Neither am I dead, nor is this series.
Hello and welcome to the second episode of Prose-tinted glasses. If you have no idea what the hell is going on here or need a refresher, head on over to the pilot episode where I introduce you to this new venture of mine and talk about Orwell’s 1984. Seriously, do it. It’ll save you from my wrath by preventing you from calling it a book-review series.
I’m assuming you’re now familiar with the previous episode. So, in keeping with our theme of Books we all Pretend we’ve Read, the book for today is The Handmaid’s Tale.
*cue theme music*
I know, I know. It has over seventy thousand reviews on Goodreads, who knows how many more articles, entire research papers, and a whole TV show. But will any of that deter me from writing about it? Did any of that compel me to read at least one article about it? Did I watch the show?
I call it being authentic. Continue reading
Disclaimer: This is a rant. If you do not like rants or are currently not in the mood for one, please feel free to leave.
Earlier, I refrained from writing non-creative stuff on the Factory. But I realised, since I’ve not really defined it as a haven for fiction and poetry, but rather a workshop of ideas, I shouldn’t be restricting ideas. I shouldn’t be putting any tags on my blog.
So here it is. My first non-creative write-up here. Although you could argue that Iratus was hidden social commentary, so it’s technically not the first time I’m doing socio-political commentary here. But still, it was a parody so technically creative.
I’m sorry you won’t be getting another part of Killing the creator today, but it’s something I really want to say.
Now I’ve seen many people, both in real life and on the internet who derise feminism. They say feminism equals sexism towards the female gender. They claim to be ‘humanists’ and not feminists. What they do not realise is that feminism is that so-called humanism.
Today, I’m not expressing myself through either poetry or prose. This is just a raw post, of me talking to- not my brain this time- but to you. With no literary coverings. If that’s not what you’d like to read, you can just skip this post- I won’t hold it against you. I promise.
Azar was cooking rice on a gas stove when her hand accidentally hit the utensil of almost-boiled milk on the adjacent gas stove and it fell down with a loud clang, spilling the thick white liquid all over the floor. She gritted her teeth. Her husband would come storming into the kitchen anytime now. She quickly set about mopping the spilt milk, trying to ignore the scalding burn her right hand had suffered. Her left hand wasn’t her dominant one, so it took her longer than usual. As a result, her husband entered the place before she could finish up.
“Spilt a perfectly good kilo of milk again, have you?” In truth, Azar had never spilt milk before. “Do you know how expensive this is? Of course, you wouldn’t- you laze about in the house all day like a Maharani while I toil in the factory all day. Milk comes so dearly, but still, I buy it to keep you nourished and this is how you repay me?”
“I’m sorry, ji. It won’t happen again,” she said, cowering. She knew what would come next.