The good, the bad and the ugly.
Bhutanese society is increasingly churning out stereotypes.
And this applies most pertinently to women.
The fairer sex, the always un-understood or misunderstood enigma, the living mystery of all times.
But evolving times and situations have given rise to various breeds of females.
Or at least that is how society sees and tags them. Take a look, girls and see if you fit in into one of these:
1.The good girl: She won’t go to parties, discotheques or clubs. She will be the do-gooder – the mousy, shy introvert. She will probably have a history of being a studious student, maybe not too bright but obedient and no boy-friends for the record. Being a homebody enhances her image. Men usually term them “sweet” and “cute” (in other words NOT “hot”). Ninety nine percent possibility to hundred is that they will attract geeks or mama’s boys for husbands who want to “take a nice (unexciting) girl back home.”
2.The vamp: A party animal, she will be into boozing and smoking. Maybe a puff of marijuana would do no harm. Will have lived through a string of boyfriends, maybe live-in relationships by the dozen which did not see the light of day. Bitching and gossiping will be her forte. As she says, she just loves to “have a good time.” Usually attracts hot-blooded males who can’t see beyond the stilettoed legs. Moves around in her own circle of friends but is usually independent, can take bold decisions and fun to be with. However, a big “no-no” for conservative males. The “good girls” self-righteously snub this type.
3.The wonder woman: Will be known for her intellect and management (or lack of it) abilities. Men hate her guts. She can boss even over MCPs (Male chauvinistic pigs) and she has her subordinates shivering in their shoes: she can be termed a “bitch” for her over-bearing ways. She is enterprising, calculative and intelligent. Can be a single mother or a divorcee.
4.The house-wife: Will be fulfilling her duties as a wife (how cheerfully, would be doubtful) but there will be no end to her tale of woes which her close friends or neighbor will have to listen to (suffer). The baby puked, hubby gave his salary to his mother again, children are getting beaten up by the big bully/ teacher at school, the baby-sitter ran away and blah, blah…(Heaven save the husband!)
5.The socialite: Will have hooked in a husband with big bucks but who usually does not know she exists. Half of her life will be spent in kitty parties and a round or two of gambling. Leads an ostentatious superficial lifestyle. Usually drives around in a Prado with dark goggles. Nearing mid-life crisis but unable to age gracefully. Usually has a toy-boy in toy.
6.The career-woman: Perhaps the most common of the young, upcoming lot. Usually a graduate. Trying to balance home, work and relationships. Trying to come in to terms with reality. Harbors big-time ambitions to do better in life (for them owning a car is one dream fulfilled).
Sunday, November 14, 2010
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORY (The life of Bhutanese journalists as it is)
Journalists are an outspoken lot - that is what everyone believes.
Journalists are all over the place - that is what everyone says.
But what are the cardinal rules for journalists in Bhutan? Here are a few (there can be more):
1. Bhutanese journalists are always broke.
2. Bhutanese journalists are famous at infamous places like shady bars and raucous clubs.
3. Convention is unconventional for journalists.
4. Bhutanese journalists can shock prim people out of their wits, not only with their half-researched, half-baked (sometimes outrageous) stories but with their lack of propriety (in manner and attire) and loose lingo.
5. Whenever you call up a high level official, if you are lucky they will say they can’t talk to you over the phone. If you are not, they will slam down the phone to your face.
So what does a fresh out-of-college graduate, inexperienced, shy and unsure of herself do when she is suddenly thrown into the media world filled with un-proclaimed mavericks, self-proclaimed intellectuals and unabashed eccentrics? (Normalcy in the media fraternity is a virtue)
Recovering from culture shock takes a few months. Then comes the tricky part – learning the tricks of the trade. How do you do it? If the journalist is a female possessing physical charms and the person she is dealing with is a hot-blooded male, half of the way, she is guaranteed a good deal of attention. But at the end, aggression, assertiveness, writing and reporting skills (short of stealing official documents, eavesdropping and accessing secret information by other underhand means) go a long way in making you a known (notorious) journalist. Of course, not without the side effects - most bureaucrats who have to tolerate the journalist’s nosiness consider journalists a formidable foe (pest).
