Apart from the small number of professional women among them, the women of the bourgeoisie have no part in social production; they are simply joint consumers of the surplus value which their men squeeze out of the proletariat; they are parasites on the parasites of the people. And such joint-consumers are commonly more rabid and cruel in defence of their ‘right’ to a parasitic existence than those who directly carry on class domination and the exploitation of the working class. Rosa Luxemburg, Women’s Suffrage and Class Struggle
My friends, the lawn season is back with a vengeance. Yards and yards of printed cloth that women lust for - exhibitions upon exhibitions of horrid prints and obscene dyes - flowers, stripes, dots, and tv screens gone awry, a perverse spring of sorts - wrapped around mannequins, draped across hotel halls and Kareena on billboards. And women walk around in consumerist eroticism- taking in the designs, snatching out at gul ahmed prints, doling out cash as if it were monopoly money. Even the ones that wear head to toe black coats. Even the ones who should wear khaki or spin their own khadi.
Oh to possess cloth! Endless, soft, slutty Cloth! White shouldered Kareena covered in luxurious turquoise. Forget for a second that most people have only a handful of yards to their name.
And here are the facts:
The women take their loot home and spread it out on their beds and roll in it - in the nude. Then they make togas out of it, and walk around the house until their husband complains the cooks are gawking. Then they take it to tailors and ask them to make extra long extra sexy kameezes because the kapra must go on. Then they quarrel with the tailors who miss a key deadline or mess up the border. Then they go to committees and birthdays and throw a fit, and throw up their food when they see three other gals in their exact same outfit. Then they come home and throw a bigger fit because they longer remember who they are; and manically throw lipsticks at the mirror, except the one that cost $50.
And when the throwing is done.
Their husband who spends most of his time at the bank kissing his boss's behind for a 3 lakh payoff, and the remainder with other misfits whose only interest in women is gauging whether they will sleep with them or cook for them-- decides that the only way to pacify this lost dilapidated wife of his is to build her an exhibition center of her own on Zamzama Boulevard: A Portrait of a girl in glass.. And if she has any talent and something to exhibit, she becomes rich. And other little women aspire to emulate her, and continue a spiral of endless and dizzying consumerism -- of cloth, jewelry, shoes, handbags, furniture and other.such ego stroking junk.
At this point some sweet minded soul will remind us we must celebrate women's spirits and their endeavor. And that some of these businesswomen are self made and self sustained. Well, hurray for you, girls, and your obese bank balances. I mean I respect your intelligence and all, and your entrepreneurship and your resilience in the face of harassment, sexism and bigotry.
But I ain't in the mood for free market.tonight. And I definitely am not buying any lawn.
I'm rooting for the working class girl tonight. Yes you, the girl making Rs. 8 bangles in your house in the slums, losing your eyes. You, the girl in the ricksha with the long wet hair speeding to an interview for a bank clerk job at Rs, 7,000. You nine to five chikita with your huge ass cuppa coffee and furrowed brow - losing your mind.
You're a fool, you know.
My friends, the lawn season is back with a vengeance. Yards and yards of printed cloth that women lust for - exhibitions upon exhibitions of horrid prints and obscene dyes - flowers, stripes, dots, and tv screens gone awry, a perverse spring of sorts - wrapped around mannequins, draped across hotel halls and Kareena on billboards. And women walk around in consumerist eroticism- taking in the designs, snatching out at gul ahmed prints, doling out cash as if it were monopoly money. Even the ones that wear head to toe black coats. Even the ones who should wear khaki or spin their own khadi.
Oh to possess cloth! Endless, soft, slutty Cloth! White shouldered Kareena covered in luxurious turquoise. Forget for a second that most people have only a handful of yards to their name.
And here are the facts:
The women take their loot home and spread it out on their beds and roll in it - in the nude. Then they make togas out of it, and walk around the house until their husband complains the cooks are gawking. Then they take it to tailors and ask them to make extra long extra sexy kameezes because the kapra must go on. Then they quarrel with the tailors who miss a key deadline or mess up the border. Then they go to committees and birthdays and throw a fit, and throw up their food when they see three other gals in their exact same outfit. Then they come home and throw a bigger fit because they longer remember who they are; and manically throw lipsticks at the mirror, except the one that cost $50.
And when the throwing is done.
Their husband who spends most of his time at the bank kissing his boss's behind for a 3 lakh payoff, and the remainder with other misfits whose only interest in women is gauging whether they will sleep with them or cook for them-- decides that the only way to pacify this lost dilapidated wife of his is to build her an exhibition center of her own on Zamzama Boulevard: A Portrait of a girl in glass.. And if she has any talent and something to exhibit, she becomes rich. And other little women aspire to emulate her, and continue a spiral of endless and dizzying consumerism -- of cloth, jewelry, shoes, handbags, furniture and other.such ego stroking junk.
At this point some sweet minded soul will remind us we must celebrate women's spirits and their endeavor. And that some of these businesswomen are self made and self sustained. Well, hurray for you, girls, and your obese bank balances. I mean I respect your intelligence and all, and your entrepreneurship and your resilience in the face of harassment, sexism and bigotry.
But I ain't in the mood for free market.tonight. And I definitely am not buying any lawn.
I'm rooting for the working class girl tonight. Yes you, the girl making Rs. 8 bangles in your house in the slums, losing your eyes. You, the girl in the ricksha with the long wet hair speeding to an interview for a bank clerk job at Rs, 7,000. You nine to five chikita with your huge ass cuppa coffee and furrowed brow - losing your mind.
You're a fool, you know.
2 comments:
I am completely loving this, You are not a typical Karachiite are you? Well done though loving it!
love what u have written, even though a little hypocritical but still very nice..
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