This is an excellent reply to the extremely misogynistic lyrics that not just pepper but mark the bulk of Yo Yo Honey Singh’s songs. Not only are they insensitive and derogatory to women’s issues in increasingly troubled times, but to me, is also something that rings alarm bells because of how popular his songs are. These songs with their catchy tunes are all the rage on Bollywood night and parties and even a very conscientious person could be caught swinging hips and lipsyncing like fish to words that render women worse than they are already treated in India.
KAFILA - COLLECTIVE EXPLORATIONS SINCE 2006
Just to share with Kafila readers two wonderful performances against misogyny by two cool young women, Rene Verma and Vasundhara Kaul, putting down sexism with a light touch that cuts very deep indeed – take a look at the string of comments that follow Vasundhara’s performance , from scared and threatened men unable to deal with it.
These are already ‘going viral’ as they say – just wanted to add Kafila’s contribution to viralizing them!
Here’s Rene Verma taking on Honey Singh. Unfortunately we cannot skip the compulsory advertisement for Modi and His Technicolour Dream Coat That Costs as Much as a Small Village Hospital.
(Oh, okay, the ad seems to have gone now, but that coat – that coat!! Ain’t going nowhere, to use the slang of the land of Modi’s new unilateral BFF).
Here’s an interview with Rene Verma on The Ladies Finger:
I’ve always been invested…
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Nina, proclaiming, owning, shaking free, seizing, holding aloft, declaring, breathing, flying.
Being alive, Feeling Good.
In India, certainly, we have arrived at a 1984esque world where the past sinister deeds of murderous Ministers have been conviniently forgotten for a new fabricated past, that overrules the value of lives of fellowmen for the ideal of a “development”. It is nation where the media and materialism turns the tide of the minds, casting away truth and justice for the sake of new roads and continuous electricity and unlimited water supply. This continuous electricty supply, although will illuminate houses, but will not bring light to the voices that speak of freedom. From the high rises, those living in the shadow and underbelly of the cities will not be seen, as they are trampled and discarded. One will not even know of them as truth will be hidden, morphed, disguised and soon banished. And in this bliss of ignorance, those in the highrises will continue to rise in strength, and ultimately allow the cycle of hatred to go on turning.
This is the world we must shun, call for freedom, truth, quality and social justice.
there is nothing
as blissful as
realising exactly what you want to do
in that moment
and doing exactly just that.
Otherwise it feels like a spooned piece of mango
between the tongue
and the throat.
It refuses to go down and even if it does
doesn’t leave a sweet taste behind.
Sometimes I feel like the loneliest lonely person in the world.
On a day like that, such as today too is,
I just wish someone from my old past,
the older young me who was full of hope,
would call me and ask me simply
how I am?
and tell me that they
care about me and miss me.
And yet on a day like this
I begin to loathe all forms of affection
wish to reject friendships, run away
from this place, from clusters of people
who all merge into one
and loose meaning.
All the space in the world
whirling around alone
in deep dark space
Oh beloved, stay a while!
On summer afternoons in Delhi, a dry gust of hot wind and Farida Khanum’s voice like fresh air and bliss and life.
On some nights, Eddie reminds me of who I was growing uo to be
But I am failing miserably. I hold on, I am still here,
I measure my words, I measure my love.
There are so many ‘I’s here,
just shows that I am back in square one. Society.
There was a sad defeated moment. But a song my mind hummed. This one.
A happy friend, buzzing on Old Monk, jumping around the room, playing a djembe and singing aloud this song. Joy is back. and he bought along hope.
Yesterday I noticed my lover’s shoulder.
Winter fogged the window behind the drapes, but a warmth created by the room heater(second-hand but in perfect condition)
and two loving bodies engulfed the room. Delicate yellow light from a bed-side shade threw shadows on us
and my eyes
and especially his shoulders.
After watching an episode of Sherlock(Season 3 episode 3 brilliant!) with him,
discussing, dissecting, and laughing about it, with him,
it was the only place I wanted to be in
and no Spy with a voice like Benedict Cumberbatch could have changed that.
In the process of writing this, I have just now google-searched the words ‘shoulder anatomy’
to understand and explain to you exactly
how beautiful did look my lover’s shoulders.
It was neither the most-muscular nor the most-toned shoulder I have seen,
nothing like Daniel Craig in his better days.
But a certain manner in which he held me in those moments,
shone three distinct lines of muscle and sinew in yellow shadows,
that whispered to me about love, care and affection,
and made me wonder at the universe that could make these shoulders possible.
“Ah Science! Ah Universe!”, thought I
and stretched out my arms barely tracing my fingers over them,
too afraid to alter the grace
that is held within the petals of my lover’s shoulders.
I din’t think until now that his shoulders are a different colour from my own.
While his shine like smooth ivory,
mine are more like wood, varying between shades of walnut and chestnut in parts.
But we are happy to push our shoulders together in the darkness of the cinema,
and brush them gently against one another,
unnoticed in the chatter and laughter of social gatherings.
(This specific shoulder of my lover has no moles,
unlike his back whose landscape is scattered with stars,
that are nice to kiss or to play join-the-dots.)
If I was O. Henry or Guy de Maupassant, I would tell you that those shoulders had no arms to end,
or if I was Sir Doyle or Oscar Wilde, my lover would be a spy, a prince or a frog.
But this is not a story and its no such romantic thing.
This is real life and my lover is real person.
with a human heart.
(and beautiful shoulders.)
While I am quite excited about AAP’s victory in the Delhi Assemby elections and feel like a revolution might be underway, my mind that is much inclined to Orwellian criticisms fears that the AAP might soon loose it status quo. Nivedita Menon sums it up well.
KAFILA - COLLECTIVE EXPLORATIONS SINCE 2006
The plot of George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’ can be summarized in a single sentence – “This novel demonstrates the consequences of the addition of four important words -‘but’, ‘some’, ‘more’, and ‘others’ to the phrase – <all animals are equal>”.
In other words, it describes the transition from the axiomatic statement <all animals are equal> to the qualified formula <all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others>.
Aam Aadmi Party founder and Delhi’s new chief minister Arvind Kejriwal’s ruling out the possibility of referendums in Kashmir about the presence of the armed forces in Jammu & Kashmir (in response to his party colleague Prashant Bhushan’s endorsement of the idea of such a referendum during a recent television appearance) could signify a shift within the Aam Aadmi Party’s evolving political doctrine that parallels the transition that the pigs in Animal Farm made while turning their revolution…
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