Stop calling it "eve teasing". You are being molested, not teased.

Update:  


Last evening, I took my toddlers out to play. We stay out a long time because a) the outdoors are a great way to get healthy and find wonderful new things and b) I like to tire them out like that so they sleep well. Because, really, as a mum and a working one, there's only so much you can take in a day. But that's a different story.


It was a Friday (as you know it's the Arab world's Sunday). We usually play in a grassy little patch a bit away from my home. Today, as I saw it was really lonely there, I decided to stick around in the empty parking lot of a large government building near my home. I usually have my help or my husband with me because managing two toddlers who don't understand road safety very clearly yet is difficult. Today, it was just me and the kids. 


A while into play, a Honda Civic began to cruise up and down the road adjacent to where we were. I didn't pay too much attention because assholes like that usually drive away if they see you aren't interested. Soon I saw the car had turned into the parking lot we were playing in and had parked nearby. I calmly gathered the kids up and moved to the other side of the road, where there is a place to play but is pebbly. As soon as I did that, I noticed the car pull away and I decided that was the end of it. 


After a few minutes I noticed a man walking up and down the stretch of pavement we were playing on. He didn't pay us any attention so I thought it was a resident on his usual evening walk (I am new to the area). When it got dark, I took both the kids - carrying the younger one -- and walked towards home. Most of the area is pretty well-lit and busy; there's just one patch that's dark and dodgy. When I got there, my older child spotted something on the road and stopped to marvel over it and ask questions. I moved closer to the pavement as she started discovering more god knows what on the road. And suddenly stepped smack into this tall hulking guy standing way too close to me. It was the same guy who was walking. Silly as I am, and disturbed as I was by his closeness, I didn't quite realise it was the same guy who was in the car. He came forward to pet my son, who I was carrying, and I took a couple of steps back. He began asking them their names and the niggling warning bell got louder. Before I could grab my daughter's arm and head home, he had reached out again to touch my son's cheek and in the process brushed his hand against my chest. I saw red, gave him a hard shove and started shouting and charging at him but he fled and there was only so much I could do with the kids around. 


My blood boiled as I went home and told my husband what happened. He stepped out immediately to see what could be done and I saw the bastard drive past our house again. I don't know if he was keeping an eye or he just needed to go to the end of the road to turn around his car.


I most definitely intend to report this but I am getting feedback like expatriates will not be helped much in case it gets reported. I've been told to go through an Omani friend or colleague who is well connected. Have any of you living in Muscat reported any such incidents? I know a lot of women face such crap. But have you reported?


*****


Eve teasing


I don't know how many women can safely say that they have never been molested in their lives. If they've been out in a public space, it doesn't matter what they are wearing, whether they are in great shape, whether they're lovely to look at or just plain, they will have been grabbed. 

Very often, when the question of molestation comes up, everyone loves to label a city safe or unsafe, depending on what frame of mind they are in. I find it astoundingly silly and baffling that the basis for deeming a city safe (or unsafe, as the case may be) depends on incidence of reported rape and other attacks. In a city like Bombay, which I will vouch for as more or less safe for women, for the most bit, I was molested in more ways than one.

Once, I stopped to ask for directions and this creep, who would have been barely 20, said he didn't know what I was asking about, stuck his hand out, grabbed my breast and ran. Unfortunately for him, my reflexes are still in decent condition. Couple that with roar-inducing rage, I chased him down, got him by his shirt and beat him up in every way I know. Kicked, slapped and punched him with one of these in my hand. Not only is that a hair-ornament, but it's my most effective protection against molestors. He got away after a bit but I think I damaged him enough for him to remember not to touch a girl for a while, unless she wants to be touched.

On the local train, if I ever got into the compartment where there were also men, more often than not, I dragged an offender out with me. The thing with these guys is most of them don't start on you till the train stops at a station, when the crowd is moving and shifting. They grab you just as you are getting or they're getting out, hoping you don't realise what happens. So I usually am prepared for an attack; drag them out and starting hitting him and/or abusing him till a crowd gathers and takes over. Which is why I love Bombay. A woman's word is gospel. At least in my experience. As opposed to Bangalore, where the men look at you as if you've just offended them by even existing. What a hostile mean city Bangalore has been for me. 

Another time in Bombay, a friend sat alone in the first class compartment a little late at night, going towards Town (South Bombay). For those who have done that will know why it's a bad idea. First class is the perfect option during peak hours but a really bad idea late at night because it's practically empty. Also after 8 p.m. (or is it 7?) men are allowed in ladies' compartments as well. So there she was hoping to reach home without any incident, when a man comes and plonks himself opposite her, whips out his penis and starts masturbating in front of her. I can't remember if I have mentioned this here before but it is the most disgusting story of molestation I heard from someone I know. I am not including child abuse and incest stories because that is way beyond molestation. 

