feels like i am standing<br />
in the open, looking at the sky. And i almost forget that i am trapped. <br />
Suddenly i remember, panic and wake up -jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-78328240267177857172008-12-19T02:05:00.002+05:302008-12-19T02:22:51.481+05:30student politicsi must describe her before i sleep tonight. starting with the huge college tree,<br />
that must be deaf by now, listening to all that noise, for the last half of a century. <br />
we sat under it on plastic chairs..<br />
<br />
i must tell you about her muddy chocolate skin, her smooth eyes,<br />
the sparkle of her intellectual spectacles.<br />
<br />
she denied knowing bhojpuri, though i never asked her.<br />
she denied that she was an intellectual,<br />
though i did not even suggest it,<br />
and she described herself as a kid of the modern world<br />
she did not want to be dry, grey, stay stuck in libraries<br />
<br />
yes she was intelligent and her mind never stopped working<br />
(and her tongue never stopped talking)<br />
but she did not want to waste it on a teaching career<br />
(smart kid) lecturing students who knew only<br />
to bunk classes.<br />
instead<br />
she wanted to use her brain to bring in the moolah,<br />
yes that is what she said<br />
coz she wanted a great and comfortable live<br />
and help her poor father out<br />
<br />
yes i am reading derrida right now<br />
no its not part of the course, <br />
but i feel fascinated with the way he talks about language<br />
m'am its true what he says, why should we call this tree a tree, m'am,<br />
we can call it a dog, cant we?<br />
<br />
but i am not going to get into all that<br />
<br />
do you think event management will suit me?<br />
or should i try and be a radio jockey?<br />
and eventually i can start my own channel,<br />
like anil shrivastav of <i>thodi catty thodi meeti?</i><br />
or is it better i try for the corporate sector?<br />
<br />
what do you think m'am?<br />
am i disturbing you?<br />
do tell me if you have any work, like<br />
preparing the mark lists or attendance sheets,<br />
shall i get you some more tea,<br />
from the canteen?<br />
<br />
you know i am very traditional,<br />
i believe in guru dakshina, you<br />
are my guru m'am, i am waiting<br />
for you to guide me through !!!<br />
<br />
(oh god, now what will i do?)jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-246756766249935812008-12-09T18:16:00.005+05:302009-09-06T00:05:43.789+05:30c'est la vie<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and this is called life..</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">you wake up to a morning with such swirling winds</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">lilting upon the curtains, hesitating near the green door</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">that opens to the garden that has woken up in haste,</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">all her yellow leaves untangled, and you read</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">chapter 12 from book 3 for class 202, in room no</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">047, to a set of students who don't want to </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">listen to anything..and then you come on a </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">rickshaw that is so cold and sick, hands like </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">ice sticks, and you almost cry reading the story </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">of the rajput guard who went mad, not able to </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">take shit and the rickshaw mans reminds you</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">that he has to drop you and go attend</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">a meeting, you try to whisper to him,</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">he does not listen. and then in class, where</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">students get business calls, you control the noise</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">acting strict.. and they cant believe it, m'am, </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">its so cold today give us attendance, let us leave..</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and this is called life, the best alone day of the month</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">is spoiled.. and you just want to get into the sheets </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and sleep, but the metro, the kid..when i meet her </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">will i be happier, will the splash of pink on her</span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">lips make me smile.. </span></span><br />
</span>jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-35757433488713597812008-11-24T22:42:00.001+05:302009-09-06T00:04:56.969+05:30paradise lost<u>Psychological impact of violence on Kashmiris in India</u><br />
<br />
Kashif-ul-Huda<br />
<br />
<div class="ArwC7c ckChnd" id=":14z">Twenty years of violence between Indian Army and Kashmiri militants<br />
has resulted in at least 20,000 deaths and 4,000 displaced, according<br />
to the government figures. But the toll is even greater in terms of<br />
psychological damage to the population. A recent study that looked at<br />
the psychological health found that a third of the study participants<br />
had contemplated suicide, a sign of extreme psychological distress.<br />
<br />
The study published in the latest issue of peer reviewed journal<br />
