Tw Violence

My thoughts during an exam

1.      I’ll write “mathematics” instead of “math” so that the answer looks longer

2.      Two hours left

3.      Which subject is this?!

4.      Ooh, who got busted for cheating this time?

5.      Why are people leaving already? Did they skip questions or am I just stupid?

6.      OH GODS has my watch stopped?!?

7.      No. Ok… breathe…

8.      NO DON’T WASTE TIME BREATHING YOU OAF

9.      One and a half hours left

10.   Why does this idiot behind me keep poking me in the back?!

11.   My fingers are cramping

12.   Great, my four-mark answers are longer than the twelve-mark ones

13.   Of course, now I need to go to the bathroom

14.   And I’m writing down song lyrics instead of the answers again

15.   Forty-five minutes left

16.   Shit, forty-five minutes left!

17.   This question must be wrong.

18.   This answer is horrible. Ok, I’ll add in a couple of ‘henceforths’ and see if that’ll do the trick.

19.   Why are they asking for extra paper? I knew it, my answers are too short! Great.

20.   The only way I’ll pass this exam is divine intervention

21.   I’m so sleepy…

22.   Having exams in this weather should be illegal

23.   What a lovely poky seat this is

24.   My ink got over. Great. I’ll use my other pen. So much time will be wasted now because of this.

25.   My other pen has no ink

26.   Pencil it is

27.   Nib broke. AARGH!!!

28.   She purposely gave me the worst pen she had. I bet it didn’t even cost 5 bucks

29.   5 bucks sweets are so rare nowadays… I wish they were still there.

30.   FOCUS!!!

31.   YES! My answer booklet is over!!! Now I can be all swag and ask for one more

32.   Because they just have to waste my time and give me a supplement with the staple in the middle of the page

33.   AARGH stupid staple won’t come out

34.   How the hell did HE remove it so easily? And now I look like a wuss

35.   “We don’t need noo…education…tu du du, tudu tudu…”

36.   Just 30 minutes and this will all be over!

37.   Maybe I should copy

38.   It’s justified man! Look at what a lousy paper she’s set! How the hell am I supposed to remember all of this!

39.   My partner is looking into my paper. No hope there then.

40.   Behind me!

41.   No she’s an idiot.

42.   And it’s but obvious that the only person in the class with an afro is sitting in front of me

43.   AAIYEE!! I wasted 10 minutes debating this!

44.   Lightning fast writing!

45.   I don’t know the spelling of beginning. Umm…

46.   Um…

47.   ….

48.   “Begin…ing”

49.   Now I forgot the sentence.

50.   Almost done… scribble! Scribble!

51.   3 minutes left! Scribblescribblescribble!

52.   Finished!!!

53.   The second half of my paper looks like a five year old wrote it

54.   Ok, I gave in the paper… Breathe in, breathe out…

55.   And of course, now is the perfect time to remember all the solutions to the questions I didn’t answer.

Kirtana P. Menon

Muthashan

For as long as I can remember I’ve had memories, and some of the clearest ones are of my trips to Bangalore and Chennai, where my relatives live. I recall the 24-hour train journeys to Bangalore, which I would spend jumping from top berth to top berth like a drunk monkey, and I also remember the excitement with which I would search the platform in Bangalore for the subject of this article: My Muthashan, my grandfather.

My grandfather is the embodiment of “eccentric scientist.” He is bald with a thin line of hair forming a semicircle around the back of his head and a shiny head that, according to him, is very useful when guiding aircraft. When he wakes up (at 4 in the morning), he brushes his teeth and goes down to the kitchen to have a glass of water. While reaching for the glass, his hand invariably knocks over every other utensil located within half a foot, which serves as an alarm clock for everyone else. Except my grandmother, who is used to this, and continues to sleep soundly in her room. The rest of us crack our eyes open, see that the sun hasn’t risen yet and flop back onto the bed.

Another one of my grandfather’s traits is his absentmindedness. While most of us may forget our handkerchief or maybe a water bottle, Muthashan is very capable of forgetting a person, as my Ammuma (my grandmother) will happily tell you. Let me give you an example.