Meeting deadlines is another issue that is always an issue. Weeklies breed lethargy for half the week. Dailies set the adrenaline pumping.
Editors barking, reporters bunking, the hurried tapping of keyboards late evenings, hazy smoke-filled cubicles and messy rooms is the typical scenario in a Bhutanese newsroom. The trend runs amok in newsrooms, much like some unruly reporters.
The hunt for stories is an adventure to some while for others who get up from the wrong side of the bed, it is pure pain. Sources and contacts are a journalist’s livelihood, and if you can charm them over with a glass of drinks and some witty one-liners, you are guaranteed a lot more than story ideas.
Discipline is a much needed but absolutely rare quality. For most journalists, the day begins when half of the world is asleep. Late nights and drinks, gossip, blowing one’s trumpet about your so-called innate abilities though no one else seems to notice it, is part and parcel of a journalist’s social life.
But what keeps a journalist going? The craving for freedom, adventure and change. Journalists like to think of themselves as crusaders. They love to challenge beliefs. They know that what they write can change lives. It can change systems. It can bring down governments. When you write news, you become news yourself. And that all contributes to the bigger picture. That is what spurs a journalist on. That is what drives a journalist on despite mounting pressure and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. If a journalist has a family, it calls for a lot of sacrifice. Time and resources need to be divided between work and family. And often, call it the tragedy of a journalist’s life but work wins. Journalists can often turn into workaholics because they thrive on pressure and excitement which their profession provides in abundance. A journalist often appears to be an egoist, but as Ayn Rand puts it, the egoist is the most selfless creator because a whole literate society thrives on the works of a journalist who knows what to create and how to.
Journalists are all over the place - that is what everyone says.
But what are the cardinal rules for journalists in Bhutan? Here are a few (there can be more):
1. Bhutanese journalists are always broke.
2. Bhutanese journalists are famous at infamous places like shady bars and raucous clubs.
3. Convention is unconventional for journalists.
4. Bhutanese journalists can shock prim people out of their wits, not only with their half-researched, half-baked (sometimes outrageous) stories but with their lack of propriety (in manner and attire) and loose lingo.
5. Whenever you call up a high level official, if you are lucky they will say they can’t talk to you over the phone. If you are not, they will slam down the phone to your face.
So what does a fresh out-of-college graduate, inexperienced, shy and unsure of herself do when she is suddenly thrown into the media world filled with un-proclaimed mavericks, self-proclaimed intellectuals and unabashed eccentrics? (Normalcy in the media fraternity is a virtue)
Recovering from culture shock takes a few months. Then comes the tricky part – learning the tricks of the trade. How do you do it? If the journalist is a female possessing physical charms and the person she is dealing with is a hot-blooded male, half of the way, she is guaranteed a good deal of attention. But at the end, aggression, assertiveness, writing and reporting skills (short of stealing official documents, eavesdropping and accessing secret information by other underhand means) go a long way in making you a known (notorious) journalist. Of course, not without the side effects - most bureaucrats who have to tolerate the journalist’s nosiness consider journalists a formidable foe (pest).
Meeting deadlines is another issue that is always an issue. Weeklies breed lethargy for half the week. Dailies set the adrenaline pumping.
Editors barking, reporters bunking, the hurried tapping of keyboards late evenings, hazy smoke-filled cubicles and messy rooms is the typical scenario in a Bhutanese newsroom. The trend runs amok in newsrooms, much like some unruly reporters.
The hunt for stories is an adventure to some while for others who get up from the wrong side of the bed, it is pure pain. Sources and contacts are a journalist’s livelihood, and if you can charm them over with a glass of drinks and some witty one-liners, you are guaranteed a lot more than story ideas.
Discipline is a much needed but absolutely rare quality. For most journalists, the day begins when half of the world is asleep. Late nights and drinks, gossip, blowing one’s trumpet about your so-called innate abilities though no one else seems to notice it, is part and parcel of a journalist’s social life.
