When Hate is Just Hate

I think I should have been impressed - this was purity, this was the essence. Random men who you'd never met, never spoken to, passing by the train compartment where you sit with other women and shouting things through the windows, the doors:

"Don't you have any work at home? Traveling in trains at night!"

"They don't have any work. They have a lot of time... to travel." Laughter.

"Who's bitching in there? Women just get together and bitch, bitch, bitch. Bitches."

To this last statement, someone calls out from the depths of the compartment, "At least, brother, we don't stink like you."

But drunk, the man staggers on, unable to articulate a reply. He's just spat out verbal venom and passed along, shouting at any figure in a sari or a salwar kameez.

Here, casual misogyny permeates everything. All that talk of not having work, of traveling late at night in trains, are meant to smear, to suggest vice. They are sharp, small, serrated thought-knives that skewer vulnerable minds and being parasitical, lie there.


To pleasanter things:

George Clooney + Italy + good cinematography? What more does a woman want?

And one didn't need another reason to intensify one's crush on Rob Smyth (the best cricket writer out there right now), but his piece on his up-and-down-love-affair with the Pakistan Cricket Team will do just that.

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