Talking of Travel...

Perhaps some of the most amusing observations in my new-found (now relatively old) life in Dubai have quite surprisingly been gathered not within our primary haunts, but outside them. The means of travel which I earlier considered comparative - although mundane - novelties have come to pass as the most eventful and frequent ones. I’m talking about cabs and flights, whose presence has now become more of a necessity than a convenience in our lives (lives which now mostly involve travel more than anything else, thanks to the incredulously large gap in distance between the hostel and the college).

Taxi Trauma

Not that there’s anything particularly special about cabs in Dubai. Even though they’re definitely fancier than the ones in India, with Camry taxis regarded as the lowest in the pecking order, that doesn’t change the drivers behind the wheel. They’re usually Indians, Pakistanis or Arabs, and though most of them are happy doing just their job (definitely preferable), it doesn’t prevent the occasional bump with an odd one out.

There are the types, who are so delighted to serve someone of their own country that they fail to shut their traps for the entire length of the journey. For example, one evening we were faced with an esteemed shayar of the Indian mainland. Or so he thought himself to be. The entire ride was a painful recreation of the film ‘Fanaa’, except this fellow expected us to join in with his lyrical fixation. Now, taking into account that not one of us knew a single sher other than the perverse prose used in the hostel, and also that one of us three friends was an Andhrite (completely out of the scene right from his birth) definitely displeased him. I can say this with considerable confidence because he left us off in a fairly deserted and unfamiliar location far from our destination, with a frown so deeply etched on his face that it was visible even in the sooty darkness that had enveloped us over an hour back. It was my late reaction that gave us a solution to this out-and-out mess. We confidently entered a Shangri-La hotel which was two blocks away (as regally as our casual, hotel-inappropriate clothing could permit), pretended to check out the menu of the coffee shop, emptied our bursting bladders in the loo, and stepped out, demanding the doorman to hail a cab for us, a service provided without inquiry to all hotel guests. It’s a separate matter that we reached the hostel in style that night, stretching out with a sigh of pleasure in a beautiful, navy-blue Lexus.

Another kind is the prejudiced, racist type. Mostly the Arabs (primarily of National Taxi Service) and hardcore Pakis constitute this much despised category. The Arabs make you feel like you’re trespassing on private property by daring to dwell in their desertificated country. They either try to scare you out of your wits by driving as rashly as possible (of which there’s plenty of scope on the wide roads and among the blurring traffic), or they pretend to simply not understand English or Hindi (a feature prevalent in Europe as well, again a consequence of superior, racist sentiments).

The Pakistanis, though mostly quite friendly and in harmonious acceptance of the fact that serving Indians is a part of their job, too have their share of weirdo pricks. There was an instance around the beginning of semester 1, when my mother and I were travelling by a Pathan cab (Illegally operating private cabs, usually indistinguishable from the licensed ones). The cabbie remains one of the strangest, most repulsive persons we’ve ever encountered in our lives. He part-took in activities to the tune of cleaning the hard-to-reach places in his car with a toothpick and then using that very piece of wood for the task it’s actually meant for. Alongside, he constantly mumbled about the unacceptable direction in which today’s world is heading, pausing his monotone from time to time to ask us tourists, whether the route he was taking was right or not. There were moments more than one during that journey, when we were unsure whether we would sanely see it though.

Though, as I mentioned before, this definitely doesn’t mean all of them are like this. In fact, most cabbies are quite pleasant and accustomed to their jobs. Weirdoes exist in all spheres of life, I guess. Be it on the road, or as professors in college. But that is a separate matter. One I’m sure all BITSians can well relate to. Wink!

Attitudes, On Board

Shifting to Dubai has certainly had its share of fringe benefits. Frequent air travel is one of them. Or so one would presume. Flying, the way we do it is far from fringe. Air India and Indian Airlines bode well to the Indian ‘culture’, by which I imply that they fit in seamlessly into all the things which have caused our country to assume the title of a ‘developing nation’ and not a developed one.

One trip aboard the IC-896 outbound to Dubai is all one needs. For the amateur traveller, disappointment towards the much hyped prospect of air travel is inevitable. For the frequent flyer, it’ll be shock, amusement and a tinge of sadness towards the state of affairs in our country, which is so visibly full of potential, but just as openly, floundering.

