Of gals and girls

I was reading about the etymology of ‘gal’ earlier today, not because I was jobless, but because I have always been irked by the distortion of that simple word ‘girl’ to ‘gal’ by young and old alike. 

It is surprising that there are at least a hundred thousand others around the world who share this concern and rant about it incessantly online. But, this isn’t a rant post, so am moving on to what I found.

1. An online etymology dictionary states that gal is slang for girl, commonly perceived to be Cockney vulgarism.
2. The Wiktionary claims that gal refers to an adolescent girl or a young woman.
3. The Wikisaurus, while calling the word colloquial and dated, says that woman is an antonym of gal!
4. The Urban Dictionary, the mecca of those new world mutations such as selfies and titties, defines gal as referring to bird, bitch, slut, hoe, girl, woman, pussy, lady and even sex! But, the same dictionary also wants to redeem itself by giving a new twist to the word with this definition – an awesome person who was well-known in her city before leaving for an exotic place – whatever that means!
5. Random online forums, where many random people say random things, thanks to internet, mobile apps and that unquantifiable luxury called freedom of speech, claim the following:
• Men used to refer to their secretaries as gals and their girlfriends as girls
• Men called their lady friends as gals, just like how they called their male friends as pals
• Gal was used as a substitute to that very derogatory word, bitch
• Gals and chicks can be used interchangeably

No matter where I go, I can see nothing but an ugly reference to the word, save Wiktionary and Wikisaurus. Why still do we put up with this word? Is it to make ourselves look cool? 

But, I am no one to ask this question, for, I am part of a google group that carries the word in its name. The only saving grace is that it is a very dormant group, and so, I do not contribute too much to the sin of using ‘gal’.

Then again, I am also part of a group that carries horny in its name. And it isn’t a dormant group. The only saving grace there is that I am not able to find any conceivable sin in using the word ‘horny’.

The Jungle

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

The tiger and the lion, they hunt the live,

Vultures and hyenas, on the dead they thrive,

Night and day, they merge into one,

Territories are sacred, and breached at every turn.

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

The fruits and the roots, abound around,

The flowers they bloom, on trees and on ground,

The rain god smiles, every once in a while,

The leaves they rustle, never do they die.

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

Where secrets die soon, truths never win

Where man and beast, alike they sin,

I sing with joy, and I dance away,

For fear maketh courage, and courage lets me play.

Wouldn't it be loverly!

This poem is based on this lovely song from my all-time favorite musical, My Fair Lady; I was humming it in my head as I wrote this out, so the poem might sound better against that music than stand-alone.

All I want is a brownie warm,

Reveling in this brewing storm,

A large couch by the balcony,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Lots of pakoras and hot bhajji

With a steaming cup of spicy tea

Evenings with samosa and chutney,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Pitter, patter of the raindrops high,

Hot chocolate and hot apple pie,

Arm full of books and heart full of glee,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Aww, so loverly resting my head on my cushion without a care,

I would never budge till the sun crept through the windows to stare.

All I want is a brownie warm,

Reveling in this brewing storm,

A large couch by the balcony,

Wouldn’t it be loverly?

Loverly… loverly… loverly…

The Game

“Lucky fellow!” we holler, when we want to congratulate a guy who has landed a beautiful wife.

“You need to be lucky to get through that exam,” we say, in morbid self-doubt, when we haven’t performed as well as we should have in a competitive test. 

Whenever something goes wrong, attempting to camouflage our own short-comings, we cry out “Shucks! Rotten luck!” 

Luck is our one word explanation for all things good that happen to others, and all things bad that happen to us. 

My dad was a great believer in the concept of luck. Perhaps, it gave him the confidence to win. He believed his lucky number was 8, a number shunned by the uber-sensitive, luck-driven industry he did business in. At production releases, he always picked up stocks labelled 8, or adding up to 8, because no one clamoured for those anyway, and he could get away without having to put up with a long wait. As I write this, I wonder whether he truly believed in lucky number eight, or was just being crafty. 

I used to believe in luck as a kid. I had my own lucky color, lucky dress, and, most importantly, lucky pen. I also had an unlucky pen that I didn’t have the heart to throw away. I would use it for writing my name on entry forms in art competitions, which, given my artistic prowess, I had no hopes of winning even if Fortuna were to take control of my soul. And, in case you are wondering, I participated in them only because they were “away” competitions with half a day off from school. 

I still believe in luck. That is, I believe in the concept of an external entity helping me win. It could be a shirt or a suit or a pen or a piece of accessory. But, that belief seems to have waned over the years. I don’t feel the same charge of energy and confidence when walking into an important meeting in my luckiest shirt as I used to, walking into an examination carrying my luckiest pen.

Perhaps, this is what growing old means. We believe less and less in Utopia, the world of the magic wand, the skies with the flying carpets and the genie granting us wishes. We lean more towards rationale, logic, the inevitable end, and the moribund years of life. We wonder whether luck really exists, for, it is just plain, unadulterated chance that we are sitting here playing this game of life. We refuse to accept that the Universe might have conspired to do us a good turn.

We play at life like it is a game. We fight tooth and nail to live another day, if not literally, at least figuratively. Every time someone wins, we say they are lucky. And, we get a little more despondent, pondering over our ill-luck. Every time we win, we become even more despondent. For, our self-benchmark just went up. 

In the Game of Thrones, you either win or you die. There is no middle path. 

In the Game of Life, we just trudge on. If we win, we trudge on. If we lose, we trudge on. The trudging on is worse than death, for we are anticipating loss at every turn. 

For, we no longer trust that the Universe is looking out for us, that something worthwhile might come out of all this after all, by hook or by crook, or some luck from the nook.