"Conflict and Health" was conducted by organization Medecins Sans<br />
Frontieres (MSF)'s, Simon Fraser University of Canada, and Utrecht<br />
University of Netherlands.<br />
<br />
Study interviewed 510 Kashmiris living in Indian Kashmir. It found<br />
over one-third of respondents have symptoms of psychological distress<br />
and women show significantly higher level of distress. Feeling of<br />
insecurity was a major reason for the higher levels of psychological<br />
distress.<br />
<br />
Survey was conducted in 2005 and includes 270 males and 240 females.<br />
The most striking finding of the study is that one-third of those<br />
surveyed had thought about ending their life in the past 30 days of<br />
the survey. The survey found that there was a difference in the<br />
reasons of psychological distress between males and females. Males who<br />
had self-experienced i.e. if they had been arrested, tortured, or<br />
abused show higher level of distress. Kashimiri women, on the other<br />
hand displayed psychological problem by just witnessing the events.<br />
<br />
In the scientific paper the authors explain that "for males, violation<br />
of modesty, forced displacement, and disability were all associated<br />
with a significantly increased likelihood (three times the odds) of<br />
suffering from psychological distress. For women, the witnessing of<br />
people being killed or tortured or dependency on outside assistance<br />
doubled the odds of suffering psychological distress."<br />
<br />
The data tabulated in the paper is very shocking when you consider<br />
that 63% of the respondents have seen wounded people. 40% have<br />
witnessed people being killed, 67% have seen other being tortured and<br />
13% have witnessed rape.<br />
<br />
44% of the respondents experienced being abused and 11% claimed that<br />
their modesty was violated.<br />
<br />
The level of psychological problem was found to be much higher than<br />
similar studies done elsewhere in India and even when the cutoff score<br />
was set to a conservative standard. When the cutoff score was lowered<br />
to the Indian study the psychological distress was found to be over<br />
71%.<br />
<br />
Though one-third reported having suicidal thoughts, it does not always<br />
result in a suicide attempt. But according to one estimate about<br />
60,000 Kashmiris did commit suicide, last year.<br />
<br />
Withdrawing themselves or isolating themselves was the most preferred<br />
way of coping with the psychological problem. About half of them<br />
showed aggressive behavior. Many turned to religion as a source of<br />
support and finding peace.<br />
<br />
Even though Kashmir lacks proper mental health care facility, still,<br />
over 60% of the respondents visited the health clinic to seek help.<br />
Some visited more than once in the 30 days immediately before the<br />
study interview, and women found to be visiting health facilities more<br />
than men.<br />
<br />
The impact of violence, threat, and alertness has adversely affected<br />
armed forces too. Elevated level of psychological problem is seen<br />
among Indian Army personnel deployed in Kashmir. Past January, Indian<br />
Army hired 400 psychiatrists to help control the high numbers of<br />
suicides in its ranks.<br />
<br />
Government should spend more money in improving mental health care<br />
facilities for the people and the soldiers. Those fighting this battle<br />
for Kashmir should stop and see what this battle for land is doing to<br />
the people living on this land.<br />
<br />
Kashif-ul-Huda<br />
<br />
(The author is the Editor of news website: <a href="http://www.twocircles.net/" target="_blank">www.TwoCircles.net</a>)<br />
<br />
Published in<br />
Asian Tribune, Bangkok, Thailand<br />
Ghana News, Accra, Ghana<br />
The Guatemala Times, Guatemala<br />
Citizen News Service (CNS)<br />
Bihar Times, Patna, Bihar<br />
Zim News, Harare, Zimbabwe<br />
Defence - Pakistan<br />
My News, Delhi<br />
News from Bangladesh, Dhaka, Bangladesh<br />
The Bangladesh Today, Dhaka, Bangladesh<br />
The New Nation, Dhaka, Bangladesh<br />
News Blaze, USA<br />
Pakistan Post, Karachi, Pakistan<br />
Bihar and Jharkhand News Service (BJNS)<br />
Op-Ed News (OEN)<br />
News Track India, Delhi<br />
Media for Freedom, Kathmandu,Nepal</div>jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-9342050018508746642008-11-22T10:18:00.011+05:302010-02-15T18:59:12.137+05:30tell me what is the time?even gmail has themes now.<br />
<br />
if there is a theme for my life, then this is it..this is it..<br />
<br />
the sketch of a careless clock. the long needle is twisted like in a dali painting...the small one does not exist. and i am sitting against a wall where this broken clock hangs like a giant's shadow.and the look on my face looks absolutely desperate.<br />
but there is a bottle of fun in my hand and around my neck there are long necklaces with junk, party jewels. and there is an eerie voice somewhere in the painting, i dont know how to paint that, which keeps repeating in the worst monotone that can ever be imagined: tell me, what is the time? tell me what is the time? tell me what is the time?<br />
<br />
oh i have to cook !<br />
i have to make that stupid silly sambar i promised my family and they believed it like stupid silly people.. B even took care to arrange the hing and the sambar powder on the kitchen shelf, with the sullen and silent reminder that i better make dal or else!<br />
or else what? nothing. i will just fall further from the status of being woman, human, mother, wife...<br />
as if i care !!<br />
<br />