But what keeps a journalist going? The craving for freedom, adventure and change. Journalists like to think of themselves as crusaders. They love to challenge beliefs. They know that what they write can change lives. It can change systems. It can bring down governments. When you write news, you become news yourself. And that all contributes to the bigger picture. That is what spurs a journalist on. That is what drives a journalist on despite mounting pressure and seemingly insurmountable obstacles. If a journalist has a family, it calls for a lot of sacrifice. Time and resources need to be divided between work and family. And often, call it the tragedy of a journalist’s life but work wins. Journalists can often turn into workaholics because they thrive on pressure and excitement which their profession provides in abundance. A journalist often appears to be an egoist, but as Ayn Rand puts it, the egoist is the most selfless creator because a whole literate society thrives on the works of a journalist who knows what to create and how to.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
THE RAIN SONG
Pitter patter, the rain drops fall
Thunder claps and lightning flash
Swaying trees dancing to monsoon’s breeze
Grey skies overcast with laden clouds
Swelling river roaring its rage
Puddles forming on little tread ground
Rivulets racing the stony path
Jaded green revived
By falling dew from above
Smell of damp earth
Rising like a forgotten memory
And me alone on my balcony
Cocooned in solitude and calm
Surely moments like this do no harm!
A cup of aromatic tea
And a copy of “Gitanjali”
To keep me company!
Norah Jones’ honeyed vocals
Mingling with a playful child’s shrieks
A silent spectator
Of heaven’s open flood gates
Tracing an intricate song
Of water and wind
Of seasons and cycles
Oh, for the pure joy of living!
Thunder claps and lightning flash
Swaying trees dancing to monsoon’s breeze
Grey skies overcast with laden clouds
Swelling river roaring its rage
Puddles forming on little tread ground
Rivulets racing the stony path
Jaded green revived
By falling dew from above
Smell of damp earth
Rising like a forgotten memory
And me alone on my balcony
Cocooned in solitude and calm
Surely moments like this do no harm!
A cup of aromatic tea
And a copy of “Gitanjali”
To keep me company!
Norah Jones’ honeyed vocals
Mingling with a playful child’s shrieks
A silent spectator
Of heaven’s open flood gates
Tracing an intricate song
Of water and wind
Of seasons and cycles
Oh, for the pure joy of living!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A LESSON ON GIVING
Memories.
Some rue over it. Some cry over it. Some smile over it and some thrive on it.
I have my own memories.
A host of it, actually.
Old ones. Recent ones.
Now that I have been transferred to Gelephu as a bureau correspondent for my paper, I want to look back and reflect on my bitter-sweet experiences.
I stayed at the capital for five whole months and it was a learning experience.
I shared a small room at one of my good friend’s place.
It was cramped and far from being a palace. I stayed there for more than four months.
The modest quarter was shared by the whole family.
But I gleaned some important lessons from them.
My friend and her family never ever gave me reason to feel that I was a burden on them.
I knew I was occupying their private space.
My late working hours were another concern.
But my friend’s mom who runs a small canteen was one of the best examples of diligence, perseverance, patience and caring I have ever come across.
“My own Mother Teresa,” is what my friend calls her.
I couldn’t agree more.
Then there were her sisters and cousins, the sweetest girls I have met in a long time.
Ever-ready to help, to serve.
And the camaraderie they share is commendable.
I question myself.
I was never a long-suffering person.
I am known for my quick temper and tongue.
I am impatient and often too critical even with my own family.
But I saw exemplary patience and harmony here.
I learnt that affluence and mammon cannot guarantee happiness.
There are other things that count.
That are far more priceless.
Like love and selflessness.
We crib and complain about little inconveniences when we have almost everything that we need.
Even I do.
But I realized that I need to count my blessings before I harp on what is missing in my life.
And that there are people along life’s highway who are more willing to give than to receive.
Some rue over it. Some cry over it. Some smile over it and some thrive on it.
I have my own memories.
A host of it, actually.
Old ones. Recent ones.
Now that I have been transferred to Gelephu as a bureau correspondent for my paper, I want to look back and reflect on my bitter-sweet experiences.
I stayed at the capital for five whole months and it was a learning experience.