Yet another time, I've been kissed by someone in a senior position who I worked for. He had joined me and a friend for dinner, conversation went very well. I don't know if we had similar interests or he was just being polite and attentive. But the evening ended with him insisting he drop us girls. I lived really far off from where we were having dinner and after much protest (I really was perfectly okay with going home alone at 1 a.m. Still am.) we decided it would be churlish not to accept and so we were dropped back. My colleague was dropped off first and as I lived farther, I was alone with him till we got home. We chatted about this and that, I got told I was charming etc etc. And then, just as I said goodnight and was about to step out of the car, after a cursory, polite thank-you peck on the cheek, I was at the receiving end of a full-on adult kiss, with a little tongue thrown in. To say that I did not expect it at all is understatement. To my shame, I didn't report it. Don't ask me why. Maybe because there was no violence, maybe because he was always so polite and gentle before and after. Maybe because he did major damage control after that, but I didn't report it. I am still confused today as to why I didn't.

And I am not even talking about things like talking to my breasts instead of talking to me, exposing yourself to me or texting me to say when you are drunk that you want to "fuck me" (a colleague in Bombay called Manoj did this. And he found my number through someone else. Unfortunately, I forgot his last name. His poor wife had gone off to have a baby or something), and being hearing lewd things being said as I or some other woman walked past. 


My questions are these: 


1. What is it that makes some men violate a woman's personal space and touch her? Who gives them the right to do that and think it's bloody okay?
2. What is it that separates a molester from a regular man? What makes two men look at a woman and react in two different ways: One checks her out, finds her appealing and stops with that, while the other one reaches out and touches her? What is that essential difference? Lack of control? Lack of decency? Bad upbringing? A disdain for women?
3. Do they also look at the women in their home with the same filth in their eyes with which they look at my breasts or butt or thighs? I mean to ask do these men who touch women without their permission on the streets also touch their women -- mothers, wives, sisters -- at home? Are these, in effect, perpetrators of incest? Or is it just other women they feel comfortable grabbing?
4. Are women responsible for these men having absolutely no fear to touch, grope, or expose themselves to women? Have years of "just ignore him" behaviour emboldened these men to do as they please? Would a man think twice if he had been beaten by a woman for touching her or passing a lewd comment at her?
5. If I have some male readers, can you please come out on this and tell me what treatment -- extreme or otherwise -- would deter a man from molesting a woman?
6. Is this restricted to developing countries and others such as Oman alone or do developed countries see molestation in such a daily, on the street, everyday manner?


A blogger friend recently told me that one of the reasons he likes Muscat is because it is safe, that things like the above don't happen here. 

Fact: The first time I saw a man's penis: Here in Muscat, when I was about 13-14 years old. A man close to where we were playing was hanging around exposing himself and trying to get our attention
Fact: The first time I saw a man masturbating: Here in Muscat. Late evening I was hanging out clothes to dry on a stand in the balcony and this guy was parked perhaps 20-30 meters away from our home, jerking off. I didn't realise what was happening till I almost finished with the clothes.  
Fact: The first time I was grabbed: Here in Muscat, in Ruwi, while walking with my parents when I was nine years old. A man walking past grabbed my then non-existent right breast.
Fact: The first time I got surrounded by a bunch of guys and seriously groped: Here in Muscat. Age 12, cycling home from my dance lessons when a bunch of tween-to-teenaged Baluchi boys surrounded me and brushed their hands against my butt, my chest, my legs while saying things that to this day I haven't understood, in Hindi. 
As a result, when I walk alone, I walk with all my senses on alert. I walk with aggression and hold a bag or something protectively against me, with my elbows ever-ready to shove someone in case they touch me. Do you know how stressful it is to walk like that, protecting yourself constantly, without letting your guard down? Do you realise how painful it is to think that you can't enjoy a good walk alone for the fear of being touched by a creep? Do you realise how restricting, how rage-inducing, how utterly defeating it is to be that way every day? Do men understand why some women in countries where roadside molestation is rampant hold on to their men tight? Why they ask their men to ask for directions, buy a pack of cigarettes or walk half a step behind, very close to their men? 