On a world class flight such as KLM or British Airways, the friendliness, hospitality and dedication of the staff are among the first things you’ll notice, other than of course, the pristine upholstery of the aircraft, which in AI and IA is on the verge of collapsing. On Indian Airlines, all one gets to see is women who’re just too old for their jobs . But that’s not the major problem with the staff (unless it’s hotties in tighties that the passenger wants to see, which in the case of BITS boys, is mostly the case). The problem arises because the women know they’re too old for their jobs. Air hostesses are made to wear the most unflatteringly styled and dully coloured uniforms ever. As a whole, they can most aptly be described as a gaggle of cackling witches. Except they’re so bored, frustrated and disinterested, that even cackling is too much of a bother. Though their job description entails something much different, they’re best at stomping up and down the aisle in a towering temper that threatens to unleash itself at the first person to call for assistance. Rudeness and unconcern is second nature to a personality made hard by the nasty majority of passengers that the Delhi - Dubai sector usually carries. So much so, that a simple smile of welcome or goodbye is just too much to ask.

The passengers in the flights, especially those on the way to Dubai are a class apart. Literally. About 80% of them constitute the labour class that is constantly and consistently routed from the Indian peninsula to the modernised desert, unless, of course, if that 80% percent is booked by BITSians somberly making their way back to college after at least a month of pure bliss. This group of labourers are mostly so poor, that, forget a flight, even a local train is too much to afford. So their behaviour is actually justified. Nonetheless, behaviour it is. Bad behaviour. The seemingly unlimited supply of liquor along with seats more comfortable than any they’ve ever rested their sore buttocks on, have an effect more intoxicating than that induced by drugs on them. It takes precisely two mini bottles to make them cling to the already pissed attendant asking for more. They gobble their food noisily and shamelessly, making sounds heard only in areas like Kishangarh. And when they take off their shoes...well, all hell breaks loose. And that my friend, is putting it mildly.

There have been occasions, of course when we’ve come across other breeds of in-flight weirdoes. For example, perhaps the most eventful flight till date has been the return journey to India in June this year. As is usually the case, I had a group of friends accompanying me, and my faithful travel buddies, Pranav, Nasser and Ehtesham were sitting right in front of me. They bore full witness to all the happenings on board. Just as I did.

The sad ratio of boys is to girls in our college followed even inside the flight. Out of the ten odd students on board, just three were of the female kind. Two of them were sitting right across the aisle from me. The third seat on their side was occupied by a person who was not only out of place on an aircraft, but also the thought of him wandering the streets of Dubai prior to boarding it seemed absurd. A villager complete with an enormous off white turban reminiscent of Shah Rukh Khan in the God-awful flick ‘Paheli’, a skirt-like Rajasthani dress atop a stained, cream dhoti, and handmade chappals on the feet. To top it, several hammer-beaten gold and silver ornaments adorned his ears, neck, wrists and ankles, while a roughly hewn wooden staff stuck on, as if super-glued, to his hand.

The girls, naturally, were so uncomfortable with the seating arrangement, that one of them actually refused to sit. Being the gentleman that I am, (you can stop rolling your eyes now) I offered to let them take mine and my college-mate Abhijeet’s seat. Sadly, it was him who had to sit next to this vision from a village. Either way, it didn’t stop me from observing him to my hearts content throughout the flight. A few of the antics he displayed include eyes directed only towards the girls opposite, his pose which was suggestive of every character in ‘Lagaan’ (feet on the seat in with knees apart), and the rather shocking production of a pen-knife from the folds of his laborious outfit to open up a packet of peanuts that the bored air-hostess had dropped onto his lap.

Believe it or not, that isn’t the end of the experience that was this journey. About an hour into the flight, God seemed to decide that we needed some more in-flight entertainment (as if the dude from rural India wasn’t enough to keep us preoccupied throughout), when four surds sitting one row behind me let alcohol get the better of them. In five minutes time, the interior of the aircraft had transformed into a Punjabi post-wedding celebration. Profanities, antakshari and nursery rhymes filled the air for the rest of the flight-time, and not one person had the guts to mess with the drunken duds. Pranav, who was busy writing his own blog prior to the musical outburst, actually stopped even trying to do so once it began, and did what probably we all should have done instead of firing disapproving, yet amused glares at the surdies. He joined in! Well, I guess that’s what makes him the Blaze Fanthom…

I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of the lasting memories that exceptional journeys leave behind. Three more years worth still to come!

