The other day, on my way to do a story in the Maharashtra countryside, I was outnumbered, as usual. In addition to our compact team of three, our Tavera swelled up to accommodate three more. They were all locals, and Good Sense, who squeezed in as well, said we needed them to break the ice, get us the inside story, and more importantly, show us the way. I agreed. So we set off looking, in this case, for the Bhatsa dam, which is quite large as dams go. Easy enough to spot and surely around the corner - a straight road to the hills.. Right! Every time our driver paused with uncertainty at a possible detour.. he was met with silence from the back seat.
Me: Abhi? Seedha? (Now? Straight?)
Others: (silence)
Me: Hum sahi raste pe hai na? (We are on the right track, right?)
Others: Hmm mm (Hmm mm)
Me: Kisise poochna hai kya? (Should we ask someone?)
Others (emphatically): NAHI. (NO!)
Lesson No 1: (silence) means 'Ask me about anything, even my wife's maiden name, but not this, not this.'
Lesson No 2: 'Hmm mm' does not mean 'yes'. It means 'I'm clueless, but will admit to this only if certain parts of my anatomy feel threatened.
Lesson No 3: 'NO' means 'I probably should say 'yes', but if I do, certain parts of my anatomy could sustain emotional trauma - could result in a psycho-somatic manifestation. Can't risk it.'
So we winded our way past friendly goatherds, village belles, grazing cows, and unforgettable cow paths .. we saw it all, but no dam. I should have known. The stony silence could only end in negotiating a stony path.. unfit for rubber tires.
Now, it's a truth more or less universally acknowledged that if you look hard enough, credible research can be found to prove every harebrained theory there is. Some research actually claims men have tiny deposits of iron at the base of the nose that act as a compass, so males instinctively know when they're facing north. I can tell you here and now it's definitely not iron men have at the bottom of their noses.
Another bit of research (by respected journal Nature Neuroscience) found that men process shapes, angles, routes, maps, mazes, and other geometric patterns far more efficiently than women. I believe this to be true. Video parlours, after all, are filled with them for this reason. But this ability has been cited as the reason men don't ask for directions. Apparently, they don't have to. Really! If I was a rat in a maze trying to find to find my way out, I'd hope I had a man's brain. As a full-fledged human, navigating the highway of life, hopelessly lost, day after day - not so much!
The point I'm trying to make is: from the boondocks to the big city, this disorder is not just congenital, it's global. It straddles caste and class; one can see it on a bullock-cart, on a cycle, in a cab, on a bus, and in a Bentley. But foolishly, I enter our office car everyday with hope. Drivers in particular are a harrowed lot. They are right at the bottom of the feeding chain and are attacked incessantly about their woeful ignorance, about roads, and, when you really think about it, everything else. Surely after months of enduring such cruelty, they wouldn't dare wing it when they weren't sure. So I enter a car with hope.
But soon, finding myself hurtling towards Thane with no U-turn in sight, when I really should be in Kurla, I am once again painfully aware of the deep, abiding connection between testosterone and pig-headedness. It's a connection no womanly charm can overcome, no amount of persuasion can cast asunder. If beleagured drivers never learn, what hope is there for the rest of them?
Too see these absolutely wonderful specimens, without which we women are admittedly incomplete, blunder about for hours like retarded orangutans often causes me physical pain. I write this blog in an attempt to understand, and maybe find a better way of sending this simple message across to these poor, misguided creatures: pull over, and just ask.
About the AuthorRaksha Shetty Raksha Shetty has been a journalist for 8 years, and is now Principal Correspondent in the Mumbai bureau of CNN-IBN. She joined CNN-IBN at the channel...Read Morefirst published:January 18, 2007, 12:28 ISTlast updated:January 18, 2007, 12:28 IST
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Well, I'm not exactly sure why. But I know it's true. I spend many of my waking hours on the road in a car with two men (cameraman and driver), and I find myself in a position to comment on this fact with authority.
The other day, on my way to do a story in the Maharashtra countryside, I was outnumbered, as usual. In addition to our compact team of three, our Tavera swelled up to accommodate three more. They were all locals, and Good Sense, who squeezed in as well, said we needed them to break the ice, get us the inside story, and more importantly, show us the way. I agreed. So we set off looking, in this case, for the Bhatsa dam, which is quite large as dams go. Easy enough to spot and surely around the corner - a straight road to the hills.. Right! Every time our driver paused with uncertainty at a possible detour.. he was met with silence from the back seat.
Me: Abhi? Seedha? (Now? Straight?)
Others: (silence)
Me: Hum sahi raste pe hai na? (We are on the right track, right?)
Others: Hmm mm (Hmm mm)
Me: Kisise poochna hai kya? (Should we ask someone?)
Others (emphatically): NAHI. (NO!)
Lesson No 1: (silence) means 'Ask me about anything, even my wife's maiden name, but not this, not this.'
Lesson No 2: 'Hmm mm' does not mean 'yes'. It means 'I'm clueless, but will admit to this only if certain parts of my anatomy feel threatened.
Lesson No 3: 'NO' means 'I probably should say 'yes', but if I do, certain parts of my anatomy could sustain emotional trauma - could result in a psycho-somatic manifestation. Can't risk it.'
So we winded our way past friendly goatherds, village belles, grazing cows, and unforgettable cow paths .. we saw it all, but no dam. I should have known. The stony silence could only end in negotiating a stony path.. unfit for rubber tires.
Now, it's a truth more or less universally acknowledged that if you look hard enough, credible research can be found to prove every harebrained theory there is. Some research actually claims men have tiny deposits of iron at the base of the nose that act as a compass, so males instinctively know when they're facing north. I can tell you here and now it's definitely not iron men have at the bottom of their noses.
Another bit of research (by respected journal Nature Neuroscience) found that men process shapes, angles, routes, maps, mazes, and other geometric patterns far more efficiently than women. I believe this to be true. Video parlours, after all, are filled with them for this reason. But this ability has been cited as the reason men don't ask for directions. Apparently, they don't have to. Really! If I was a rat in a maze trying to find to find my way out, I'd hope I had a man's brain. As a full-fledged human, navigating the highway of life, hopelessly lost, day after day - not so much!
The point I'm trying to make is: from the boondocks to the big city, this disorder is not just congenital, it's global. It straddles caste and class; one can see it on a bullock-cart, on a cycle, in a cab, on a bus, and in a Bentley. But foolishly, I enter our office car everyday with hope. Drivers in particular are a harrowed lot. They are right at the bottom of the feeding chain and are attacked incessantly about their woeful ignorance, about roads, and, when you really think about it, everything else. Surely after months of enduring such cruelty, they wouldn't dare wing it when they weren't sure. So I enter a car with hope.
But soon, finding myself hurtling towards Thane with no U-turn in sight, when I really should be in Kurla, I am once again painfully aware of the deep, abiding connection between testosterone and pig-headedness. It's a connection no womanly charm can overcome, no amount of persuasion can cast asunder. If beleagured drivers never learn, what hope is there for the rest of them?
Too see these absolutely wonderful specimens, without which we women are admittedly incomplete, blunder about for hours like retarded orangutans often causes me physical pain. I write this blog in an attempt to understand, and maybe find a better way of sending this simple message across to these poor, misguided creatures: pull over, and just ask.
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