Editing Unravelled by a Shopaholic Thread

Dear Readers,
Now, generally, I do not need an excuse to explain why women are better than men, but today I decided to analyze just one of the myriad ways in which we are the superior gender. Women are amazing editors, film or otherwise. Quite simply, we were genetically preconditioned to do it. Let me explain...

It all comes down to shopping.

How does a man shop? He goes to Store A. One of two things happen here. If he likes something in Store A, he buys it. End of story. If not, he goes to store B and continues his focused search there. The story goes on like this. He finds what he wants and he leaves; the mission has been accomplished, Houston.

And how does a woman shop? She goes to the mall. She examines every corner of every store that sells the item she seeks, and is within (and sometimes beyond) her budget. After weighing up all the options, she returns to the store with the best version of the item and buys it, even if it is Store A itself. She does not see this as a waste of time. It's (market) research.

Why do we do this? Because we are trained to. Back when we all lived in caves and had no eBay, we had to fend for ourselves, and we all know who the hunters and who the gatherers were. And as gatherers, women did a damn good job of it. We examined the options and choose the vegetation least likely to kill us and most yummy to eat. Or something like that. Basically, we did then what we do now in malls.

And this brings me to the neat conclusion of my point. Women are great editors because when it comes to choosing the best take of a shot, or the best word to replace in a paragraph, we look at EVERY possible option before making a choice. We have the patience and energy for this and indeed most women relish it. Most men pick the first one that looks or sounds good and move on. In that way, women are better perfectionists and sticklers for detail. This could also explain why we like cushions, dessert forks and napkin rings, but more on that another day. For today, I have had my say on this soapbox of a blog. and now I am off to do what my gender does best-back to the drawing board. :)

gk*

ROSALIND: To you I give myself, for I am yours.

ROSALIND: [To ORLANDO] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

Indeed. Rosalind was right all along. Do what it takes to get the man of your dreams. Even if it means dressing up as one. But in an actual Elizabethan production, it would have been a little more complicated, because women's roles were in fact played by adolescent boys. So the audience would see a boy, impersonating a woman impersonating a boy. Tricky?

But in As You Like It, Rosalind also keeps wearing her disguise long after she has to. Why? Some critics claim it is because of the freedom it gives her. In her male persona, she escapes the limitations of being a woman, the obvious object of Orlando's love and that in the process, she learns a lot about herself, about him, and about the nature of love itself.

That could just be critics being critics. I doubt that Shakespeare ever thought of gender conventions while writing his plays, because his target audience saw them as pure entertainment, a bit like masala Bollywood films. Rosalind is an amusing character, and her male guise allows her to have the kind of cheeky fun that would not have been possible if she was openly female. She doesn't show her true identity because it's much more entertaining for her to go on fooling people. Would an actual woman behave like that in Shakespeare's time? Definitely not, but that's exactly what makes the play amusing to watch.

However, the play is not all fun and games; the comedy does, in fact, make some clever observations about real male-female interaction, and the games we play, both psychological and emotional. Because it wouldn't be as funny if it was all make-believe, like A Comedy of Errors and Two Gentlemen of Verona are.

Now, back to the opening line. This post wouldn't be a post if it wasn't circular, right? :) What did she actually mean by it? Wasn't it more than just pledging to be Orlando's wife, as a sort of informal wedding vow? Because she hardly says three lines after these in the play, mutely accepting her place as devoted daughter and wife. We are led to believe that Orlando must be taught that love is a madness, of which he must be cured, not of loving Rosalind, but of worshiping her with unrealistic expectations, that will only lead to disillusionment. And surely, by the end, he has learnt this.

But how did the cheeky trouble-maker make the rapid transition? Or is there still a sly glint in her eye as the curtain comes down? Maybe she has also collected a lesson or two on love, along the way. Perhaps she is 'his', in that she has finally understood him and love in a way that she can truly offer herself to him, who knew not if her reciprocal feelings. In essence, she is already his, from the moment she understands the nature of love itself, not by knowing that he feels the same. And this is the ultimate moment of revelation to both him and her father, of gender, of identity and of love.

gk*

Graduation day

Well, the day finally dawned when I acquired another degree. I was sitting in the huge hall, feeling stifled and hot, as you do in Jane Austen novels when you are a young heroine vastly uninterested in capturing the attentions of an appropriate suitor. Anyway, back to the point. So I skipped breakfast, because I was far more interested in looking stunning for the Big Day. Of course, in my life, that translates into looking like a drowned rat because I didn't get time to dry my hair, too much perfume and half-done make up. At least I had natural rosy cheeks from running after a bus for 7 minutes down Eccy road. (Damn you, taxi that never turned up!)