Edited to add: A friend wrote in to tell me molestation is an issue that needs to be told again and again and again. Men, just ask the women in your life how it makes them feel, even better, think about how you feel when one them is attacked. Women, the more we talk the more courage we can instill in those who won't retaliate. Will women who read this please take two extra minutes to just comment and not leave before they do? Only for this post, please. If the men (if there are more than three) also can take the time I'll be very grateful.


Edited again to add: If I have any Omani/Middle Eastern women as readers, could they please tell me their experience; anonymously is just fine? I am just trying to understand if India, because it is so varied, has such elements and because by and large we don't have dress codes, that this happens to women. Does wearing an abaya, being brought up in a mostly segregated society and not having as many freedoms as women from other places have its advantages as far as molestation is concerned?

Really?

Who said the Omanis are a shy lot? You think I should get these contact lenses to up my sex life?
Seen at Muscat City Centre, an optician's store.

Edit: Am I the only person who found the tagline completely inappropriate?

I never want to be a high-schooler again

High school was a terrible time for me. Perhaps, all of school was a painful time for me. Now when I hear people say school days were the best days of their lives, I wonder what I missed out on, because, truly I will not have another childhood. Or at least one that will take me to high school.

I have absolutely no bonds with school friends that I cherish to this day. They are all bonds that are at most pleasant. I wouldn't make efforts to go to their weddings, or cross the country to go visit them. I am just not that kind of a girl.

High school was traumatic for me because I didn't fit in. Or maybe I didn't let myself. I wondered about all these confident kids at school who were at best mediocre at everything they did but had tons of self-esteem which made them look like they were fantastic. I was always diffident about any skill I had and while I was not exactly a shrinking violet in school, it would have been easy to play on my deep and large insecurity had anyone wanted. 

I made strange friends, kind friends, friends who accepted me, friends who were only willing to believe the worst of me as and when it suited them. Like everyone else, I made all sorts of friends. This, then, is a tribute to those who will remain in my memory, some of them in my friends, forever.

Sangeeta Mohandas: She was quiet, shy and yet she was the one who sought out where I lived when I first came to Muscat, visited me and forged a relationship of a life time. She, as were a lot of kids in my class, was trained to think that anyone who didn't do well in maths and science (me!) wasn't worth knowing. She was  trained to think she would only be successful if she were a doctor or an engineer. 

And even though she was unlike any of my friends in India, who were all boys, we hit it off, even as she tried to get me to shed my rambunctious behaviour and turn me into a girl.

Today she is a successful mother of a 6-year-old who has shed her conditioning, with a degree in home science and with a personality that I enjoy. She also lost tremendous amounts of weight in the last two years and looks a completely bomb. Complete inspiration for me.

Hetal: I forget his last name. I know, it's terrible. But he taught me that boys can be gentle, and sweet. And that it was okay to be a girl. I don't remember specific conversations but I know this boy stuck in my memory because he was different.

Anuj Kapadia: My first humongous crush. I think this guy was born sensible. Apart from that, here's why I had this crush. He has dimples, he sang (I think. My obsession with men who sing started very early, as you can see), he was good at everything he did and always polite, but with a healthy dose of irreverence, which, by the way, has snowballed into the cheesiest, most corny sense of humour today. 

Here's an example: Recently my status line on FB said, I continue maintaing that I am a flake. 

Anuj's comment: Does that make Ben Afleck your sister?

Today, he has a PhD in some really complicated (for me) aspect of radiology, which he patiently explained to me once and which I am utterly incapable of reproducing here. All I can say is I think what he does will not waste too much water or use up too much plastic. He is also seriously warm, intelligent, doesn't let any opportunity for a joke pass by and totally wholesome.
And so great was my embarrassment at the crush that I signed his autograph book (in class 7 or 8) as "your loving sister," as the asswipe reminds me every chance he gets.   

Harshita Nair: She was my best friend through school. She saw me through a lot. She was one of those confident ones. She could dance, she could sing, she could do maths, she looked and was super nice, she made prefect, she was hugely popular, I suspect she even won a supporting best actor award for an inter-house dramatics competition. And at times, I felt inadequate around her but loved her enough to not be envious. 

She could eat two really big BurgerKing burgers, every day, and remain svelte, she spoke way more than the average number of words per minute and she taught me that it was possible to be talented and not be snooty about it. I will be ever thankful for her friendship through school.

Today, I am not sure we are best friends, or even friends. She has a decent career going, she's done all the right things for her timeline: marriage, husband, bought a house, built a career, travelled abroad. But in my eyes, and I am being very judgemental so forgive me, she hasn't reached the promise she shone with. And I always wonder what happened to that real firecracker I knew in school when I look at this now mellow person. 

