She could never let her puppets go; in fact she never took the strings off.
“It is the curse of the puppet master. Unlike other toy makers, we become attached to our creations the minute we attach those strings. We help, guide and care for them and so, it is difficult to detach the strings when they come alive every night.” Her grandfather had told her as a child.

Now, ‘circle’ may be a literal translation of the word in Persian but, to my mind, and in the context it is normally used in, dayereh should mean limits or boundaries…even confinement, of sorts. And, in the context of the film, I think, all of these meanings, including ‘circle’, work. Anyway, the film doesn’t have a regular story or protagonist/s but it traces small parts of the lives of a few women, with each story being interconnected in some way, directly or otherwise. Each of these ladies, each, has either been to jail, has just been let out or will be heading there very soon. None of them, however, is a criminal and their misdemeanours are often nothing more than travelling alone, without a male companion and/or without their requisite IDs. Funnily, through the film, almost all of these ladies want to smoke but are mindful of the consequences of lighting up in public. Or, are reminded of the consequences by people around them.

Well, it so happens that I wasn’t invited to this exclusive party and I think I know why. Apart from the fact that our paths in life have somehow not managed to cross till now, Mrs. G’s and mine, it was because the reception for the royal newly weds was a “black tie” affair and Mrs. P. Godrej’s secret service men had informed her that I don’t own a black tie. I don’t own a blue or a yellow one either for that matter. Nor do I have a pair of black trousers at the moment (I’ve outgrown the last pair I bought), but what the hell. I have a red spotted bandana which I fling around my neck for formal occasions (which could help me pass of as Rajnikant’s female side kick) and a pair of dark blue jeans which by candlelight could be taken for black by tired eyes.

India already has the best squad, the best batsmen, the best bowlers, the best physio, the best host, the best tarot card readers, the best advertisements, the best official cricket song, the best coverage and the best opinion leaders. And if you are not upbeat about our team’s chances at this world cup, then you deserve to be stranded in an island without food and water, or be cursed to live in the greater depths of hell

The house in O Block was gorgeous. ‘Are you a Christian’, the lady asked, seeing my card. Yes, I said, you could say that. ‘Ek to aap aurat hai aur woh bhi Christian. You must be eating a lot of meat.’ This I was not prepared for. Misogyny and homophobia I know how to handle. No matter how ridiculous it feels [...] Yes, I said, I eat all kinds of meat. ‘How often do you eat it?’ ‘As often as I can’. The broker is making goo-goo eyes at me. I think he wants me to stop speaking. I tell the broker despite their rudeness I will take their house anyway. They tell him out on three counts – woman, Christian, journalist.

I haven’t played with water and colours for Holi in nearly a decade. This weekend, though, it’s the spring festival again, and many of the friends I played with back then are in Delhi, getting together for a Holi party. Very kindly, they have included me in the emails discussing the preparations, and I am feeling more than a twinge of envy. Not so much for the spatter of colour, the wet mud or the sinking realization that months of brutal summer will soon descend after this saturnalia, but for the bhang, which is being procured and prepared even as I type this. Some of my best memories of JNU are, ironically, associated with this memory-tampering device. But, across the world, walking back home from school a short while ago, the full moon was shining white in the dark blue evening sky to my left with the Golden Gate bridge awash in glorious sunset hues to my right. Holi was in the air, alright. Holi hai!

And today, as I settled into my regular seat in the bus, right behind the driver, the first seat by the window, adjusted the seat to my level of comfort, turned on the overhead light and smoothed my clothes to minimize a wrinkly effect upon descent, I realized that this was my alternate bliss. I have come to love this snatched hour in the morning when I can be myself, by myself. I can read, snooze, dream, reminisce, think. It is the most uncluttered hour of my day. On certain days, when I am reading something that keeps sleep at bay, something so engrossing that it forces me to think and forms, or uncovers, new tracks in my mind, I feel no qualms about giving up on the cherished idyllic image of a glorious, sunny, breakfasting ideal.

On the eve of the incident which I cite as harassment, I was wearing a loose cut skirt, a full sleeved top and a head scarf which clearly makes me out as Muslim.

a. I must have looked nice. I must have come across as feminine. I must have existed. But that is no reason to mark someone out for sexual consumption.

b. Wearing a head-Scarf makes you a target for all kinds of sexual violence.

In the city I live in, Vadodara, Gujarat, I find that Muslim women are meted out a treatment that subordinates us to a status lower than other (Hindu, Dalit or Christian, not to simplify any of the categories) women. Because coming across as a Muslim you are seen as oppressed, lower class, uneducated and an easy prey for harassment.

However, as much as I still love her work, I have to agree that going back and reading her books is a mixed bag. Many ‘characters’ are actually caricatures, and barely cover the bare skeletons of age-old stereotypes. Like, when I went back and read Malory Towers, I was stunned at how bluntly the French boarder Claudine is ‘lazy and untidy’, and the American girl whatsername, is ‘brazen and ill mannered’. All this is while clearly contrasting them with the ‘well brought up, disciplined women’ that Britain produces. Really? Then HOW do you explain Liz Whore-ley?

There was a time when we had 3-4 such smelly people at work around me. I always felt like that little boy in sixth sense uttering in that hushed tone “I see smelly people, they are all around me. Walking around like regular people. They can’t smell anything about them. They don’t know they’re so repulsively smelly.” We, meaning the collegues assaulted by this war on our senses decided something had to be done. Someone had to inform these people how they needed to do something drastic about their odor crisis.

From a mind besieged by malignant ghosts, day in and day out, don’t expect poetry.

So why do dry latrines persist in 21 Century India?

The answer, the author argues quite convincingly, is caste and the systems of discrimination and prejudice it sustains. How else can one explain the adoption of sewage technologies in the emerging urban areas in 19^th century India which entrenched manual labour in disposal of shit. Just recall the rusting iron staircases hidden behind most Indian urban homes for shit cleaners to enter the toilet, do their work and leave without despoiling the rest of the house. Shit cleaner or mehtars have formed an integral part of the modern urban landscape and transcended region and religion.

Clearly, Foster has spent time trying to understand the country at a subcutaneous level. First, he’s created a technical universe in which the gadgets and effects have been tailored to Indian life. Automatic brewers serve up tea on command. There are inventions that have evolved to deal with vast populations. Myraid models of automated Marutis traverse the roads. Having taken note of India as a spiritual nation, Foster gives religion a central role to play in the defining of the technology. Sadhus are equipped with narcotic gizmos that induce hypnosis. Virtual 3D images silently enact scenes from epics like the Ramayana in lobbies and museums. A Sikh uses a communicator built into his kada

I am ashamed of the ‘great Indian middle class’.
Where were/are they:

- When a dalit woman and her daughter were raped & murdered by half the upper-class menfolk of a village in maharashtra?
- When women were raped in moving cars in the nation’s capital?
- When crime is committed openly in full public eye?
- When middle class people in middle class cars try and bully ‘bikers’ (bikes cost less) and pedestrians on the streets?
- When there is so much misery around (and they sit tight in front of their 21” flat screen color TVs watching ‘english’ channels)

I have never been pampered. I have never been given everything I ever asked for at the drop of a pin. I have never been allowed night after night of going out and having fun. I have never been allowed to laze around in bed and get 5 extra hours of sleep. I have never been allowed to order around the helpers we had at home. I have always walked the one or two extra kilometers to school or college. I have never bought things impulsively swayed by whims. I have always had a bath before going to school no matter how cold, no matter how dark. I have always finished whatever was put on my plate whether I liked it or not.

Prude writes about being a single an only (and pampered) child.