Yesterday I went for this 'Tall Tales' event in South Mumbai (SoBo). The concept seemed pretty cool, and there were no movies (that I was interested in watching) releasing this week. Thus the long pilgrimage to SoBo.
The idea of Tall Tales is that people who have an anecdote interesting enough to recount gather there to do so in the full 24 gun salute fashion - gripping language, humorous description, voice and story inflection, accent, modulation. It is not impromptu, but said stories and storytellers are screened, auditioned, trained and then put up on the small informal stage.
It was an idea radical enough to drag us out of our Bandra-bubble and into the arms of the famed SoBo bustling with charming old Victorian architecture and reverse snobbery. What be reverse snobbery, you ask? Okay, let me attempt a colorful description. We reached the venue, and looked around for a building that looked like it could host a literary gathering. But couldn't find anything to fit the mental image. A couple of phone calls established that we were indeed standing right in front of the hallowed portals beyond which floated our tales, waiting for us in anticipation. This unlikely looking building was rickety, its staircase long, winding and wooden with a general air that whispered to you in perfect English at every breath you took (breath which was shortening by the second due to the long ascent) - We be SoBo. We no have new buildings, working lifts, air-conditioners or any of them gaudy and low-class trappings of the nouveau-riche. You wanna watch play? You wanna hang with us, poor burb-ites? You gotta earn it.
We wanted to play with them. So we climbed, albeit a little cautiously lest the staircase collapse. And we let the tales begin.
To be honest, while the concept was interesting, not all of the tales turned out to be so. But the majority of them were amusing, told impeccably, in a rich descriptive humorous manner, keeping us in moderate splits.
The whole thing led me to wonder if ever I would be interested in putting out one of my tales and if so, which one of them would meet the criteria of being interesting and insightful enough. While there can be many and with some embellishment a few of them can be made into screenplays for KJo's next, there is this one episode which seems the most worthy of being recounted. KJo won't touch it with a ten feet barge pole, and I also fear the poor thing will be rejected by the Tall Tales team for being too edgy and not nearly amusing enough, but let me put it down here as bits & bytes, for public consumption.
It was a few years ago - four to five at the most. I was living in Bandra and enjoying every bit of it - the cafes, eateries, the sea, crowds when you needed them and serenity when you knew where to find it, freedom, most of all the freedom to do and be as you pleased, without fearing anybody would care, judge, persecute or pester. But I soon realized the horizon was not all that wrinkle-free and that morons sometimes get a free pass into heaven.
So one dark evening, I was heading home leisurely, back from a walk. I lived then in an apartment housed in a building on Union park road, which is the street perpendicular to Carter road. If you have been there you would immediately be able to conjure a mental picture when I tell you that the building I lived in was beyond that part of Union park road which has half the restaurants and hole-in-wall eateries of Bandra and where half of Mumbai congregates on a weekend. That part where I lived can get quite deserted.
Well, I was strolling along peacefully, with not a care in the world when I noticed this boy walking alongside me. He was a boy, probably not more than 18 or 19 years, with a back-pack, looking like he was heading home from tuition classes or college or something. I didn't pay much attention and continued on my way. But then he said something and I looked at him, my first thought being that he was asking me for directions. He repeated what he had said, and what he said is not something I can or want to repeat here. Suffice it to say it was a most vulgar thing to say. I was shocked. The boy didn't look the type - the very fact that he was coming from someplace where an effort had been made to educate him - seemed to suggest that he should have been above this kind of behavior. He took encouragement from my momentary stupefaction and dialed up his perv-quotient. He started saying more similar stuff and even adding obscene visuals to this degenerate speech.
Now I wasn't exactly a spring chicken. As a young school girl in Mumbai, I had had more than my fair share of molestation. But I wasn't a school girl anymore and more so, Bandra was my turf. This green-under-the-thumb boy here had decided to mess with a fully grown adult, with a head full of feminist ideas and a job description that read as 'Area Sales Manager' entailing regular interactions with wily old businessmen and other tough nuts. I wasn't about to take this shit.
