THE PETTICOAT JOURNAL

READ MY ARTICLE ON SAFETY OF WOMEN FOR THE
             PETTICOAT JOURNAL HERE

ABOUT THE PETTICOAT JOURNAL-

We beg not to be confused for a soft, polite and submissive platform just like you want your women to be. We are not even suggesting rouges and mascaras for women. We are here with the after-story. The story after the woman is decked up and all set for life. Does the world stand by her? Does she have the courage to go it alone? Does she get derided on the way?

You say, "Huh! What world are you talking about? You may be living in a time warp. We've come far from those days when all these questions were relevant." Well, we would love to believe you. But even as we were gathering the mindset to believe you, we came across official reports about professional, educated women being subjected to atrocities, verbal and physical, by men in their families. Men would not necessarily be husbands. They happen to be fathers-in-law, brothers-in-law, brothers, fathers. As we turned the pages of the reports, we realised that after all the grassroots work by various well-meaning organisations, women in villages consider rape and violence a part of life which they have to tolerate no matter how painful.

A lot has changed over the years. Thanks to activists and social workers and the handful of men and women who believed in change. But there are a majority who consider such change disastrous...to their hegemony, to their egos and to their personalities. It's here that the change is stuck. It's this filter that suspends change.

It's no wonder then that we deep in our hearts we keep the lowest of low opinions about women and nurture lowest of low feelings about their characters. It's so fragile that we start doubting a woman's character without instigation. No? Consider this.

How does the world react to a decked up woman waiting for her family in the middle of a market place on their way to a family function? We know what's the very first thing that hits people's minds!What does the world think about the woman walking late evening along a lonely footpath on her way back home from office? SUVs and sedans slow down to ask her what she'll charge for a night. A submissive woman may just be pulled into the car without even the courtesy asking her charges. Then, the next morning, we read about her raped, bleeding, abandoned body found in a jungle.

What does the world think of a woman who mixes with men in offices or gyms or other places where she is a regular like any other man out there? That she is a nymphomaniac...that she's interested in men.
What does the world think of a woman who is the female version of a Casanova? Err there's no female version of Casanova!! We only know of sluts!
The world is changing. but the thinking isn't. Women are moving out and striving to make a mark and break free. But men and some other women are going regressive. They want to pull the charging women back. The Petticoat Journal is for them as much as the women who have begun the fight to raise their status from a doormat to a human being.
We bring you the Doormat Revolution! Join us!

THAT GIRL IN A RED DRESS

That was a bad morning. I was woken up by the squeaky voice of my maid, who wanted to make my bed.
Before I could tell her not to disturb me, she pulled away my sheet and started jerking it so hard, that I had to wake up.

A bad start to my day usually turns me off. But then it started raining and rain always make me feel happy, ALWAYS !
I pulled up the blinds of my window. The roads were all silent, but there was a  blissful bitter batter of falling raindrops. Everybody had taken to some shelter, except  a girl in a red dress and a few other girls. She was neither dancing in the rain nor taking shelter.
I reached for my glasses on the side table, so that I could see more clearly.

Credits- Hari Menon Photography

 She was a short, young dusky girl with a basket of bright yellow flowers in her hands. She was not pretty, rather she was very shabby but her eyes were beautiful. She was selling those flowers. The next thing I remember is that she started singing to attract people to buy her basket of flowers. Her voice was enchanting, though I could not understand what the song actually was. The language was unknown to me.
It rained for long that day, but she kept standing right there with undying hope. Her clothes were dripping water and her hair were all wet. But the yellow flowers were washed and bright!