The Biggest Misnomer of All Time

Along with my position on the globe, partly shifting base to Dubai has gradually brought about a change in several aspects of my life. Mentally, it has matured me from a person who used to quietly take shit and give none in return, to a harsh being who has no qualms with spiteful diatribes and cutting away relationships when they get too much to handle. Emotionally, it has strengthened me in such a way that sympathy, empathy and wistful memories exist, but fail to affect me beyond that particular point around which they start hampering my mental state. Naivety now, is almost a thing of the past. Physically, I’ve slimmed down substantially; even it was the wrong way to do so (Minimal consumption of repulsive hostel food and exercise limited only to running up and down the stairs of the building, however many times it may have been in a day). Though that particular development didn’t last long, now that the vacations have settled in on my already not-so-lithe frame!

But most significant of all, is my intellectual transformation – an evolutionary process for my mind that had been largely accelerated last year. One that continues on till today. Particularly nasty fallouts occurred between me and a few friends ultimately causing a severe breach in the relationships I had held on to as tightly as a part of my own self for a whole year. I wouldn’t like to go into the whole ‘who was right and who was wrong’ of the situation, as that would be congruent to getting superfluously hostile on a public forum. But one thing I can say, quoting the standard dialogue of genuinely one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, Deepak Srinivas of Apartment 403 C, “Whatever happens, happens for the better”. Anyhow, so as to avoid further digression from the central idea of this post, I leave the happenings of the past, to the past.

The point of going into all the afore mentioned details was to bring to the forefront, the justification I have for deriving an alternate meaning to a word that everyone knows, but none can really describe. According to me, the biggest misnomer to ever exist is love. Sceptical? Cynical? Or plain sarcastic? You might have the inclination, as well as the right to be any of those. But even though my opinion and the rationale behind it seem far-fetched, since they’re both so radically opposite to universal belief, freedom of thought and its expression are both fundamental rights of mine as well. So, whether they coincide with your opinion or not is none of my concern.

On opening the second last or last page of Delhi Times on any day of the week at any time of the year, invariably at least one piece about so-and-so celebrity’s marriage being on the rocks is always present, without exception. If you crack open the same pages, say of six months, or even one week in the past, you’ll probably be lucky enough to find a snippet on the same celeb’s successful married life, and reams upon reams of archived proof on the internet of how much the couple was ‘in love’. And yet, when their alliance does come to an end, it’s mostly not even amicable. In fact, it’s far from it, involving vicious court cases and cold wars. The famous friendship turns to an even more famous feud.

This is an extreme case. But what about the other cases we commonly see around us? The make-ups and break-ups we keep witnessing all the time? The desperate compulsion that so many people have of displaying their affection, rather than actually experiencing it? What happens to this 'love' that people so flamboyantly put on show, once they break up? How does it convert to hatred? Or if not something so extreme, platonic, neutral and detached? How can love fizzle away like this? How can love possibly rest on such a flimsy thread, which has the possibility of fracturing at any moment?

True love exists. No doubt. But solely between a parent and a child. That, is unconditional, absolute, veritable love. No matter how horrible the parent is to the child, or how miserable, hopeless or shameful the offspring is, one’s reflective longing for the other (even if it is passive) never ceases to exist. The love between them is of a non-sexual, unadulterated nature. It’s completely natural, and was born with the birth of the individual itself. And it takes a hell of a lot to put that kind of love to an end. And if at this point, you’re thinking of disownments, trust me, they’re purely for social recognition. The love within never fades. Exceptions, however exist in everything. Say if a parent is guilty of something unspeakably blasphemous, like raping the offspring or something, then development of hatred is justified. On the other hand, marriages all over, more often than not, break up over much trivial issues, with not even a hint of wistfulness in the outset.

I’m not refuting the fact that ‘something’ exists between two ‘lovers’. All I’m saying is, that it’s not love. It is incorrect usage of a term that in reality is never hindered by superficial blunders. Young lovers have a deep sense of affection, heightened greatly because of raging hormones, physical and/or intellectual attraction and a deep sense of security and freedom. Hence, quite understandably, it is conveniently written off as love. In fact, science itself has proven that the feelings induced by ‘love’ last barely a few months into wedlock, after which, the longevity of the relationship depends only on the sense of friendship, companionship and trust that the couple have towards each other. Add a bit of carnal spice to it, and you have the perfect match.