Seema Vijayan: We were never friends. I think I put her off the minute I entered class. My impression of this girl -- apart from being someone who was good at academics -- will always be of a really big girl with many grey strands in her thick long hair, someone who was a fantastic orator. The lines "I thrice presented him a kingly crown, which he did thrice refuse" from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar where Mark Antony speaks on JC's death will never belong to anyone but Seema and her strong emphatic voice.

But she sticks in my mind for another reason altogether. In hindsight, I realise this girl had absolutely no sensitivity to anyone other than her friends; in fact, I am inclined to think she was a bit of a bully. In school, I happened to mention to a girl that one of our classmates had serious body odour issues. Then, I didn't have courage to go up to her and tell her it is offensive to others around her, as I do now. So I mentioned it to someone else. This rat told the girl in question who quickly cried to her group, which included Seema. And the bully she was, she came down on me at the basketball court, gaggle of girls backing her up, sticking her finger in my face and saying she knew the "minute she set her eyes on me that I was not to be trusted". 

Dude, come on. 

I don't know what she does today but I do know she checked out my Orkut (when it was active) page a couple of times. When I saw her on my visitors list, I in the silly grown-up way I have, was very thrilled with this blast from the past and sought to add her. What do you know, she ignored it. Nice. 

HM: I am only going to have her initials on here because I know some people who read my blog know her and I don't want any uncomfortable situations for her. She and a few others, if they read, will know immediately who she is. 

What can I say about this girl? She was a true-blue Scorpio. She had a glamour, a mystique that very few tweens or even teens have. She wielded considerable influence over anyone who was vulnerable enough to let her. She had an elder sister, so was privy to much information that duds like us didn't. She was and still is very nice to look at, was loaded with personality and brought yum Gujju food to school. When we bonded, we bonded real tight but when she decided to move on she sort of broke my heart for a year. The loss and the humiliating way I was dealt it scarred me some. But a year later, or two, I realised shit happens. And when I grew some sense, I realised it was entirely her loss because, you know, I am a kickass friend. My lesson from there? A certain wariness of Scorpios, which by the way is unfair because they're a good bunch of people and I don't take the zodiac thing so seriously anymore.

Today, she lives in Dubai with a career I hope she enjoys; her FB status messages tell me her life is full and her marriage good. And her story won't be complete if I didn't say that after 15 years she took the initiative to call and chat, which I thought was sweet. 

If I have enough readers, please feel free to take this up as a tag and tell me about some people in school you'll never forget. 

And for those interested

After my two attempts at banishing these women from what's very much my door step, I am thrilled to announce that it's been two weeks now and the women are not to be seen. I can't tell you what a relief it is.

A sad thing I heard, however, was that a young Indian girl is being held captive in a villa and is being prostituted. She's moved from house to house every five or six days so that the racket isn't busted. On probing further, I am told she doesn't want to get out of it but she is sad because she's stuck and too young to say no to whatever anyone asks of her, she's getting customers in droves.

Thank you, Policemen

So after a week of obsessing over how to get the working girls to get out of my face in a very official and permanent manner, I decided it was best if I came up with creative solutions to the problem. They're back, by the way, and while they aren't at my gate, they're close enough for me to be (a) mistaken for a hooker, (b) for one of the kids to be abducted (c) for my guests to be embarrassed yet again.

The ROP will do nothing, as I have witnessed. So I take matters into my own hands. Day 1 when they were back, I walked around sneakily and when they weren't looking jumped at them with a camera. I then proceeded to take some pictures in quick succession. In five minutes, they disappeared. These are two of them.

The started walking away and I kept clicking. If they were legit tourists they'd slap me no? They didn't do anything, they just ran into their building (below).

Yesterday, they were there again and I'd just come back from work. Not a good time at all, you agree? I walked up to them and told them they had to come with me. They asked why, I said this was a really dangerous place and if they were waiting for friends they better wait inside the lobby of our building so they won't get molested. They refused. I said no, no, come, come. I went as far as pulling on one's arm. They fled. I must admit, I found the silliness of this rather giggleworthy. Effective, all the same.

Today, if they are there, I am going to stand in front of them and pretend to call the police.

More suggestions on how I can handle this in creative ways, please

So bloody pissed off.

I was just thinking things will be okay for a while and there those women are again today. Not at my apartment building perhaps, but pretty darned right next to it!

I took some pictures and they fled. Tomorrow I am going threaten them with the police. I need suggestions on what more I can do.

I am pissed off as fucking hell.

A night at the police station.

I thought long and hard about this post. Whether I should do it or not, even how. But in the end, it became something that I just had to write about or it would take something away from me.