I started talking back to him - How dare you talk like this, you moron - kind of stuff. He seemed taken aback. I raised my voice, faded memories from similar long past incidents (where flight rather than fight had seemed like the prudent option) suddenly coming alive filling me with an incandescent rage. I realized that there was a smattering of people around - shopkeepers, lone walkers like me, some cars etc and as my decibel rose, some of these started looking my way. I don't know what led me to attempt enlisting their attention, but I did. I found myself screaming at the top of my voice, telling everyone around that this here boy had been trying to act fresh with me.
By that time the boy had smelled trouble and started walking away quickly. Perhaps he sensed that the atmosphere was getting uncomfortably charged, that people around were suitably mobilized and so they were. In a matter of seconds the situation escalated such that the boy broke into a run, with several people at his heels. I saw shopkeepers come out of their shops, drivers out of their cars, people walking on the street turn direction, even a car turn around, all to chase after him.
I was still screaming, I don't remember exactly what, but something to the effect of dragging him to the police station, when I realized that he had got away. Normalcy returned with frightening speed and soon I was walking back to my building, looking as if nothing untoward had happened in the last five minutes.
But I was terrified inside. And for a very different reason. Yes, I was surprised that one as young as this boy and seemingly from a family of some means and desire to get their children educated, could have behaved in such a perverse manner. But in general this sort of an encounter isn't new, we regularly encounter men who have a twisted idea of what it means to be a man and how a woman should be treated, looking to get cheap thrills from such escapades. It continues to be abhorrent, but is nothing new. What was truly terrifying to me was the behavior of the crowd turned mob. That mob meant murder and had the boy been caught, he would have been in all likelihood ground to pulp that day.
Was it the anger of a crowd wanting to teach that disrespectful moron a lesson or was it something else? Today, is our frustration bubbling and boiling over so, that it channelizes itself through such dangerous acts of good samaritanism? Where does proportionate redress stop and barbarianism begin?
The idea of Tall Tales is that people who have an anecdote interesting enough to recount gather there to do so in the full 24 gun salute fashion - gripping language, humorous description, voice and story inflection, accent, modulation. It is not impromptu, but said stories and storytellers are screened, auditioned, trained and then put up on the small informal stage.
It was an idea radical enough to drag us out of our Bandra-bubble and into the arms of the famed SoBo bustling with charming old Victorian architecture and reverse snobbery. What be reverse snobbery, you ask? Okay, let me attempt a colorful description. We reached the venue, and looked around for a building that looked like it could host a literary gathering. But couldn't find anything to fit the mental image. A couple of phone calls established that we were indeed standing right in front of the hallowed portals beyond which floated our tales, waiting for us in anticipation. This unlikely looking building was rickety, its staircase long, winding and wooden with a general air that whispered to you in perfect English at every breath you took (breath which was shortening by the second due to the long ascent) - We be SoBo. We no have new buildings, working lifts, air-conditioners or any of them gaudy and low-class trappings of the nouveau-riche. You wanna watch play? You wanna hang with us, poor burb-ites? You gotta earn it.
We wanted to play with them. So we climbed, albeit a little cautiously lest the staircase collapse. And we let the tales begin.
To be honest, while the concept was interesting, not all of the tales turned out to be so. But the majority of them were amusing, told impeccably, in a rich descriptive humorous manner, keeping us in moderate splits.
The whole thing led me to wonder if ever I would be interested in putting out one of my tales and if so, which one of them would meet the criteria of being interesting and insightful enough. While there can be many and with some embellishment a few of them can be made into screenplays for KJo's next, there is this one episode which seems the most worthy of being recounted. KJo won't touch it with a ten feet barge pole, and I also fear the poor thing will be rejected by the Tall Tales team for being too edgy and not nearly amusing enough, but let me put it down here as bits & bytes, for public consumption.
It was a few years ago - four to five at the most. I was living in Bandra and enjoying every bit of it - the cafes, eateries, the sea, crowds when you needed them and serenity when you knew where to find it, freedom, most of all the freedom to do and be as you pleased, without fearing anybody would care, judge, persecute or pester. But I soon realized the horizon was not all that wrinkle-free and that morons sometimes get a free pass into heaven.
So one dark evening, I was heading home leisurely, back from a walk. I lived then in an apartment housed in a building on Union park road, which is the street perpendicular to Carter road. If you have been there you would immediately be able to conjure a mental picture when I tell you that the building I lived in was beyond that part of Union park road which has half the restaurants and hole-in-wall eateries of Bandra and where half of Mumbai congregates on a weekend. That part where I lived can get quite deserted.