                                                               X- X -X -X

My maid pushed me aside to the sweep near the window. She would never let me live in peace! After it was dry, I came back to the window. The rain had stopped and the roads that were deserted a few minutes back were flooded with cars and scooters. The girl in red dress would have been lost in the hustle bustle of the city, but my eyes found her. A middle aged lady with curly salt-pepper hair was buying flowers from her. I noted that she bought the whole basket. The flower seller was pleased, so much so that her dry lips parted for once to flash her teeth. She smiled for the first time since I had been observing her.
A long truck obstructed the view for a minute. From beneath the truck, I could see her bare feet  making way for themselves. She suddenly tripped and fell. A few kind people helped her get up, and then I realized -

   She was Blind !
I felt so sorry for her. The eyes that kept me captivated for half an hour could not see, see the world around her, the  blossoms she was selling and the vibrancy of her red dress.

                                                               X- X -X -X


Next evening, I watered the money plant near my table and opened the window to find her right there, yet again, in the very same red dress. It was a marriage in the colony  that day, so the streets were decorated.
 This time, her left cheek had a big cut. The blood was dry though,  I am sure it would have been hurting her. That day I saw her talking, for the first time, to a balloon seller standing by the lamp post next to her. They became friends, I think,as they chatted for long.

Credits- Audi Photography

                                                               X- X -X -X

She was there everyday for the next one week. Listening to her songs and waiting for her to pack, gelled into my routine and became a part of my everyday.
Out of curiosity one day, I couldn't stop my self from asking her name, but I got no answer, just a faint smile.
I bought a bunch of flowers from her. She was trying to hunt for change from her little bag, but I told her to keep it with herself.
I tried communicating with her after that, but maybe I was too shy.
But now I regret that because she never came back with her basket of flowers after that. She just vanished.
I did not know anything about her. Who she actually was? And maybe I will never get my answer.
I remember  those days when I observed this girl whose name I never knew, with a sigh.

                                           For me she is ' That Girl in a Red dress'

Credits- Audi Photography

                                                       

AN ART CALLED 'CREATING'

Enter a carver's workshop. You will see a place too simple, lit up by a bare bulb, filled with  chisels, axes and blades, ruled by an eye for intimate detail.

Around the place, you will find, the works of the master, each of them dripping thousands of emotions. Works so splendid, it seems like creations of some spirits.

                              His chisel work among the stone,

                                        Persuading it of petal or of limb

                                     Or starry curve, till risen anew there sang

                                        Shape out of chaos, and again the vision

                                     Of one mind single from the world was pressed

                                        Upon the daily custom of the sky

                                    Or field or the body of man.

       But what gave birth to the splendid carvings is the stone.

A stone that would never catch someone's eyes, until it comes to rest in the magical hands of the carver. He carves out emotions from a mere rock and turns it into a mortal masterpiece that says a hundred stories and reflects a million feelings.

That is the art of creation that transforms something very insignificant to something that can leave anyone astonished.

Now step outside and enter the street just adjacent to it.

  Enter any one of the hundred small mud huts and you will be carried away by the beautiful fragrance of Incense sticks.

It is quite fascinating to realize that a mere black thin stick can take you to a land where fragrance takes birth, where scent and aroma live and where redolence drifts with the wind.

In a corner of the hut you will find some ladies rolling ugly yet aromatic plant material into thin sticks.

Under the stiff and still sunlight tip-toeing through the window

sat a lady in pink and gold, her wrinkled hands making sticks

turning the rolled plants into a house of essence

breaking the black walls spread the aroma

making her a magician !

This is the art of creation that can give rise to something that holds within it million experiences

Now let me take you to this place where garlands are made.

Short bamboo sticks hold the blue plastic sheet making a satisfactory protection from the sun.

Behind the site is a huge temple of Goddess Pullikaringali.

A basket flooded with pink tender flowers is disturbed by sun tanned fingers of a lady. She picks up one of them and pierces it with a needle.

She pushes it down the thread and it joins the other flowers, making it ten times more beautiful. 

 One by one, the needle of the garland maker 

   goes through a flower and soon it becomes a garland

which is much more alluring

much more admirable

and much more sublime.

This is the art of creation that hold the power of making something pretty, prettier.