Two nights ago I did something that I wouldn't have expected of myself. I took the side of organised, well-placed, safe society and its inhabitants over the fringe-dwellers, those who risk more than a limb or two for their existence.

This post may meander but I plan to have it flow in two ways. The first part most my readers can respond to, and I hope you will, the second part might only interest my Oman readers (if there are any apart from my mother).

I live in a pretty decent area. Some might, and have, called it upscale even. Till a few years ago, it was entirely residential but as with most things in Oman these days, it's become a hot mix of commercial and the residential. It's been done so peacefully that most residents haven't had a problem yet. The apartment building next to mine used to be a regular residential place till someone took it over and made it a serviced apartments kind of place.

The first few months there was a stream of very busy people, mostly airline crew going and coming at all hours of the day. These days, the building hosts a bunch of far-eastern women. Easily called Chinese here by everyone, these girls are women of the night.

Prostitution, as far as I am concerned, is perfectly okay. I feel bad when exploitation is part of the deal but prostitution has its place in society and sex workers are doing many of us favours inadvertently by keeping the perv-on-street count low.

But when those women leave their building and boundaries and decide to make the gate of my house their pick-up point, I am little uncomfortable. And when they decide to haggle, hail and harass their customers two feet away (literally) from where my child or the children of my neighbours are playing, then you know, I have  a HUGE problem.

For many reasons.
Firstly, you never know what kind of people these women attract. This part of the region is known for its men having a propensity for young children -- boys, girls, doesn't matter. Paedophiles aren't exactly rare. Even if it weren't just paeds, there are kids of all ages who play there every evening. Some very lovely children between the ages of 1 and 17. If these women are going to hail their customers right there in front of where I stay, then the kids who play there at all hours of the evening from about 5:30 to 8:30, are at danger.

If these women came out by about 9 at night, I'd have stopped with feeling uncomfortable, I'd have told them to stick to their building and leave ours alone Life would have gone one. But they come out by 6:30. So when I returned from work one day and saw them blocking the entrance to my building with their haggling and kids looking on from two feet away, I had enough.

Secondly, we have those parking bar thingies that you need a remote control for when you come in from the outside to keep visitors' vehicles out. So when guests come they either park outside the building or have to wait for us to open those things for them. Many times when our guests are single men, there's at least three women heading towards them offering their services. It is an extremely embarrassing, even offensive, situation for many of our guests.

Third, when I wait outside my gate for a cab, I get opening bids, if not straight out invitations. I don't dress like a hooker, (at least not on regular days :p) I always have a book or a folder or an organiser in my hands  so I look like I am going to work, and I almost never hail anyone but taxis. After the first couple of times when I was shocked, it became really uncomfortable and annoying to be slowed down for and to be thought of as potential paid sex person. Playing dress-up slut is nice but otherwise, being mistaken for a streetwalker gets uncomfortable.

So I, who has always been sympathetic to the cause of sex workers, decided to do something about it. I warned them if they didn't clear out I'd call the police on them. They told me okay, no problem. But in about 15 minutes they were back and all I kept thinking was about was my lovely little daughter being carted off and done unspeakable things to. I maybe overreacting but can you tell me with assurance that someone who happens to stop by for the sex workers and likes kids will not be tempted? It's not so far cry, is it?

Prostitution, like in many other countries, is illegal in Oman. But just as it is everywhere else, most authorities turn a blind eye to it because it meets many needs, including those of the large number of migrant labour who work and live alone, as well as tourism demands.

I called the police, who came in 15 minutes. And asked me to come meet them at the gate. They asked me what the problem was. It annoyed me a little to see that they sent two young boys who looked like they were out past their bed time but, hey, whatever. They at least had uniforms on.

I explained the problem to them. Thankfully, a neighbour was walking past to visit a friend and watch Chennai Kings in action over a drink and he stopped by very kindly to ask me what the problem was. He, my god, speaks fluent, fluent Arabic and was more than glad that I had set the ball rolling. He explained the entire problem to them.

Here's where things get really, really annoying. They're worse than some of the police in India. They said okay, "we're going to hang around and see if any of those girls are about. You keep a watch and call me if they are." I couldn't understand why I would do their job for them. But oh well. I didn't have to, luckily, because within 10 minutes of their patrolling they called me saying they'd picked up a girl and would I come and identify her.

I went down and yes, she was one of them. She, of course, absolutely refused and said she was waiting for her friend. Sigh, yes. After a little confusing chit chat they asked me to go in to the station and give in a written complaint.