Well, I was strolling along peacefully, with not a care in the world when I noticed this boy walking alongside me. He was a boy, probably not more than 18 or 19 years, with a back-pack, looking like he was heading home from tuition classes or college or something. I didn't pay much attention and continued on my way. But then he said something and I looked at him, my first thought being that he was asking me for directions. He repeated what he had said, and what he said is not something I can or want to repeat here. Suffice it to say it was a most vulgar thing to say. I was shocked. The boy didn't look the type - the very fact that he was coming from someplace where an effort had been made to educate him - seemed to suggest that he should have been above this kind of behavior. He took encouragement from my momentary stupefaction and dialed up his perv-quotient. He started saying more similar stuff and even adding obscene visuals to this degenerate speech.
Now I wasn't exactly a spring chicken. As a young school girl in Mumbai, I had had more than my fair share of molestation. But I wasn't a school girl anymore and more so, Bandra was my turf. This green-under-the-thumb boy here had decided to mess with a fully grown adult, with a head full of feminist ideas and a job description that read as 'Area Sales Manager' entailing regular interactions with wily old businessmen and other tough nuts. I wasn't about to take this shit.
I started talking back to him - How dare you talk like this, you moron - kind of stuff. He seemed taken aback. I raised my voice, faded memories from similar long past incidents (where flight rather than fight had seemed like the prudent option) suddenly coming alive filling me with an incandescent rage. I realized that there was a smattering of people around - shopkeepers, lone walkers like me, some cars etc and as my decibel rose, some of these started looking my way. I don't know what led me to attempt enlisting their attention, but I did. I found myself screaming at the top of my voice, telling everyone around that this here boy had been trying to act fresh with me.
By that time the boy had smelled trouble and started walking away quickly. Perhaps he sensed that the atmosphere was getting uncomfortably charged, that people around were suitably mobilized and so they were. In a matter of seconds the situation escalated such that the boy broke into a run, with several people at his heels. I saw shopkeepers come out of their shops, drivers out of their cars, people walking on the street turn direction, even a car turn around, all to chase after him.
I was still screaming, I don't remember exactly what, but something to the effect of dragging him to the police station, when I realized that he had got away. Normalcy returned with frightening speed and soon I was walking back to my building, looking as if nothing untoward had happened in the last five minutes.
But I was terrified inside. And for a very different reason. Yes, I was surprised that one as young as this boy and seemingly from a family of some means and desire to get their children educated, could have behaved in such a perverse manner. But in general this sort of an encounter isn't new, we regularly encounter men who have a twisted idea of what it means to be a man and how a woman should be treated, looking to get cheap thrills from such escapades. It continues to be abhorrent, but is nothing new. What was truly terrifying to me was the behavior of the crowd turned mob. That mob meant murder and had the boy been caught, he would have been in all likelihood ground to pulp that day.
Was it the anger of a crowd wanting to teach that disrespectful moron a lesson or was it something else? Today, is our frustration bubbling and boiling over so, that it channelizes itself through such dangerous acts of good samaritanism? Where does proportionate redress stop and barbarianism begin?
3 comments:
Sorry to hear this..
I once saw a woman in Bangalore who was eve-teased by a drunk and she promptly picked up her footwear and beat him up real good.
Where does proportionate redress stop and barbarianism begin?
Indeed. A very deep question. I wonder if there is an easy answer..
Interesting point S.
I travel to and from work by Metro everyday. Mostly these are jam-packed with commuters and there's a lot of shoving and pushing. No doubt men do take advantage of the rush and probably one in ten women choose to protest. But sometimes it isn't really the guy's fault (myself being witness) but the reaction of the so-called-victim and the crowd is alarming. In these times, I am at a loss... whose side should I take? The poor chap who's actually guilt-free? Or the woman, who has at least chosen to raise her voice against something she found objectionable (albeit a misunderstanding).. because men are quick to judge, and the moment someone points out that it wasn't the guy's fault, other men would start lecturing the woman on how she shouldn't travel in a crowded metro if she is so panicky etc. That would discourage and petrify the other girls from protesting should something similar happen to them.
Yogesh - a dilemma undoubtedly :)
Post a Comment