My grandparents were coming home several years ago after some function, on my grandfather’s bike, when they hit a particularly large ditch. The bike jerked but didn’t fall, which is more than I can say for Ammuma. She flew off the bike and found herself sitting squarely in the middle of the road, her nice sari all rumpled and dusty. As several pedestrians tended to her, my grandfather (who had yet to notice that his wife had fallen off) continued down the road until he was out of sight. A few kilometres later, it began to occur to him that no one was replying to him, so he turned around and discovered her absence. Did it occur to him then to go back? No. He spotted a group of drunkards fighting by the roadside, and knowing my grandmother’s penchant for resolving conflict, he went there to investigate. When he didn’t find her there, he was deeply perplexed. After formulating several hypotheses, he concluded that he needed to go back the same way. Sure enough, a few kilometres down the road, he found my grandmother marching briskly towards him, swearing to herself that she would never again leave home without her own purse and money. She took one look at him and proceeded to roundly abuse him in Malayalam, when, hoping to cheer her up, he exclaimed, “But look! This bike runs so smoothly that even when 65 kilos fell off, I didn’t notice anything different!”

The words she used after that are inappropriate in public.

Ever since then, she has insisted that a four-wheeler will be the only mode of transport she uses, and no amount of lectures on fuel efficiency or the rising cost of petrol could convince her otherwise. Oh yes, and shortly after this incident, the bike was sold.

Ammuma and the rest of the family say that they wish this was the only anecdote about Muthashan, but then, he does like to live life with a flourish. So, logically, why shouldn’t there be even more stories in which he has unknowingly risked being disowned by his dear family?

Now, considering my grandfather’s idea that Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is appropriate breaking-the-ice kind of conversation, it is easy to imagine that he does not concern himself with certain information. Not much, just irrelevant information like a person’s name, or how many kids he has. You know, things like that.

So it didn’t surprise me when I was told of how he walked up to a woman at the Indian Institute of Science (where he works) and said, “Ah, you are George’s wife, isn’t it?”

“No sir, I am Govindan Nair’s wife”

…

Thanks to a well-aimed pinch from my mother, he didn’t voice his thoughts of, “But I saw you the other day with George!”

He is now over 75 years old, and continues to blunder through life with confidence. If you are ever introduced to a man in Bangalore, and said man is wearing an expression that combines bewilderment with quiet desperation two seconds after being introduced to you, you have most certainly met M. Venugopalan, my Muthashan. But never fear! Even if he doesn’t know you, he will be delighted to take you through the technicalities of the Cassini-Huygens Spacecraft!

Kirtana P. Menon

Now a young climate activist has been arrested, remanded into judicial custody (without being given access to a lawyer!). And the Sanghis are busy comparing her with Kasab, who was a literal terrorist that killed several people. The Supreme Court is supposed to be the last refuge for citizens, instead it has been turned into another tool that the government uses to bully those who refuse to fall in line. The Supreme Court has already made judgements that say that "you cannot peacefully protest whenever and wherever you want, your protesting should not cause inconvenience to others." Essentially saying that a peaceful protest is only legal if it's out of the way, out of sight, and does not bother supreme leader modi. People tend to forget that modi is not just building up to a genocide against minorities, HE'S ALREADY PRESIDED OVER A GENOCIDE BEFORE. The 2002 Gujarat Pogrom (I refuse to call it a riot, it was state sponsored genocide, not a riot) was so devastating because modi gave orders to the police to stand down and refuse to stop the slaughter of Muslims. One police officer testified that the orders to not get involved came directly from modi's office, and that officer was arrested, charged and thrown into jail on trumped up charges. He's still in jail even now. India is already a fascist police state, the government just hasn't officially declared it.

the fact that international celebrities are addressing the farmers protest better than the indian government never fails to astound me.

Having been classmates in school with his son, I've seen him a couple of times at school. He never had any of the airs that you would normally associate with celebrities, and was really shy and quiet. He was incredibly talented and a great role model. May he Rest in Peace

In The Memory Of Irrfan Khan

On April 29th, 2020, the well-known actor Irrfan Khan passed away due to a colon inflammation. This was unexpected even when he disclosed his condition on Twitter in 2018. This is a sad occasion for everyone, so I thought instead of mourning his death, we should celebrate his contribution to the industry.

Long Story Short

Born in Rajasthan to a Muslim family, Irrfan Khan was from a generally low class family. Although he was talented in cricket, he had to opt out for acting instead because he didn’t have that much funds. He did his MA in Jaipur and joined the National School of Drama in 1984. After graduation, he was given minor roles in TV shows with little to no acknowledgement. Soon enough, he was given a slew of feature length films that gave him critical success and recognition, such as Rog, Maqbool, and Haasil. In 2008, he appeared in Slumdog Millionaire as the cop interrogating Jamal ruthlessly and he gained international recognition from there. After some more movies, he recieved a National Film Award for best actor for his role in Paan Singh Tomar. During this time, he recieved the fourth-highest civilian award, Padma Shri Award. He got a taste of commercial success with movies like The Lunchbox, Piku, and Hindi Medium, which eared him Filmfare Award for Best Actor. His career seemed to be going stable with movies like Karwaan and Angrezi Medium, but little did we know that the latter will be his last film appearance.