I went. I waited an hour, intermittently asking them why they weren't taking my complaint down. I had left my kids back home after a long day and missed being with them. I saw a couple of Pakistani guys being brought in handcuffed, as well as ankle-cuffed (?). Nothing prepares you for seeing that sight in real life. I keep thinking we are all so desensitised because of what we see on television. But to see a free man in a free world being bound like that was like a kick in my stomach. I watched another man being hauled in for selling pirated CDs. All this while the woman they picked up was moved into the cell and about 20 condoms confiscated from her bag.

I must say till they gently took her to the cell, she was completely chilled out and flitting about smiling and flirting with the cops. But it broke my heart when I saw her first -- when she was picked up and put in the back of the police car. She had a slightly hunted look, which disappeared by the time we got to the station, though. And I kept wondering at her circumstance -- so far away from her country, from a family I am sure she has, cursing most men she sleeps with, having to do this to earn a living. My conscience wasn't at peace. My brain, however, justified my action saying if she and her friends hadn't crossed over to your territory, the place where you and your family have the right to feel safe, and at the risk of sounding prissy, respectable, then this wouldn't have happened. She crosses the line and you give up your bleeding-heart argument.

But I digress. A few neighbours got to know and joined me at the police station to give the complaint some backing, because hey, it's everyone's problem right. All of them had been thinking about doing something about it but hadn't got around. I watched, I observed and I realised this woman was going to go scott free. Which was okay with me but I was hoping she'd be let off with a warning that the next time she or her friends are seen around my building there will be trouble for her.

I'll tell you why I thought that. You've all been in sex ed classes in school right? When the condoms were fished out, that's how all the cops reacted, like a bunch of acne-prone teenagers (which they probably were) in a sex-education class -- giggly, nudging each other and then guffawing. They kept taking calls from their mummies waiting to tuck them in, ordering dinner or making plans for the weekend, I don't know what the hell they were up to, but they did everything but give me a feeling that this thing that I was spending precious time over was going to be taken care of.

Finally, I had had enough and went looking for the captain or whoever the boss around there was. I found and told him I'd been waiting over an hour, I have little babies at home and very  harassed parents as well, can I please make my complaint and leave? I think babies did the trick and soon some machinery moved and I was sitting in a blue chair in front of a very sleepy guy (again just out of high school) while he asked me for 1356th time what the issue was. I told him, he took three minutes over each sentence and finally had a report.

We left.

I got a call the next day from a cop who spoke fluent English (I've got to start taking lessons in spoken Arabic). He asked me to come in that afternoon. I went in, he gave me a big hi five and everything. Instead of a formal how're you to which they don't expect an answer, this guy said 'how you doin'?' A little off-putting but never mind. He also had small hands. I know. I am judgmental like that.

So he sat me down and asked me what the problem was. I said well, there's not much, just that I am not a big fan of putting my kids at the risk of being molested or kidnapped, nor do I enjoy being mistaken for a hooker, also there is the small matter of guests getting totally freaked out because of the soliciting.

He said yes yes, of course, you work for so and so paper. I saw a picture with your big boss and that really big pop star. I was so impressed, I will take your boss's picture out and put mine in ha ha. I say okay, knock  yourself out, but can we just come back to the problem?

So he says oh yeah. See, people like her keep other crime away, and she's not committing a crime by flirting with someone on the street. (!!) We don't have evidence. I say okay, 20 fancy condoms not enough? No, it's not a crime to carry condoms. Agreed. So please withdraw your complaint and we'll scare them so that they don't do it again. Otherwise, find out the details of the owner of the building, through him we can get to her sponsors and figure it out. When I realised where this was coming from -- sponsor's a big guy with wasta -- I saw no point in letting her languish in lock-up and withdrew my complaint on the condition that I get a signed letter saying she or her friends wouldn't hang around my building. I got that.

The past two days, things look clean. The next time it happens, I am going after this with a much more prepared approach.

The Dragon Slain?

Another one for my Muscat readers.

Send some love to Omantel for the Dragon, folks. I just emailed them requesting an unblock. Can I urge you to do the same?

Update: Muscat Confidential is back after 12 hours of internet censorship. Yay.

A sad story

My driving instructor is crazy.

He tells me stories that will probably get me into trouble one day if I don't firmly tell him that I don't want to know. He yells at Asian women through his window who, for a fraction of a second, veer to our side of the road. ("Eh, ni hao, wrong side!") He claims to have downed a full bottle of vodka (which, he says, has "no smell") and then about 6 pints of beer before he drove off to drop friends home. He also claims he fought with a police man and beat him up ("I took hat off an throw it on tree. Yaaa. Very angry. He told you go to jail you.") He hasn't drunk in seven years because his wife hasn't been out of the country for that long.