I shared a small room at one of my good friend’s place.
It was cramped and far from being a palace. I stayed there for more than four months.
The modest quarter was shared by the whole family.
But I gleaned some important lessons from them.
My friend and her family never ever gave me reason to feel that I was a burden on them.
I knew I was occupying their private space.
My late working hours were another concern.
But my friend’s mom who runs a small canteen was one of the best examples of diligence, perseverance, patience and caring I have ever come across.
“My own Mother Teresa,” is what my friend calls her.
I couldn’t agree more.
Then there were her sisters and cousins, the sweetest girls I have met in a long time.
Ever-ready to help, to serve.
And the camaraderie they share is commendable.
I question myself.
I was never a long-suffering person.
I am known for my quick temper and tongue.
I am impatient and often too critical even with my own family.
But I saw exemplary patience and harmony here.
I learnt that affluence and mammon cannot guarantee happiness.
There are other things that count.
That are far more priceless.
Like love and selflessness.
We crib and complain about little inconveniences when we have almost everything that we need.
Even I do.
But I realized that I need to count my blessings before I harp on what is missing in my life.
And that there are people along life’s highway who are more willing to give than to receive.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
THE INNER DEMONS
She sees faces and hears voices, images blending and disintegrating. She can hear whispers…intangible, mysterious and derogatory.
She sees pointing fingers, scornful eyes and sarcastic smirks.
“Mom! Dad! Where are you?” She calls out to silence.
Suddenly she drifts to an abandoned island. There are no stars, only the full moon partially hidden behind a dark cloud. There is a gust of wind and she shivers in the cold, her tattered dress the only protection.
“Where are you?” She cries out again.
She hears a cackling, coarse laughter.
“Lost and scared, cry-baby?” Voices draw nearer…then an ominous silence.
“Help!”
“There is no one to help you here.” An icy voice.
“No!” She stumbles and gets up.
She scrambles away, trying to escape the voices. But the voices are ruthless, they won’t leave. They follow her, surround her from every side.
“You can’t run away from us…”
“Get away from me!” She shouts.
“We are you yourself kid…we can’t just go away…we are part of you!” The laughter echoes.
“No! I am different…I am not like you!” She yells. “I am good!”
“Accept it, you foolish child! Accept it!” The voices return.
“You think you are good, eh?” The tone of the voices is malevolent, triumphant.
“You are just another human being and they are all fools!”
“We are here to take you,” the voices announce.
“Come now, don’t fight us,” honeyed, coaxing words.
“I won’t let you take me!” She gasps, the cold getting into her bones.
The moonlight grows dimmer. She tries to run away but a strange force paralyses her…
“There is no escape. You can’t run away from yourself…”
“Come, come…all you have to do is accept us…”
She swoons, feeling a heavy weight descending upon her frame. The voices turn into murmurs, dying slowly. Everything fades into the blackness of night. In the distance, an owl hoots.
Night merges with the day. The cold gives way to warmth as the first rays of the sun rising from the sun falls on her face.
She hears the chirping of the birds and the singing of the cicadas. She opens her eyes slowly to a new day.
She sees pointing fingers, scornful eyes and sarcastic smirks.
“Mom! Dad! Where are you?” She calls out to silence.
Suddenly she drifts to an abandoned island. There are no stars, only the full moon partially hidden behind a dark cloud. There is a gust of wind and she shivers in the cold, her tattered dress the only protection.
“Where are you?” She cries out again.
She hears a cackling, coarse laughter.
“Lost and scared, cry-baby?” Voices draw nearer…then an ominous silence.
“Help!”
“There is no one to help you here.” An icy voice.
“No!” She stumbles and gets up.
She scrambles away, trying to escape the voices. But the voices are ruthless, they won’t leave. They follow her, surround her from every side.
“You can’t run away from us…”
“Get away from me!” She shouts.
“We are you yourself kid…we can’t just go away…we are part of you!” The laughter echoes.
“No! I am different…I am not like you!” She yells. “I am good!”
“Accept it, you foolish child! Accept it!” The voices return.
“You think you are good, eh?” The tone of the voices is malevolent, triumphant.
