More Equal than Others
I realize this while you and I
disembark from the train. Having put your luggage on the platform at the
railway station, I have an epiphany.
How you make that innocent face,
how you squint those antimony-lined eyes, how your small, manicured fingers
fidget with the sling of The Heavier Bag – all in an attempt to make the
logistics easier.
I wonder how it is that you
demand gender equality in all things and stomp your leg on the ground for
reservations to be made based on sex, knowing, but never acknowledging, that
equality is as equally impractical as it is illogical.
“The bag is really heavy, you know.” (Yes
ma’am, I just helped you lift it, without any help from you.)
I wonder how it is that sometimes
you can call me in the morning to frivolously inform me that you will not be
able to attend the class on that day, and a proxy will be helpful.
“Too bad it doesn’t have wheels
to roll it.” (I can see that. Even my duffel and holdall don’t.)
I wonder how it is that when at
times The Professor calls up for attendance the entire class, you arrive a
little late and usually get away with an excuse. And later, you catch up with
me to say that I should have called you up with the information a little
earlier than some insignificant girlfriend of yours.
“Isn’t there a ramp or an
escalator here?” (Look around; your guess is as good as mine, even if your
height is not.)
I wonder how it is that on some
evenings, you can just sit on the ledge of The Terrace and from afar gently
beckon to me on the tennis court to leave the pleasure of sports and join you
there.
When I consent
– you talk and I am got to talking about nothing but what He said to Her, She
said to Him or She said to Her. Or if the setting is fortunate, how in life
only one random philosophy is tenable; and how somehow your present (or past)
stand (or conduct) on one random matter (be it behavioural propriety, social
donations at various occasions or educational excellence in college
laboratories) is somehow concordant with that one absolute supreme tenet. And
to cap the conversation, you put a decorous - “But why! I had just come up here
to enjoy the weather. There is nothing to obstruct the breeze here, you see.”
When I don’t
consent - you talk and Mr. XY is got to talking about nothing but what He said
to Her, She said to Him or She said to Her. Or if the setting is fortunate, how
in life only one random philosophy is tenable; and how somehow your (or past)
stand (or conduct) on one random matter (be it propriety, social donations or
educational excellence in college laboratories) is somehow concordant with that
one absolute supreme tenet. And oh, the wind is blowing and there are beaming
smiles on The Terrace.
Meanwhile, the
score here is five games to nil, forty points to love in the sixth game. Coming
into the present third set (having already lost the two preceding sets), I
realize that I might have got irrevocably behind in The Game. If I don’t make
up, I will end up losing The Match! No smiles here, just bitter cringing.
“The syllabus is vast. The books
are many. Oh, this deadweight!” (Same pinch. Ditto!)
I wonder how it is that sometimes
after dinnertime, you can swoop into my room to talk, ask if I am in possession
of some particular movie, or, what is the name of the melody which you happened
to listen to on my mobile phone, et al. You shuffle through the day’s events
and the problems, and slowly slide into our casual discourse your plan to have
a walk on The Other Terrace (that has earned the name of ‘The Rendezvous’ and ‘The
Stomping Ground’)– something to pass the time. So a tête-à-tête under the
moonlit sky, under the Orion, ensues at the place which, if Rumour is to be
believed, is your purlieu for conversations like these with anyone agreeing to
lend you a patient ear. Once there, you complain about your incumbent
responsibilities. You insinuate. And people (singing, whistling or just quietly
passing by) sneak their heads in to see to whom the close silhouettes on The
Other Terrace belong. The people, you say, can’t mind their own business. Then,
with a sudden insouciance, you resume your diatribe.
“Why did this godforsaken train
have to stop here of all places? If it had halted at Platform Number 1, there
wouldn’t have been any problems.” (We boarded the train from Platform Number 1
on our onward journey. I remember that even then the infernal bags were a
problem!)
I wonder how it is that you need
a cortege to escort you on your travel home on leave. And if (God forbid) you
are returning alone, you call me up, at say.... an hour past midnight, and
offhandedly inform that your train is arriving within the hour. It is late, you
say. There is no one to pick you up at the station, you say. “Your bike has
petrol”, you assert or ask (I can’t tell). I answer in the affirmative. I
collect the Key from the Inquisitive Two-Wheeler-Co-Owner and well, the
following day, headlines have spread all over the place - Damsel in distress –
Brought back to The Hostel by Galahad.
“Porter! Porter! Where is a
porter?” (Present, ma’am!)
I wonder how it is that I have
come to being the butt of the rampant banter. That golden age of being
unencumbered seems like only yesterday. How is it that I am in this snare: this
no-man’s, yet every-man’s land?
“Forty four degrees. Humid. God!”
(Yes, it is all God’s fault!)
I wonder how, while it is
“entirely inappropriate” of us men to walk about in vests, it is “modern and
adaptive” of you to come outside in Those Hot Pants. You enjoy the liberty of
picking whatever suits you from amongst our lot, without such a trace of
consideration as I would like. ‘Veni Vidi...I chose as I willed’. You compare
and balance pros and cons. Someone’s Ability to Swim might be pitted against
someone’s Academic Aptitude. Someone’s Musculature and Strength against
someone’s Sense of Humour. But a sound judgement is not guaranteed. It might be
someone’s Nothing against someone’s Overall Excellence, and still the verdict
could come out against what the sense of any wise jury would see prevail. And
then there is The Personal Space - a panacea for all your problems, and an
anathema to us. You can’t seem to have enough of it. We can’t have any of it.
The very fact that due to all this some men have been led astray to The Guitar,
some to The Ghazal, some to The Smoke and others to The Drink is painful. Isn’t
it?
Well, it is. And I will do
something about it. Enough of all this indolence on my part and all that
insolence on your part. To hell with acquiescing to any feigned female
guilelessness. You seek Equality? Ye seek and ye shall find. I will place and
balance everyone on the same scales. No one is innocent. Naivety is a crime. No
more falling for any sugar-coating. To hell with Chivalry. It is an antiquated
concept, anyway; just some cooked-up balderdash of The Middle Ages. Action,
from now on. Goodbye to Ethical Sloth.
“Oh!” You check your watch
strapped to the slender, demure wrist that I once silently fell in love with.
There is a whistle from the
locomotive. The train brimming with passengers slowly starts. The train of
thought suddenly stops.
I throw one of my bags over my
shoulders. The other, I grasp with one hand. I pretend to be looking with
unusual interest at the train standing at the adjacent platform. My peripheral
vision is concentrated at the Luggage Situation.
Perhaps you have given up any
hope you might have had. You secure a tight grip on The Heavy Bag. You try to
lift it with both arms. You falter once but finally it is over your shoulders.
You sigh, you puff. Then just as you are bending over The Heavier Bag lying on
the platform, I hear my own renegade voice -
“Wait, Miss. Let me carry that
for you.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” You turn
your head and straighten up. And then you smile. There is a gentle tap on my
elbow. And a little lustre in your lovely, lucid eyes.
Oh, what would I not give? Or
lift, if that is what is needed.
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