But perhaps the most disturbing thing about him is what came through in one of our conversations during one lesson. We were just heading out of my apartment building and he asks me if "that really fat woman" was my housemaid. I tell him no, she's not, offended that he found fat funny. He says, "Good otherwise she box you and do no work. You will be scared to tell her what to do." I was alarmed enough to not look at the side mirrors when I changed lanes.

He asked me what my help was like and I told him she was small and pretty quiet. So he says, "Ah, that's good. Then you can beat her and make her do work." I thought he was joking but he went on for a bit after that and I realised he was dead serious.

I went home that day and asked my  help if it was true that Omanis beat their domestic help up to get work done. She said a lot of them do. And a lot of them don't. But it isn't unheard of.

It was sad day for me that day. A few days later, I asked a woman at my office if she had had an experience like that because before she found work here, she used to be a housemaid. She said she had been beaten, starved, refused phone calls and sometimes even water and treatment when the family believed they needed to punish a  misdemeanour.

When she saw I was distressed, she said, "Don't worry. We got our own back. We spat in the food, we beat the children when their parents weren't watching, we stole money because they never know how much money they keep. We even brought in men to the house every once in a while. Local calls were not documented so we made lots of calls to friends." While I liked their spirit, I was appalled at some things like beating the children and bringing men into the house when their employer was out. Imagine the kind of trouble she would get into if he decided to have his fun, tie her up and make away with things in the house. And the children, I have no idea how to react to that.

But I remember now that it's not just the Omanis or Arabs who beat their domestic help up. Nagu, my deceased help in India, bless her soul, had a Punjabi employer who used to beat her up. My various colleagues back in India used to tell me stories of neighbours, friends (yes), acquaintances all beating their help up to punish or get their work done.

What is it that you achieve with a beating that you can't by words? A scolding almost always works.
It breaks my heart to imagine what these women go through after having left loved ones back home to come here and work for as little as USD115 or thereabouts which is minimum wage that the Indian government has set for domestic workers in the Middle East.

Apparently, Sri Lankans, Filipinas and Indonesians come for even less.

Unofficial, unscientific (but important)

Survery of thievery in Muscat, Oman. So my non-Muscat readers, do excuse me and wait for later today when I post another smashing edition of "life and times".

Till then, all of you who live in Muscat but haven't already gone over to Suburban's blog and read her latest, do so now and do the needful.

Wishing you all weather devoid of hail, massive rain, tsunami-like alerts.

Why I love women here

I've been meaning to write this post for a while but haven't been able to do it without sounding ingratiating and over-zealous.

I love Omani women. I would leave this post at that but that would mean leaving those of you who read this (and don't live here) in the dark about why they're lovely.

You'll agree women world over are lovely. What makes Omani women so special is their fantastic sense of fun. Add to that their dignity, grace and mystique, they're just gorgeous. Mostly, they aren't as snooty as their Emirati counterparts. They used to be not as made-up but these days I see many of them hiding their gorgeous skin and lovely eyes behind layers of makeup. Hey, I like makeup, ok? But sometimes it's nice to see scrubbed clean faces and pretty, natural smiles.

Growing up here in Muscat, I hadn't had the opportunity to mingle too much with Omani children and their families. But having come back to work here, I meet Omani men and women on a regular basis and I find them warm, intelligent, driven and strong. I know this comes across terrible -- like a Gregory Roberts Watsisname talking about India but I cannot ignore the fact that these people are truly very hospitable, graceful people.

Not to mention articulate, funny and well read. The women I've met these days are all young -- in their 20s. Most of them dress according to norm (hijab, abaya, etc) They are extremely graceful in the way they conduct themselves -- their well-modulated voices are a complement to the swish of the very fashionable abaya, their lively eyes fit perfectly in faces framed by scarves, their accessories and their radiant makeup are a complete eye-popper. This mixture of tradition and modernity is fascinating for me.

For example, a really vivacious woman comes up to our floor to chat with a colleague (also Omani). The former, I'll call her Nabeela, always has a hello for everyone present in the room. She waves and smiles with those full lips of hers. She's a lovely olive-complexioned woman and while I know she'd look much better without the makeup, she does it so well that I lose sight of the fact that it's there.