This whole idea can be seen as the mindless ramblings of a foolish teenager. Or as the natural tendencies of the Libran (that is me) to always weigh the practical, rational side of things rather than the emotional ends of them (I’ve been reading a bit of Linda Goodman myself…). Or even as the 'withdrawal symptoms of a failed relationship'. But think about it. Consider it. And then form an opinion. Mindlessly following convention is more rebellious to the truths of nature than going against it.

However, since the word ‘love’ has been set as the convention to describe the funny, bouncy feeling one gets when they find their companion (for life or for a few days, whichever applicable), I can do nothing other than adopt it as well. Though, this little glaring discrepancy in the modern view of love doesn’t change reality. At least for me.

Forth and Back

The time off we had so impatiently craved for is at its fag end. And indeed, time off it was! Three months away from the ceaseless tensions of college have emptied my mind (thanks to the outrageous number of sleep hours and unprecedented time to waste), while adding vastly to my already vast mass (Junk food coupled with laziness beyond compare had to show up somewhere).

Nonetheless, not all the time has gone in gorging and gaping without reason at the computer screen. I’ve kept busy, however intermittently it may have been.

Mussourie

A short trip of four days along with my parents and cousins took me once again after a long time to the popular hilly retreat of North India, Mussourie. Quite uneventful, but a load of fun since my cousins Namita and Naina are two people I get along with marvellously. Sharing a room implied full time masti all night long, and puffy eyes in the morning. A walk down the steep road just to have a plate of roadside cooked Maggi and other simple pleasures is what made up this trip which by the end of it was well worth the unreasonably long drive.

Eurotrip

No, this isn’t another movie review (Sighs of relief will not be well received). A visit to our neighbouring continent ensued a little too early in my vacation for my liking, not giving me time enough to reorient myself in the pollution and population that our country is so famous for, and that I am so fond of (No sarcasm here. I’m a total dilli ka dilbar).

Even so, after endless fights and infinite bad moods prior to our departure (a standard feature of our family vacations, which mostly extends on to the trip itself), we finally managed to board the beautiful, blue KLM jet (I stress on ‘beautiful’ as it had been over three years since I last saw the face of any airline other than Indian Airlines or Air India, barely staying airborne and just about transporting me to-and-fro from Dubai…You get the picture hopefully. If not, the next post should provide a fair idea).

The first country on our itinerary was Netherlands. It’s quite shameful that even though we’ve been to Holland the most number of times out of all the places we’ve visited, it’s the place that we were least familiar with. Till now that is. This time around, we really saw the place. Really. Staying bang next to Leidesplein, the hub of Amsterdam, we had most of the action going on right under our noses. That is where we picked a random pub to watch the deciding World Cup match between Holland and Portugal. Though I don’t much care for any sport in particular, catching a match of global significance among a crowd of enthusiastic (albeit drunk) customers, and that too sitting in one of the participating countries, has its own charm. Would’ve been better off though if Holland had qualified. Oh well…Hup Holland Hup!

Apart from the hustle bustle of the city centre, we thoroughly enjoyed absorbing the more serene sights of Volendam, a suburb of Amsterdam that has retained its rural nuances till today, complete with the wooden shoes and traditional windmills. Madurodam (Miniature Holland built exactly to scale) and Madame Tussaud followed suit (where I satisfied myself - no pun intended- gazing at a wax figurine of Kylie Minogue. Did you know she’s just 5 foot three?). On the whole, we finally saw what the world sees in Holland, a place so perfect that it almost hurts the eye.

Our next destination was Switzerland. Our expectations of this place had been raised substantially because of the endless praise we’d heard from everyone we knew who had gone there in the past. And even though I’m no fan of hills and mountains, undeniably it really does deserve all of it. ‘Picturesque’ is the word that most aptly describes Switzerland. Enormous, blue, crystal-clear lakes surrounded by mountains so white that one can’t even hope to look at them directly without sunglasses perched atop the nose, meadows with rich green grass that is unruly enough to look not disorderly but just natural, and cities so modern that one can hardly believe they’re resting on some of the loftiest hills in Europe.