“You are just another human being and they are all fools!”
“We are here to take you,” the voices announce.
“Come now, don’t fight us,” honeyed, coaxing words.
“I won’t let you take me!” She gasps, the cold getting into her bones.
The moonlight grows dimmer. She tries to run away but a strange force paralyses her…
“There is no escape. You can’t run away from yourself…”
“Come, come…all you have to do is accept us…”
She swoons, feeling a heavy weight descending upon her frame. The voices turn into murmurs, dying slowly. Everything fades into the blackness of night. In the distance, an owl hoots.
Night merges with the day. The cold gives way to warmth as the first rays of the sun rising from the sun falls on her face.
She hears the chirping of the birds and the singing of the cicadas. She opens her eyes slowly to a new day.
TO DADDY, WITH LOVE
I can see the lines on his face clearly. He looks so tired and old now. His hand trembles as he reaches out to feel the smoothness of the leaves. His body is shriveled up. He stoops when he walks. Soon I will have to buy him a walking stick, I think.
But something is different here. I am not looking at a pathetic sight. Something is not right in this supposedly sad scene. His eyes…yes, his eyes…They are gay and twinkling with mischief.
And there is a slight smile on his face. I don’t see the bitterness of suffering or the cynicism of old age.
I remember him holding my little hand, carrying me, guiding me. I see him working hard day and night to meet life’s demands and support us financially, emotionally, physically and in any other way he could.
“Apa!” I call out and rest my hand on his shoulder. He turns around and looks at me fondly. The way he looks at me shelters me with love and makes me feel like a child once again. I feel secure, protected and complete.
We walk together slowly on the little trodden path. He is not strong and sturdy now but I can see strength in his gentleness, a gentleness which can melt bones.
“You are growing up!” He says teasingly.
“Yeah, I have to! Do you think I will remain a kid?” I reply in mock anger.
“For me you are still a kid!” He laughs.
We celebrate life together. He is always there to help me, nurture me.
“I have lived my life to the fullest. Now it’s your turn,” he says.
I let the depth of his words sink in. I see the beauty of age and maturity in him. I look at him silently but he is busy gazing at a butterfly.
But something is different here. I am not looking at a pathetic sight. Something is not right in this supposedly sad scene. His eyes…yes, his eyes…They are gay and twinkling with mischief.
And there is a slight smile on his face. I don’t see the bitterness of suffering or the cynicism of old age.
I remember him holding my little hand, carrying me, guiding me. I see him working hard day and night to meet life’s demands and support us financially, emotionally, physically and in any other way he could.
“Apa!” I call out and rest my hand on his shoulder. He turns around and looks at me fondly. The way he looks at me shelters me with love and makes me feel like a child once again. I feel secure, protected and complete.
We walk together slowly on the little trodden path. He is not strong and sturdy now but I can see strength in his gentleness, a gentleness which can melt bones.
“You are growing up!” He says teasingly.
“Yeah, I have to! Do you think I will remain a kid?” I reply in mock anger.
“For me you are still a kid!” He laughs.
We celebrate life together. He is always there to help me, nurture me.
“I have lived my life to the fullest. Now it’s your turn,” he says.
I let the depth of his words sink in. I see the beauty of age and maturity in him. I look at him silently but he is busy gazing at a butterfly.
A BEAUTY IS BORN
“Can you see it?” The boy asked the girl. He was stretching a small oval mirror before her face and prompting her to look into it.
The girl was startled for a moment; then she looked at the reflection staring back at her. There was a dark blob for a face, a mass of wild curly hair and a mouth that was neither sweet nor voluptuous.
She hid her hands in her face.
“Take it away from me,” she sobbed.
The boy clasped her hands and lifted up her tear-drenched face.
“You don’t know how beautiful you are,” he said gently.
The girl looked at him to see if he was being scornful but his eyes were flashing with sincere warmth.
All her life she had bore the brunt of being the odd one out in her family. Her mother had been a conventional beauty and her two sisters had taken after the mother. But when it came to her, she had not been blessed with the fair alabaster skin, almond eyes, tempting ruddy lips and lissome rounded limbs that the other females in her family had.