I spent the first few minutes in City Hall chatting with the few people from my course who turned up, cursing myself for forgetting to bring a mirror and looking for spots I'd missed whilst shaving my legs. I eventually got up to find a bathroom to beautify myself, making everyone in my row stand up, then doing the awkward try-not-to-let-your-bum-touch-anyone-as-you-exit walk. Once there, I realized I had forgotten my handbag in the hall, with my precious make up stash in it. I tried to fix my appearance but the harsh lighting made me feel worse, so I slunk back. By now, I was ready to faint from the heat, lack of food and the butterfly farm which had nested in my stomach. I became light-headed. And that's when I remembered a similar day...

(Cue the dream sequence wavy lines)

No, it was not the day I graduated from MH, that hallowed all-girls institution where I did my first degree. It was the day I joined it. I remember the hot July afternoon, standing at the back of a massive auditorium, upon whose stage I would perform in years to come (but I didn't know it then), with hundreds of other young women. We were all bored, waiting for the endless welcome speeches to end, and the Principal seemed to be droning on for ages. I was standing at the very back, fanning myself with a fresher's welcome brochure of some sort, feeling faint because I'd skipped breakfast so that I could (you guessed it) look good on the Big Day. I knew no one and was acutely aware of it for the first 30 minutes or so, after which all I wanted was air conditioning. But then the Principal said some things about being a student at MH and what it meant to be there, something about a history of strong independent women, making a difference in the world, and how we should all be proud of being a part of it all. She said that our time here as undergraduates was precious and we should make the most of it and find a way to shine. I felt strangely inspired and had a deep feeling that one day I would understand the full weight of her words. She said we would be adults when we left, and it was so true. I learnt a lot, not just about literature, but about life. Before I embark upon a philosophical diatribe about it all, I shall stop. the point is, I had the same feeling yesterday. The university's VC said some similar things, things which I think I may fully understand a few years from now. And I look forward to it.

Oh and my joke about the lack of gown with the VC got a few laughs and lifelong infamy. But if I don't lead a soap-opera life, who will? :)

g.k., B.A. (Hons.), M.A. ---> ha ha!

Foodie food food

Today, I cooked from what was left in the fridge. Good times.
My cooking went down so well, that I decided to share my perfect recipes with the world. So, here you are-burdened with my greatness. Enjoy!

Amazingly Easy Roasties

Wash and cut potatoes into cubes, one to two inches square. Cook your spuds in the microwave first, in a bowl with a spoon of water in it. Vary cooking times according to your oven, but ensure you turn them over once and that you remove them when a knife goes in the middle of a cube smoothly. Then, put them in an open roasting tin/dish with olive oil and any herbs you've got (I use fresh black pepper, garlic and Herbes de Provence). Put it in a hot oven for 10 to 15 minutes, to brown the outsides. Turn them once halfway through to brown evenly.

Even Easier Sugar Snap Peas

Heat 1 tbsp oil in a wok or pan. Fry your seasoning (I use whole red chillies and whichever fresh herbs I have) for 1 minute and add the washed and drained peas. Toss for 2 minutes until glossy.

oh dear oh dear

Well hello readers. Your favourite blogger is back, and is she bursting with news or what? New place, new lifestyle, new job and lots of big news! I have finished film school, at last. Please shed a tear for the end of my student life as we know it. I have also moved into a new place, a lovely grown-up flat in a nice part of town, far away from the cries of schoolchildren.

Now, apologies for not writing in a long time. I know it is an unforgivable sin, but alas, moving home means dearth of internet for extended periods of time, and well, I was a bit busy. Aren’t we all? Wait, this was meant to be an apology. Ok, I’ll just leave it at sorry. Now, on to the real stuff. The interesting and banal. The great and the totally nonsensically useless.

First up, I’ve been home for two weeks in May, for a breather. I thought I would go mad if I stayed here for longer than 6 months at a stretch and I was right. I needed time at home, doing the things I’ve loved to do for years; eat, shop and then eat some more. And I am not talking about home cooked food the way all good-Indian-children-away-from-home should. I mean all my favourite café’s, restaurants and street food carts. Mmmmm…the taste of food I haven’t cooked. And the pleasure of not having to wash up afterwards. Amazing. I also went out to old haunts and new, including the new (not new, there was one earlier but it was forced to close for dubious reasons…only in Delhi) and improved (yawn) F Bar. Yep, it was predictably full of VIPs with too much money, thinking that it made them all-powerful and gorgeous-looking.

And this leads nicely to my monumental question, what with the whole controversy on the fake lashes used in mascara ads. They have now been forced to stick a little “warning” at the bottom of such ads, to say they were “filmed with lash inserts” or “edited in post-production”. But the thing is, this is shown in every mascara ad on tv or in print. So, where did this get us? I watch an ad and think-wow that’s great. I can look like that! Oops, they gave her lashes in post. Hmmm, so why should I buy that product? How do I know it really works? Oh gee, maybe I should just get some fake lashes to look like the model. Or an editor to follow my virtual self around and airbrush me every minute. Point to ponder, my friends, point to ponder.

If you are looking for a serious world issue to think about (how dare you?), check this out.

Keep debating, readers!
luv,
gk*