Notable Performances

Miyan Maqbool in Maqbool

Ranvijay Singh in Haasil

Ashoke Ganguly in The Namesake

The Police Inspector in Slumdog Millionaire

Paan Singh Tomar in Paan Singh Tomar 

“Pi” Molitor Patel (adult) in Life of Pi

Saajan Fernandes in The Lunchbox 

Rana Chaudhary in Piku 

Raj Batra in Hindi Medium

Champak Bansal in Angrezi Medium

Legacy

In his 35 years of acting, Irrfan has grown a cult following with very devoted fans. Coming from a low class family, his inspiring story to stardom is the best example of hard work and perseverance. He was a role model for an entire generation of film lovers and showed how far true dedication can get you. Truly a humble talent Bollywood didn’t deserve, his death has left a gaping hole in the industry. May he rest in peace and may his memory and legacy live on forever.

Quack Attack?

My family appears very normal. I have a father who loves sports and crime shows and I have a mother who is obsessed with vegetables and imaginary specks of dust. The only thing (yes, thing) that disturbs this image is the nutball I call my brother.

Don’t get me wrong, in front of other people he acts completely normal. Maybe a little like a clown, but still normal. The worst part is that people actually respect him! They think he is a very responsible older brother who has to babysit his bratty baby sister all the time (never mind the fact that I’m sixteen). This is what he has other people believe. I’m here to shatter all of these illusions.

My brother is an idiot. Now before you start protesting that he is in fact a very intelligent boy and I shouldn’t be saying things like this about my family, let me outline a few of the more prominent incidents. There is of course the one where he woke me up by dragging me feet-first into the kitchen. Then there is also the one where he decided to show off his arm strength by grabbing my feet in one hand and my hands in the other and flinging me onto the bed. But the one day which stands out in my mind is the day he abruptly decided to call me Quack Attack.

He likes to tell people that there is a reason behind this ridiculously idiotic nickname. There isn’t. He just suddenly decided, ‘Thou shalt henceforth be known as Quack Attack’ and that was it. I honestly didn’t know what was going on. One minute I was innocently sitting at my table and doing my homework, the next he had graced me with his extremely unwanted presence and declared that I “shall henceforth be called Quack Attack.”

My initial thought was something along the lines of, ‘doesn’t he have a hobby?’ but I dismissed that thought and, quite foolishly, I admit, asked him where this sudden announcement came from, whereupon he began to laugh and told me that I had been mumbling those words under my breath. Now that in itself is quite plausible, I do generally mutter while I am writing. But I clearly remember doing my Marathi homework at that time, so there was absolutely no reason why I would be saying ‘Quack Attack’ under my breath. But does that deter him? No, he just ignores my logical argument and sticks to his utterly idiotic beliefs!

It has been almost four years since that fateful day, and I would like to tell you that he has changed and has actually become the respectable 20-year-old everyone thinks he is. But I can’t do that because, sadly, he is still as much of an idiot as he was all those years ago. Time has not affected him one bit. His affectionate nickname has become rather famous *sob* and even certain friends have taken to calling me Quack Attack!

To those who believe that I may be exaggerating a little, I assure you, I’m not. Yes, there are times when we get along, and, having put up with him for sixteen years, I am quite used to his needling by now, but still. In my case, the ‘tyrannical older sibling’ myth isn’t a myth at all! I live it every day!

*cue Optimus Prime voice* I am Kirtana Menon, and I send this message out to all those who battle the forces of annoying older brothers. We are here. We are waiting.

i searched on hathras and dalits, and there’s not much posts here now. i made posts about it, and even they are not there now. is this tumblr’s standard operating procedure for all social movements and rape cases?

also people have already started to forget this case. let me remind you people are blaming the girl’s family as we speak for doing this to extort money from the accused. already violence against dalits is breaking out again. the upper caste monsters are threatening media, people and other political parties from entering hathras otherwise they will be killed.

don’t let this issue die. it represents everything wrong with my rotten country. please it’s a request.

and tumblr - tumblr up.

Pearls of Wisdom

I was in Bangalore for a vacation when I met my newest cousin for the first time. He didn't impress me much, just a little prune-like tot who flailed his arms around and gurgled randomly. Since he was less than a month old, there was little I could do except peep in while he slept and then beat a hasty retreat when I inevitably woke him up and caused him to warm up his deceptively deadly lungs, thus effectively kicking the rest of the family out of their sweet dreams.

Schoolwork kept me from going back to Bangalore for the next couple of years, and the memory of Cousin Ajay faded into a corner of my mind for the most part. Hence, the next time I went there, I was greeted by the shy and energetic toddler that the prune had grown into.