Over time the mirror had turned out to be her greatest enemy and as a growing young maiden, she had always remained in the back drop.
Then he had discovered her.
“How can you love someone so plain, so ugly?” She asked as usual.
He stood silent for a long time as if he had expected the question.
“Today I will tell you how beautiful you are to me,” he said, “I have been waiting for this.”
“Look into the mirror,” he commanded.
“See those eyes,” he said, “I have seen sublimity in those eyes. I have seen love, gentleness and passion in them. I have seen the tenderness with which they beheld the sufferings of others. I have seen fire in them
When you fought for what was right. I have seen clarity in them when you had a vision to achieve.”
“Have you noticed your smile?” He asked. “Artificial, weak smiles I have seen in many women. They are intended to create an impression but when you smile it is as if the sun has just risen and made the world aglow. Your smile is the expression of your real, true emotions. There is nothing fake about it. There is ardent warmth, vigorous pleasure in it.”
“Have you noticed the beauty of your person? Your dark skin is like gossamer. It reminds me of the night studded with stars. Your hair dances with the wind to create a cosmic rhythm, your slight figure to me is a pure pillar of strength which houses a soul myriad times fairer and more precious than a gem.”
“You are not a flower. It would wilt and wither away. You are the likeness of one engraved in a priceless stone but with the freshness and fragrance of a newly blossomed rose.”
The girl slowly raised her eyes unto the mirror. She was seeing a new person… a beautiful, radiant person. She was prized and valued by someone she loved. She had never looked or felt so beautiful. She smiled and her smile merged with that of the boy’s who took her hand. They walked away together into a world where love had bathed everything in sunshine.
Thus, a beauty was born.
The girl was startled for a moment; then she looked at the reflection staring back at her. There was a dark blob for a face, a mass of wild curly hair and a mouth that was neither sweet nor voluptuous.
She hid her hands in her face.
“Take it away from me,” she sobbed.
The boy clasped her hands and lifted up her tear-drenched face.
“You don’t know how beautiful you are,” he said gently.
The girl looked at him to see if he was being scornful but his eyes were flashing with sincere warmth.
All her life she had bore the brunt of being the odd one out in her family. Her mother had been a conventional beauty and her two sisters had taken after the mother. But when it came to her, she had not been blessed with the fair alabaster skin, almond eyes, tempting ruddy lips and lissome rounded limbs that the other females in her family had.
Over time the mirror had turned out to be her greatest enemy and as a growing young maiden, she had always remained in the back drop.
Then he had discovered her.
“How can you love someone so plain, so ugly?” She asked as usual.
He stood silent for a long time as if he had expected the question.
“Today I will tell you how beautiful you are to me,” he said, “I have been waiting for this.”
“Look into the mirror,” he commanded.
“See those eyes,” he said, “I have seen sublimity in those eyes. I have seen love, gentleness and passion in them. I have seen the tenderness with which they beheld the sufferings of others. I have seen fire in them
When you fought for what was right. I have seen clarity in them when you had a vision to achieve.”
“Have you noticed your smile?” He asked. “Artificial, weak smiles I have seen in many women. They are intended to create an impression but when you smile it is as if the sun has just risen and made the world aglow. Your smile is the expression of your real, true emotions. There is nothing fake about it. There is ardent warmth, vigorous pleasure in it.”
“Have you noticed the beauty of your person? Your dark skin is like gossamer. It reminds me of the night studded with stars. Your hair dances with the wind to create a cosmic rhythm, your slight figure to me is a pure pillar of strength which houses a soul myriad times fairer and more precious than a gem.”
“You are not a flower. It would wilt and wither away. You are the likeness of one engraved in a priceless stone but with the freshness and fragrance of a newly blossomed rose.”
The girl slowly raised her eyes unto the mirror. She was seeing a new person… a beautiful, radiant person. She was prized and valued by someone she loved. She had never looked or felt so beautiful. She smiled and her smile merged with that of the boy’s who took her hand. They walked away together into a world where love had bathed everything in sunshine.
Thus, a beauty was born.
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