We remained mainly in two popular locations of the country, namely Interlaken (a tiny town that leads up to Jungfraujoch, the highest point of the Alps and also the Top of Europe) and Lucerne (a more commercial, cosmopolitan area famous for a wooden bridge that has survived constant erosion by river water for centuries, and even a fire). Jungfraujoch is reached by nifty mountain trains capable of climbing immensely steep inclines. The ride was an extraordinary experience and the location, a sight to behold. Valleys drenched in snow along with the lack of oxygen and low air pressure make it hard to keep one’s bearings. Though this feeling was immediately elevated after ingesting some good Indian food (Just imagine. An Indian restaurant called ‘Bollywood’ at a site as exceptional as Jungfrau! Shows just how much influence Mr. Yash Chopra has had on this exotic location, which is showcased in almost all his films).

There were a number of snow-based activities going on which we missed (or rather chose to miss since the last train back down was at 4:30 and we late risers had barely made it there by 2). But we managed to catch them on Mount Titlis instead, another famous peak of the Swiss Alps. Unremarkable really, compared to Jungfrau, apart from the snow boarding and tubing that we indulged in to our heart’s content over there. Other things in these two places that are worth mentioning are the ice caves, and breathtaking cable car rides (both in open and closed capsules) which provided us with an aerial view of the undulating valleys, and Brown Cattle with the trademark Swiss bells around their necks clanking away, as they steadily munched on the healthy mountainous vegetation.

From Lucerne, we caught a TGV, the second fastest train in the world, to the city of lurrve. Paris, mon ami. Paris. Since it was my third trip to the place (the first visit being with my family a long time ago, and the second on a Cultural Exchange between my school, D.P.S. R.K. Puram and a French senior secondary, Lyceé Marguerite de Valois, in my eleventh year at school), the novelty value barely existed. Nevertheless, Paris truly does define the word romance. And now that I’m in the hormonally active age at which one begins to recognise the word’s true meaning, it really was a dreamy experience (if not slightly marred by an unfortunate fever I caught for about two days). A stroll down Champs Elyseés, one of the most elite streets in the world, a cruise down the river Seine and a peek into some of the obvious sites in Paris such as the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe served to act as the most typical bit of this holiday. A visit to the Louvre (made famous through the phenomenal success of The Da Vinci Code) was also a sure shot in the places to see. Museums, in any case, fascinate me to no end, perhaps linked with my general interest in History. A trip to EuroDisney too was inevitable. Oddly, I had been harping about it from the beginning of the trip (I really had no reason to do so, as we’ve already been to every Disneyland in the world more than once. Childish instincts still prevail I guess).

But what really made this trip to Paris shine was a rendezvous with my French correspondent (my host during the French Cultural Exchange), Florian Ponson. A torrent of pleasant memories accompanied him. My family finally got to meet him and as I expected, they totally hit it off, for Florian is certainly not one of those stereotypical, cold, racist Frenchmen. He’s most definitely fun.

Another remarkable happenstance that coincided with our stay in Paris was the victory and entry of France into the Finals of the FIFA World Cup. The celebrations, the sheer excitement in the air was immeasurable. The metro doors refused to close, people beating at the doors with the all-too-familiar football cheer…Dhum dhum, dhum-dhum-dhum, dhum, dhum-dhum-dhum-dhum-dhum-dhum…Umm, you get the point. Champs Elyseés converged to a jammed Arc de Triomphe, the plaza invaded by a boisterous mass of blue, white and red. It was on that night that I saw living proof of the multiple opinions that exist in people’s minds about sports. My hotel window looked out towards another hotel, a number of windows of which were see through. While one had a television screaming the highlights of the explosive match and its after-effects, another had a dull war movie on. And yet another had its lights off altogether!

This brought two weeks of my extended holiday to a close. Perhaps one of the most uneventful, yet enjoyable vacations we’ve had as a family in a long time.