It not a task, not a job, it is an art.

An art called 'creating'

THE PASSION THAT 'DANCED' AWAY

                                               photography credits - Manya Ahuja



There is a blinding white light in the apartment. Streaks of marble are shining under rivulets  of sunshine.
The wind is staging it's own opera outside and the chirping birds on the branches of the oak tree spectate a fair young lady dancing to it.
Clad in her pink Tutu dress and her foot wreaking pointed ballet shoes she slides through the area like a soap on the wet floor and ends gracefully with a smooth pencil turn.

Adia Greene - a  passionate ballet dancer, who's toes can never stop doing a grapevine and her hands always flowing in air practicing her first love- dance.
She has been dancing since she was seven and this is what she wants to do till the day she dies.
She grooves with the wind , moves with the music and stoops to elegance.

The next day was a big day for her and her dancing career.  It is the largest dance show of the city! Tickets had sold like hot cakes.
The first ray of sunshine waked her up and like any other day the dancer in her woke up with a eagerness to improve.
She danced to the auditorium, where her dreams were going to take a flight of glory.The auditorium seats were filled with dance hungry audience and the lights were turned on!
She changed to her new Tutu dress and spent an hour on the barre, which is for strengthening. There was something going on in her stomach, out of excitement and nervousness. Every dancer before presenting himself on stage does go through a series of emotions- excitement, the hunger to perform, nervousness to name a few! Her hands and legs did not rest while she kept practicing to perfect her steps.
It was on her favorite song by Richard Maddock and Herbert Von.
" Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats the show is about to begin"
She stole a peek through the wings at the hundred people craving for a supple ballet performance.
She has to do her best!
All the dancers, with their hair tied up in neat buns adorned with a white Lily
 lined up to take to the stage.

          Adia looked like a fresh Lily herself!

Adia was ready to dance to glory

The music started and they trotted to the stage on their toes.
Adia was in full swing. She perfected every moment from piles, tendus, jites to battements.
The dancers jumped into the attitude position, took a piravid turn and came to rest on their knees.
The beat became fast and now Adia danced to a platform much above the main stage.
She smiled as the spotlight fell on her. She took to her toes, ready to fling her left leg up to her head. In the mid way she lost her balance. She tried to regain control but her foot twisted and she fell down from the great height!
The soft ballet beats ended with a loud thud added with horrified yells of the dancers and the audience!
Down lay Adia, her face still shining under the yellow light but her body all numb . She was immediately rushed to the hospital.

                                             X-----------X---------X

It has been a fortnight since her apartment was locked but now it opened  and Adia slowly entered with wet eyes. She is on a wheel chair guided by a nurse and not on her dancing feet.
The doctor says she has displaced her pelvic and shoulder bone, and will never be able to dance again.
Adia's eyes fall on her pink dancing shoes, covered with layers of dirt. She advances towards it but rolls down the wheel chair and lands on her elbow. The nurse help the crying Adia back.

the shoes lay unused covered with dirt

  Dance is a drug, once you take it, you get addicted to it, but when your dreams don't support your desires you end up in frustration and helplessness.

She sniffs and the realization of the fact that she may never be able to dance again crushes her inside. No matter how much she wanted to dance, her body did not move and when it did it was painful. She wished she would have died because for her, life without dance was hollow.

Once a dancer forever a dancer.
 But now only her heart dances and she reaches her former glory only in her dreams. Though her tryst with dance was short-lived the dancer in her is immortal. She still jigs a little when music falls on her ears. Her soul never rests. It keeps burning in love for dance.
Adia feels herself drowned in the fatal waters of helplessness, after all, she used to dance in joy, in sorrow, in excitement, in agony. She used to dance every moment and she wished to dance her life away. !

Adia kept seeing the pictures from the days when she could dance

 She and dance were like ships that passed each other in the night but they did cast a healing light on each other that will last    forever.