Ajay, I quickly discovered, was pretty smart for a two year old. He had limitless curiosity and an incredible ability to memorise everything he heard and reproduce it when it was most irrelevant. Most conversations with him went like this: (Warning: High levels of cringe detected)

Fawning Auntie: So how old are you my poochy-coo? 

Ajay: Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. 

...

A few weeks after our arrival, my uncle and aunt announced that they'd planned a trip to Coorg. So we somehow packed in three adults, two senior citizens, one preteen, one teen and a toddler into a four person car and began the long journey to Coorg. The only thing we knew was that we had to keep to a particular road, and then follow it until we reached a place called Manchanabele. Coorg was supposed to be a little further from there. 

The trip was uneventful for the most part. Simply consisting of old people talk and Grandpa complaining every few minutes about the lack of clean bathrooms in the country. Ajay clearly agreed with him, since he decided that it would be a better idea to relieve himself on my aunt instead of brave those nasty bathrooms or squat in the grass like a peasant.

My aunt somehow ignored the fragrant stain on her thigh for the rest of the journey and I too managed with minimal gagging. Soon, my aunt spotted the elusive signpost saying "Manchanabele 1 Kilometre" and read it aloud for my uncle to hear. Ajay, hearing a new sentence, quietly repeated "Manchanabele 1 Kilometre?" "Yes Ajay." "Okay. Manchanabele 1 Kilometre."

That weekend passed in a blur. We visited a waterfall, spent one day on a safari, and I vaguely remember tiptoeing around on the lookout for leeches with all the paranoia of a highly strung war veteran. All too soon however, we bid adieu to Coorg and made our way back to Bangalore.

It was on our first night back in Bangalore that I realised I had made a critical error. In the week or so that Ajay and I had known each other, I had been so busy panicking about not being able to handle toddlers, that I had completely forgotten to introduce myself to him. The poor boy had been playing with me all week without even knowing my name. 

It was when we were playing Bus and Train (wherein Ajay is the driver of a magical vehicle that changes into a bus or train randomly, while my other cousin and I were passengers) that he decided to rectify this issue. So with all the innocence of a two year old, he asked me, "What is your name?"

Glad to get a not-awkward opening to introduce myself, I replied. "Kirtana."

He clearly had difficulty pronouncing it. So he repeated the question once more. And once more I replied, carefully enunciating each syllable: "Kir-ta-na."

Now he seemed to have understood, since he was nodding proudly. Having got what he wanted, he turned around to start another game, but not before uttering this pearl of wisdom:

"Kirtana. Okay. Manchanabele 1 Kilometre."

Re-reading the Kane chronicles. Am I the only one who just noticed this?

Random daily happenings

So my brother decided to show off his artistic talents today. He made a caricature and proudly displayed it to my mother and I, asking us to guess who it was. I told him confidently that it was his classmate Jash. My mother, equally confident, said that it must be Shirdi Sai Baba.

The hapless chap turned out to be Ronaldinho.

…

Comfort Food and Khichdi

Food.

The very word inspires you with warm and fuzzy feelings, feelings of satisfaction, of happiness, of life at its very best. Whether we like the same food or not is irrelevant, because food, at its core, is one of the few things that makes everyone happy. Everyone.

Comfort food: This is the one type of food that gives emotional satisfaction to the one eating it. The eater experiences a genuine feeling of happiness while eating, usually associated with pleasant childhood memories. So comfort food is basically food that makes you really happy. That being said, allow me to proceed to my rant of the day.

I have come across an unpleasant number of people who claim that khichdi is their comfort food. The most tasteless, boring food ever to cross my path, is considered comfort food. How? Why? The only memories I have associated with khichdi are ones of the overwhelming taste of pepper on my tongue, of squishy rice and broken promises of pizza for dinner. So where does the “happy childhood memories” bit come in?

Maybe it’s just me. Because my comfort foods are Pav Bhaji and Kulfi, while my mom firmly states hers is Kerala Fish Curry with brown rice. And these are infinitely more interesting than blooming khichdi (don’t even try to argue with that). So I probably am the only one who does not understand how non-tasty food can be comforting.

In my house, khichdi is something that is made when the only other option is starvation. The pros and cons of each option are lengthily discussed, and then sometimes, we make khichdi. We have a very clear understanding of what we consider appropriate food. Khichdi is not food. Food implies everything discussed in the first paragraph. Khichdi is simply an Edible Item. I will not insult Food by clubbing it with the likes of khichdi.

And yes, I am ranting because my mom has prepared khichdi for dinner. Starvation didn’t put up a good enough argument this time.