Mumbai, Meri Jaan

The travel mania didn’t end there. Barely two weeks after returning from the exhausting yet exhilarating Eurotrip, I set off alone to Mumbai to spend a week with my aunt. Once again being inflicted with a mild illness dampened my trip, and caused me to get pricks upon pricks returning to Delhi to diagnose the reason of this recurring problem. Turned out to be nothing more than reduced immunity as an after-effect of Pneumonia. This enraged more than relieve. You know my sentiments towards needles…

Anyhow, it was a week full of exquisite meals and plenty of shopping (through which I actually managed to revamp my entire wardrobe!). I was supposed to meet Swathi (one of my closest friends) twice, in the week I was there, but the fever prevented it from happening. Nevertheless, we did manage to catch up for a whole day, even if we couldn’t do much.


Other than that, the vacations have basically involved boring myself to a wasted, bulging lump of fat. A previously unresolved issue between me and some others almost got solved. Almost. But that’s pretty much all that was of major significance in the time that I’ve spent in Delhi in these three months. With just another two weeks to go before I start off with my second year at BITS, Pilani – Dubai, preparations have begun, the wheels have started to turn and my stomach has started to churn. All in the apprehension of what the new academic year has in store for me. But till then, better bored than overworked!

Power Women

Catherine Tramell…Velma Kelly…Meredith Johnson. Apart from the fictitious nature of their existence and the fact that these prominent creations of cinema are on-screen criminals, there is another aspect that binds all three. Undeniably and quite obviously, they are all female. Though, they don’t simply fall into the category of ordinary women.

Women, as I see it, fall into four types. Now here, there’ll be plenty who’ll adapt a sceptical outlook to this post. I can almost hear it right now…“Who the f*** does he think he is to judge women? Who would read something of such limited perspective?!”…followed by a barrage of abuses in both Hindi and English, especially if the one remarking is an all-out feminist. But from my experience and exposure to the likes of the feminine kind, this is what I think...

1. Bimbos: The first kind is comprised of the ones who are happy to depend on others (their parents in the initial part of their life, and later on, that special someone) for everything, be it financial or emotional support or even making all their decisions. Not that they don’t care. It just doesn’t strike them to think on their own. And even if they do, they screw up everything and mostly, don’t even realise it. Very enthusiastically contributed by my cousin Namita are certain highly amusing phrases heard from the mouths of these bimbos all too often at Kamla Nehru (the all girls’ college where she’s doing Economics Honours), such as “OOOH! You’re wearing green shoes too??! Me Tooo!!!! Isn’t that amazing???”, and another squeal goes something like, “Are you wearing baby pink or shocking pink nail-polish?”… These, sadly, are omnipresent in all societies. The pop artist Pink's new controversial single 'Stupid Girls' dealt with celebrity bimbos, targetting Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson in particular. The reason of controversy? Stupid Girls. Need I say more?

1. Smart Ass: Second, come those who are fairly independent and ambitious. They assume the stance of the one in charge at times, and unlike Type-1, they’re more than often successful at it. Trying hard to come off as more superior than men is their hobby, even if they’re inept at it (though this comes off mostly as cute rather than annoying). This kind can have varied intelligence levels, though none are totally idiotic. And mostly, it’s these kind of women that a guy with a head over his shoulders would most desire (Unless if he’s into the Dumb Blonde kind, i.e. type 1. In that case, he’s in it just for the bimbo’s lissom body and unconditional control that members of this kind offer over themselves).


2. The Unfortunate: The third constitute the forced and the oppressed...Prostitutes and Geisha to be precise. These have always fascinated me (a fascination disparaged by many friends as unhealthy and unnecessary). But it’s not the erotic links to their lifestyle that intrigue me, but their unique psychological condition that permits them to live their disgraced lives as outcasts free of guilt and remorse. Their pain-filled childhoods, the successful blocking of happier memories from the past, the ability to see the silver lining in the worst of situations and the innocence they possess in spite of their eroded reputation…that is what draws me towards their subject.


3. The fourth type is the one under the microscope in this post. Least common and most intimidating of all, a detailed elaboration follows…

Women have long been regarded as the weaker sex, and this is a piece of information that even the most unpromising and ignorant are aware of, bringing it into daily practice through the abuse of women (be it physical, mental or emotional) which especially we Indians are so accustomed to hearing about everyday. So much so, that it doesn’t even affect us anymore. And why is it so? Because the whole issue is pretty much taken for granted by commoners like us. I don’t refute the murky presence of emancipation organisations. I simply mean to say, that people who don’t indulge in this exploitation of women (like me, and hopefully you as well), treat it as a mere topic of interest or discussion. In this diverse world which is so full of opinions anyway, one particular opinion nevertheless holds firm in the minds of most men and many women, that is, that women really do constitute the weaker sex.