omg, i have to finish writing that book !!<br />
he will call me today i am sure, with all those smiles and that kindness, which is far worse than axes that break your head. and i will feel my stomach throbbing with what i now recognize as the worst attack of squeamishness or guilt..<br />
but everything passes.. the conversation will end, i will squeeze the end button like a ripe pimple, and i will throw the mobile into the heaps of clothes on the bed - btw i really have to wash my clothes or what will i wear to college on monday? - so that i wont even hear it when he calls me next time, and i will forget all about it !!!<br />
<br />
i have to correct that thesis on english language teaching in yemen. that man has been begging and pleading for those last thrity pages: <i>madam, i am writing you again, after waiting for more than three weeks...</i><br />
as if i even complete reading it! or far worse, am i beginning to get some pleasure making him plead?<br />
<br />
i need to get an hair cut. i need to make those life changing calls that i promised to jane, jeena and jessy (and of course, tom, dick and harry) and i need to at least reply mails that have been patiently asking me for the nth time, whether i can find some time to write back at least once, so that they can make some move, some decision, take a position, go hit someone, etc, etc... <br />
<br />
i need a new painting on my lonely wall that feels no commitment to no one or anything at all. i need a real clock there, with real solid needles, that show the time. and the eerie ghastly voice needs to be replaced with the mechanics of tick tick tock...<br />
<br />
and at any given point, i need to be able to give the right answer to anyone who asks: tell me what is the time?jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-18729692855973990092008-10-31T15:48:00.001+05:302008-10-31T16:34:17.655+05:30bday rantmind all confused. if there is a mind, its all confused. if there is confusion, it is in my mind all scattered.<br />
if there is a scattered, confused, scattered, it is mind, mine.<br />
<br />
these days..they endlessly pass through doorways, subways, metro buses, auto rickshaws, college corridors, like an unreal movie-ghost in a real-life play feeling totally spaced out. my mind.<br />
<br />
this you that i search in the spectres in my real life in the phantom of a corridor in a mind all emptied out...<br />
<br />
laundry done, dishes washed, floor mopped, cartoon channel disconnected, home work yet to be done, little table arranged at the window, little feet should stop dancing for a minute, then i can give you a kiss....<br />
<br />
with one weird, wired, wicked, mama-mind all gone today on a holiday, far away, where no one can see where ...<br />
<br />
the connections come loose in a switch board, in the city where there is a search patrol on for stories that you will never write, the manic brain in twisted mode, gasping for your name in the skies...<br />
<br />
oh god please can't you make it this time, everything depends on the verdict that you deliver, am i lost or am i losing it...this humble, humiliating, honor-less waiting and this<br />
<br />
mind<br />
<br />
all mixed upjenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-32771293869096740762008-09-28T17:43:00.005+05:302010-02-15T18:49:19.754+05:30differentyou feed rotis to cows. we eat cow-meat with rotis.<br />
you eat rice with rotis. we eat rotis with rice.<br />
you sing bhajans when we sleep. we sleep when you are screaming bhajans<br />
you kill ravana on Dusserah. we ressurect his brother on Onam<br />
you celebrate the glory of light. we celebrate the hope of darknessjenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8738068205221992247.post-22741097494772001052008-09-28T00:38:00.014+05:302010-02-15T18:48:00.158+05:30a new post: for youa new post about hope, in an ocean of vultures, with the eyes of television cameras sneaking down on our terror, making headlines.<br />
<br />
a new post about mushrooms floating in chicken sauce against the the fragrance of Sikkim steamed rice.<br />
<br />
heavy lidded scholars meeting in a dungeon room - <br />
calls coming in about the new blast in Mehrauli, but the meeting will go on..<br />
and then she gets up to speak as her dupatta slips... "lets bring out a parcha about this entire<br />
communalization of terror."<br />
<br />
a new post about miss-pink-gums-and-decayed-teeth-daughter,<br />
her first playschool in Delhi - Usha Ganguli 'Shushu' Vihar, we tease her and<br />
she crumbles into your lap in flower-laughter.<br />
<br />
whatever the world is today above the head in smoke, sound, screams, anguish,<br />
wringing hands, feeling helpless, <i>switch off the television set please, i want to eat,</i><br />
whatever the world is evil, monstrous, bad, i remain to watch you smile...child.<br />
<br />
do you know every morning the peacocks come to drink water from our water tank?<br />
and your friend's father has a ring tone, which makes a frog -in-the-well noise?<br />
<br />
do you know that i still love bottle-green Nutrine sweets?<br />
and that your grandmother wore her first pink chudidar today?<br />
<br />
the splash of red was a poster torn out from the worstest place in the world, McDonalds,<br />
and when it fell on the pavement it looked like a painting made in haste.<br />
and then we stamped on it and walked ahead..?<br />
<br />
and do you know that there are these people i met, who has this magic syrup,<br />
which lets you see seven million colors dancing in the sun,<br />
like a giant sparkling octopus?jenny rowenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09814531225432840692noreply@blogger.com