21 December 2006

the woman destroyed, part n.

here in kuppadi winding deeper into the fractal. unable to be at peace
with a selfless guru hero figure ive moved into his home and am
swimming amidst the cold morning water and dirty piles of laundry.
indian domestic life: women beware. she is trapped between the
vicegrip of indian social expectations and the wiles and twinkling
lights of the modern world, ie, a life of her own.

we have come to a muddy crossroads. i sense that earlier this indian
woman, strong and resilient from a lifetime raised to work and to
serve (and occassionally to be worshipped), felt some sense of peace,
vindication, purpose and meaning from fulfilling her earth- and
god-given duties to children and husband. i sense this no longer will
satisfy her; when a woman can look at her children as chains
inhibiting her personal development and not the sum purpose of her
existence, something external has to change as well.

more than a cell phone with no credit because she has to ask,
politely, for any amount of points from her husband/master. more than
daily trips to a computer class where she is months behind and
apparently now learning programming (C++) instead of typing (the last
thing she remembers) and i catch her copying down 100 pages of notes
(literally -- the photocopies would be too expensive, her teacher told
her to do it, etc) of #include's and for loops and i ask her

"do you know what a program is" (the notes are in english)

and the answer is of course "no". so i give the recipe metaphor of the
programming world and explain this printf that mysteriously keeps
popping up on every page and she doesn't care too much because the sir
said to copy the pages and she's doing it.

which is what it is. and to be precise, its a predictable consequence
of the Robotic indian education system, which she (and everybody else)
is currently inflicting by hook and by crook, on their angelic
anarchist indian children. not for long.

the remedy prescribed by dr. ank is of course always the same. like
the famous ayurvedic doctor who would see thousands of patients
everyday, huges lines through town field and orchard (india was always
india and infinite india at that it seems), and whisper to each one of
them some dietary advice (based on the nature of their complaint),
reach into a huge sack and hand them all the same medicine --

haritaki being a dried fruit guaranteed to, ahem, whisk the plumbing
clean, and proper digestion, ahem, being the key to proper health.
haritaki, for the record, is also elegized thusly:

"even a mother can harm her children, but haritaki will never hurt you"

kinder words have nary been spoken about a cow...

any, the rememedy prescribed by dr. ank is of course always the same.
a stiff tonic of

1 part blind unconditional love
1 part earnest suspended-ego listening
1 part empathetic i am you

for regular intake and practice by the Husband of the patient. aye, i
think we've transcended that glorious phase of history, even here in
infinite ancient india, where the husband and wife have only rice to
exchange (uncooked for cooked, with chutney as interest) each evening.
it's serious people. there's really 0 communication, from the people
who know it best. and, as always -- social relations replicate
virally, from television to household, father to mother to child. the
kids come home from school or my loving guru comes home from class and
the first worlds are ALWAYS, without exception, some sort of
screeching complaint or worry (on her part) or demand or scolding (on
his part).

i think it would be culturally short-sighted of me to claim we should
all go in for furry hugs and exarcerbated politeness ("and how was
your day today honey? would you oh so please make me some tea IF you
have the time?") but in a world where meaning is found in your
personal ego and not the beauty of your children, humans are going to
need some positive personal attention in one form or the other.

that's my rant. that's the lemon pickle from 10 days of watching the
love and spirit drilled out of little girls (failing of course, thank
the gods) by "the DASH is the king of the jungle" and a slap if DASH
!= Lion from little chickoo's mouth... if not already clear i must
make it so that what im experiencing here is the natural result of a
car wreck of social forces from humans, machines, easts, and wests.
it's nobody's fault and only a passing fad in our cultural evolution.
and we are the world and the happiness is there waiting inside of us.

to wit (to wit!) -- and to end on a positve note -- a few days ago the
lady of the household came home and whiningly asked the master of the
household for the 150 points to buy a couple of pigeons (they have
three pigeons already). strongly denied and three days of intense
moping and whining met with brickwall resistance until she went out
and bought the pigeons on credit, fearing retribution the whole time.

so now she has to build this pigeon coop and this young depressed
oppressed woman who keeps the house in B- shape because she's tired
and afflicted and, yes, lazy, turns on the batteries in a major way
and builds this huge obnoxious deluxe pigeon coop for her five pigeons
and mounts it -- with the help of four neighbors, kicking myself i
wasn't here at the time -- 15 feet up in the air precariously poised
on three wooden poles. i wish to the gods i had a camera to show the
power of Woman and positive thinking; this human who normally is
worried, scowling and negative was repeating


like dick cheney probably repeats


to herself, outloud, in english (i taught her 'coop' instead of
'pigeon house') in this maniacal voice and SMILING the entire time. it
was so beautiful and i wanted her to illicity thwart her husband (my
respected teacher, hari om) and buy silly birds every day if it would
make her smile like that and love her children and everything.

so, you know, deconstruct that.

black panthers head back to the motherland:

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