It is this belief which triggered the inevitable rise of the Power Woman. This corny term has been conjured up by Yours Truly, not because I’ve suddenly decided to indulge in the use of pathetic clichés, but because it encompasses most of the qualities which this broad spectrum of individuals tends to have. Somebody (or maybe it’s just me) once said, that whenever an opinion is formed, there’s always another one right ‘round the corner that opposes it. Consequently, the people who are not wholly convinced by the viewpoint that women are weaker than men are the ones who promoted the emergence of this breed of the human half.

Although such women do exist in reality, and a number of examples can be quoted (and will be, a little ahead), they’ve mainly come into the limelight through delightfully exaggerated characters conceived for many films and books, recurring often in literary and visual media.

What makes these ‘Power Women’ worth remark? A number of things, actually. Intricate personality traits differ from person to person, depending on whether she’s likeable or downright devilish. But there are a few qualities which exist more-or-less in all…

1. Unparalleled Confidence ... I don’t imply all the ‘we have mental strength, even if we’re physically weak’ bullshit that one gets to hear from all the females around. I mean a visible fearlessness towards all that is to come, and complete control over thoughts and actions.

1. A Limited Emotional Range… Things just don’t affect them as much as they would affect a normal person. Well…most things anyway. For example, failed business propositions, wrecked relationships et al, won’t cause them to brood and die of depression.

1. Time is of the Essence… They display an almost unnerving tendency to abide by time as if their life depended on it. Quick action is preferred over what is safer and more precise.

1. Attitude… The attitude! This is my most favourite of all. They have a certain panache in the very way that they move and converse. Each has her own distinct persona, oft leaving the confronted befuddled and at a loss of words. Such is its power. Such, is its potential. And it arises because of their awareness of its power.


2. Achievers… Call it a drive or desperation, but hitting the target is their ultimate aim. Once they set their eyes on something they want, you can be pretty darn sure they’ll go to whatever extent to get it. Morally sound or not depends once again on her raison d’être.


3. Dress Sense … Each has her own distinct style. Though most of them tend to accentuate their more ‘appealing assets’, if you get what I mean, while staying within the limits of acceptable dress code.

What follow are some specific examples of Power Women across the realms of reality and fiction that have caught my interest over the years…



Catherine Tramell

Sharon Stone’s riveting performance as the cold, calculating killer in the controversial 1992 flick ‘Basic Instinct’ sky-rocketed her career to unforeseen heights and shook the world in a way that the tremors continue to attract and astound till date. Though many watch the film solely with the intention of savouring the extraordinary doses of nudity and lovemaking, very few can claim thereafter that Stone’s devilry didn’t manage to captivate them. Being immortalised by the infamous leg-crossing scene during an interrogation with the police, boosted Sharon Stone’s raw résumé, and set a new precedent (though a nasty one) for Hollywood.

The character itself is a wealthy albeit bisexual novelist with an insatiable fetish for risk. An accomplished psychologist, her obvious obsession with innovating plots for her novels through personal experiences (read illegal) is hard to crack by both the police and other psychoanalysts. Matters are certainly not helped by her steamy persona and unnatural hunger for all things sexual.

Sharon Stone is the perfect Tramell, and she proves it once again in the recent mediocre sequel ‘Basic Instinct 2: Risk Addiction’. Perhaps the only thing that makes the movie shine is the presence of Tramell, migrating herself along with her evil intent from San Francisco to London. And among the Brits (though it may seem impossible), she’s more devious than ever before. At 48 years, Stone looks as ravishing as ever (except for a few wrinkles on the face), and was recently voted the most beautiful woman of her age, with the explanation, that her potency to the male libido rivals that of Viagra. Now that’s a Power Woman for you! A naughty one, but awe-inspiring nonetheless…


Lara Croft

Almost everyone must be familiar with this gem by now. First introduced to an unsuspecting audience of gamers in 1996 with a simple, yet elegantly designed character model, Lara Croft didn’t take long to become the most famous video game character to be ever created. Since then, the character has undergone several face-lifts in an attempt to make her more curvaceous and hence more realistic. But somewhere along the way, the designers went overboard with her ‘lovely lady lumps’. Finally in 2006, they arrived once again to a breakthrough in terms of character modelling with the ultra-realistic, polygon dripping, svelte figure with the release of the 7th instalment of the video game series titled ‘Lara Croft: Tomb Raider Legend’.