So anyway, she breezes in, her robes dancing around her ankles, her eyes just as a lively, the only highlight on her face is bubblegum pink lipstick. After a big smile and greeting, I ask her what it is exactly that she does here and she tells me. Meanwhile, she asks me about being married (if I am, that is.) So I ask her the same and she says no, she's enjoying herself, and gives me a wink and a five! And I say go for it, girl. To which she says what everyone in this part of the world says: Inshallah.

And it really made me happy that this woman wanted to continue being single in a society where most women are defined largely by their marriages.

I've met a few other women like that, recently. I am quite sure I am not imagining it but a lot of these women I've met have a streak of naughtiness. Like they know a secret that we don't. It's in their eyes, in their often sexily lop-sided smiles. It's in their breezy waving. They talk confidently of the many experiences they've had. They aren't hesitant with their opinions, they are able to express themselves in flawless English and most of all, are so comfortable with themselves and being juxtaposed as they are, with the 'modern world' coming to them via the Internet, their phones, television and their strong sense of family identity. From what I see they seem to be handling it with such great equanimity.

Just so you know what I am talking about, I think you should visit this, this and this.

Way to go, girls.

Notes for today

I came across a fantastic mommy blog. Yes, I used both those words in the same sentence, so imagine how good it would have been. I added the link to my blogroll and voila! it disappeared. When I tried to go back and find it, it said the blog was protected and I  had to log in. I did it a hundred times and still no Mad Momma.

So Mad Momma, mum to the Brat and the Bean, if you ever come to my space, please let me find you.

*****

Today, my domestic help came with a trainee (as she's going away to India for 10 days). The new lady's Sri Lankan and doesn't speak anything other than Sinhalese. And my woman is Mallu and has never been to school. I was wondering how the communicate till I asked Chandra, the Sinhala, how old her kids were. She called to Fatima, my constant, to translate for her. And guess what they spoke in.

Pure, fluent, gorgeous Arabic.

*****
The one big advantage of being a homemaker is that you don't have to make the occasional choice of being faithful. You don't meet enough men to warrant any kind of attraction. So the choice to remain monogamous doesn't have to be reiterated all the time.

Unless you fall in love online or something. Then god help you.

*****

Payday came to me after more than a year now. And, boy, is my list long.
New baby cot because Shyama has outgrown her older one.
New highchair
Tricycle
New carseat
Longines/Omega for my father, in appreciation for all that he is.

Oh-kay then, that was the fastest I've spent my salary, ever.

*****

Yesterday was hilarious with my aunt reverting to her childishness and trying to antagonise me. What a laugh I had. More on her on a later date. But right now, I sincerely hope and pray her mind will reach the ripe old age of 43 that her birth certificate proves her to be.

When you don't know how much you miss something.

Did you know that celebrating the new year on January first is completely arbitrary? There is no religious significance, there's no astrological significance, nor anything to do with seasons or harvest or the moon. It's just a random date someone chose to have a lark. Ever since I found out, I've been wondering what celebrating new year on the 29th of June would be like.

Ignore that. It has nothing to do with the rest of my post. It's some random piece of information that I wanted to share. Because that's what I do. Share. Borrowing from the extremely funny Crystal (Hi, Crystal) "...some people overeat, I overshare."

I've started work again. And I positively sparkle! Not at work, that will come later but as a person. I am smiling bigger and better, I can feel the charm oozing out of me and I am on a total high that I am being productive in a sense that doesn't relate to progeny alone.

Two days ago, I was sitting here at work and listening to all the sounds of the newsroom. People yelling across the hall: to shut pages, to ask if a story was complete, a reporter speaking on phone to a source, a photographer showing his pictures to check if they will do. And I actually felt goosebumps. It's a far cry from anything in India but at least I am back where I love to be the most.

I have thought long and hard about one question for a few years now. "Where are you from?" I can never answer that question. I feel most at home in Bombay; I was born there and lived some of the best years of my childhood and adulthood there; nowhere else is home for me. Not even where I grew up. But would it seem pretentious to say Bombay is home when I no longer have family there? Also I speak Malayalam fluently, my surname is very obviously Malayalee, I am even married to a Malayalee but I can never bring myself to say I am from Kerala. Because I have never lived there, my mother has never lived there and I have no sense of roots there. But I worry if I come across as someone who is negating her Mallu-ness if I say I am from Bombay. Yes, yes, I care about what people think, sometimes.

So now when I am at work I realise, this is another place I feel very much at home in. The newroom, among stories and sub-editing, among opinionated Bengalis and overfriendly Malayalees. I absolutely love being here. So much so that I don't miss the kids as much as I thought I would. Maybe it'll get worse once I get used to this newness but right now, I am truly happy.