Immortalised on the silver screen by a breathtakingly accurate portrayal with Angelina Jolie donning the hot pants, and annual listings for the past several years in the Guinness Book awarding recognition as the oldest, most successful virtual heroine, Croft sure has come a long way. Her fabricated personality, which spells ‘never say die’ and ‘touch-me-not-else-you're-screwed’, an undying thirst for adventure, her sensitivity for the good cause, coupled with the character itself which has maintained itself as the Queen of the Cyber-World since its initial release on Feb 14th 1996 (Yes…Valentine’s Day…Quite appropriate don’t you think?), Lara Croft defines the words ‘Power Woman’.


Velma Kelly

Chicago the movie wouldn’t have been CHICAGO! - The Oscar winning classic without the supporting role of Velma Kelly played by the astonishingly perfect-looking Catherine Zeta-Jones. Brought down over the years by talented stage actresses in the original Broadway musical smash (which I had the fortune of witnessing in Dubai), Velma is the unfortunate murderess of her whole family, comprising of her sister and her husband. A vaudeville star and part of a sister act before her apprehension and addition to Murderess Row, Kelly maintains her proclivity for stylish stage acts, liquor and jazz. Although considered to possess a role of lesser importance over the lead Roxie Hart (played by Reneé Zellweger), Velma Kelly is the one who lends the true spirit to the story, highlighting all the banes that existed in the social and legal system of the 1930s, through her powerful, stunning personality and notorious nature. Her ability to make any man or woman dance to the tune of her little finger and her natural charisma that gives her not only her freedom from jail but also the stardom she desired all along, makes her a natural member of the Power Woman Squad.


Meredith Johnson/Sonia Roy

Demi Moore in Disclosure and Priyanka Chopra in Aitraaz. Both essentially the same. Powerful executives of equally powerful multinationals, who don’t like to be stood up. Especially by their ex-lovers from whom they demand one night stands. Although Priyanka took the character one step up by making her more seductive and callous than her Hollywood counterpart (and with a lot more gall), both get what they want at any cost, and prove to be a sea of composure, confidence and attitude.


Other fictional women falling in this category include Miranda Priestly, the ruthless editor of Runway fashion magazine in The Devil Wears Prada, Angelina Jolie’s mesmerising portrayal of Olympias (Alexander the Great’s mother) in the 2004 picture Alexander, Kaileena, the enigmatic Empress of Time in the super successful video game Prince of Persia : Warrior Within, Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon), and several others…Though these are the ones that've had an impact on me so far…


Among Power Women in the living, breathing world, I am adequately aware of only one…though I do have an idea of several others as well…The one being Mata Hari.


Mata Hari

Mata Hari was the stage name of Margaretha Geertruida Zelle. A coutesan of Dutch origin in the early 20th century, she gained immense fame as an Indian and Oriental-style dancer. After moving to Paris, she became an overnight success with her enigmatic, flirtatious, confident promiscuity and her sylphlike and provocative dance-form, which was new to the French. She wasn’t merely a prostitute or a dancer. She was credited for significantly raising the bar in terms of quality of stage performances. With an ability to improvise and act along with dance and seduce, Mata Hari made dancing a more respectable, high society interest. Her facination with men in uniforms and her popular demand for numerous cross-border performances is what eventually led to her downfall. As she got further involved in the First World War scenario, she became a spy for the Germans against the French. She was even code-named H-21. She was executed through a firing squad after being found guilty in Paris.

Although never considered a good looker, Mata Hari reached her exalted status of an innovative dancer, a satisfying lover and an expert at covert spy operations through sheer street smartness, natural talent, intelligence and confidence. She is the original Femme Fatale.


So comes the conclusion of this exhaustive post about one of the many things in life which we overlook, but not quite. And to think, so far, I’ve only dealt with one type in one half of the human race. The diversity, the sheer complexity of human nature can never be truly categorised. But that is what we humans do with everything around us, don’t we? Inspect, label and archive. So why should human nature be any different?