Earlier today Boing Boing blogger David Pescovitz wondered out loud about this picture he saw hanging on the wall of an Indian restaurant:
My friend Mike Love and I saw this print hanging on the wall of an Indian restaurant in Palo Alto. The composition makes it look like that woman is about to smash the guy’s head with a sledgehammer. [Link]
I thought SM readers could have a little fun with this. The person who provides the best back-story or conversation interpreting this picture wins!
Wins what?
Clearly Anna is attacking Ennis. Why, I don’t know. It’s probably not any of my business anyway. ^__^
You won’t know if you don’t try.
Oh, now that’s exactly what my dad used to say to try to get my sister and I to do some kind of chore for some kind of vague “prize.” We caught on pretty quickly. (And “the joy of accomplishment” is not a prize!)
Well, that all depends on the accomplishment 😉
ha!
my first attempt at fiction — Chameli has been married to an older blacksmith Ramdin for over an year. Ramdin has not been able to provide his young wife the kind of sexual escapades that she’s been expecting from the husband. The younger shepherd Aslam had an eye on Chameli ever since she’s moved into the neighbourhood. He was able to attract Chameli’s attention and together have hatched a plot to kill Ramdin — More to come next.
Old dirty dirty: Dammit, woman! What chu put in dem grits dis mo’nin’? Sledgehammer honey: That’s it! I have had it wit yo triflin’ ass always shittin’ in mah pots! Jenny from the block: Oh shit! Old dirty gon’ get it now! I told dat fool to stop shittin’ in dem pots. Come here, goat!
It took me some time to see David Pescovitz’s problem.Her hands seem misaligned in the current frame, but her front leg is clearly pointing where she intends to hit, and her body will swing and get properly aligned with the direction of her front leg as she proceeds to swing the anvil. Sorry but there is nothing about feminist liberation in this painting. 🙂
But for the sake of fun, my story is that they are testing the effectiveness of the pugree as a head safety accessory.
Parminder, who will soon fail out of her homescience course at Patiala Institute of Tech, attempts to make a paratha
The painting depicts an airborne smithy shop in ancient India where flying machines were the norm(proof). It might appear to the untrained eye that the old man’s end is nigh. But the good lady cosmonaut knows too well that the glorious ships of ancient India were constantly accelerating, and the acceleration will change the trajectory of her swing to exactly the right spot.
PS: I need to stop reading bad SF.
“Jaan, you make delicious rotis. But I was thinking, perhaps they could be EVEN BETTER. Here let me show you…”
@ blue,
you would know wouldn’t you—there you are, in the background looking on!! i knew it. 😀
Married to you when I was a young girl. You were already an old man, a widower of 57. I came, demurrely at first, into your home and assumed all the roles that was required of me and that were passed down by HER. And what did you give me? Nothing. Not even a working male organ. I took the place as a servant, not a wife, and yet I never complained. The fools think I’m happy. Your child from her is just two years younger than me. We’d be friends if she didn’t hate me so – but who can blame her? And after slaving away on your measly pathetic farm, I sit here and help you with your current task; I’m secretly plotting to miss, lose my balance, and hit you in the skull with my heavy tool. Good thing your daughter is here to witness it all. Tell me, husband, what will you say then?
Here’s our interpretation.
Pure genius. I lowe. Completely approwe.
His lungs feel heavier. He delays his breathing cycles only to realize the burden of life through the weight of each breath. He wonders why God cannot allow him, for a mere moment, to breath through his eyes. If only the light landing on his sunken eyes could provide sustenance. But he pilots a human being and not the unripe bitter gourd he may have to eat today, if he is unable to muster the strength to finish flattening this spear – the same strength his father said was imbued in his blood. His only daughter looks on, ashamed of being a girl. Ever conscious that even a thousand gunny-bags of bitter gourds will never constitute a dowry, however ripe. She fixes her eyes onto her sari and recalls the days when she used to tie only five pleats and those same days when one side was really a pallu. In a moment, almost irrationally, she stands up and grabs the rusted sledge hammer, but her thinning sari restricts her movement. Her father too weak to register the transgression holds the spear over the anvil in anticipation. She unties the top of her sari, peering from the corner of her eye trying to force her iris beyond its limit. Noticing the village midwife, she continues to retie what-was-once-the-pallu around her thick hair whilst uncomfortably absorbing the heavy glances. Her arms unshackled, she raises the sledge hammer above her head oblivious to black fly that just landed on her barren midriff.
It’s just a simple Indian variation of a fairground test of strength; hit the old man on the toe and see how high he goes. I believe there are families who have specialised in this form of enterteinment for thirty generations.
“The first and last time Kewal taught Asha how to Blacksmith”
“Early forms of Indian village S&M”
“Asha gives Kewal the spice he complains is always missing from her chole”
Lizzie Borden took an ax…
“I am THOR!”
“Quite frankly darling, after last night, who wouldn’t be?”
“In the absence of any flint, Pushpinder fell back on the traditional method of making a fire by striking Baba ji’s incredibly callused foot”.
“It is interesting to note that, had the travelling toothpaste salesman in the background arrived a few minutes later, the product we know as Arm & Hammer would’ve been instead called Concussed Indian”.
Whadyamean you forget to vote for Sanjaya last nite?
Baba ji was beginning to regret his ultimatum: “Either that black goat goes or I do”.
forgot, I mean. I hope the woman yesterday who complimented my English and “mastery of American idioms” didn’t read my previous comment.
“Baggy pantaloons? Garish colours? That’s right… it’s Hammer time!”
“Pushpinder made her point with all the subtlety of… one of Taj’s attempts at a witty caption”.
With the scent of sandalwood and jasmine permeating the morning air, she made her Choice.
“I will no longer be a Tree Bride. I shall be reborn with a hammer.” Her arms shook with shakti and fire as she lifted the heavy metal.
The old man looked at her with wide eyes. “Do you smell curry and mustard oil?”
“No, but what is curry exactly? I asked the spices and they have stopped whispering to me.”
“I heard them. Come to the guava orchard. I shall sit in the tree and then I will tell you the secret of the spices.”
She lifted the hammer high above her head. She pounded it down to a rhythm in her head: Go-Gol-Gang-Guli-Go-Gol-Gang-Guli.
haraam zyaade….main tera khoon pi jaaoongi!
Ganga never happy with Ramdin who she had been married to since she was a child had found exciting new love in Durga the young neighbor who was recently widowed. One day while Durga kept watch over the sleeping village on a late summer afternoon, Ganga decided it was time for Ramdin to go.
What you don’t see is the blinking lights and bell way up above the old man. This is an ancient Indian carnival game where the woman strikes her husbands knees in an effort to pop his head off. It is similar to the Kyrgyz game of Buzkashi, a mix between polo and rugby– played with a headless, goat carcass…How embarrassing/macabre… I formally withdraw myself from the Abhi’s story competition.
signed,
the Anti-Sanjaya
While Ramji thinks his wife is going to hit his hand instead of the metal he holds, he does not know that behind him lurks the girl(Lakshmibai) with the sword he ditched in a nearby village after she got pregnant. She is here for one reason, to chop his head off for cheating her innocent soul.
I know I won. I know it.
Hey, this is genius, yaar! It’s a Desi Escher “impossible angles” masterpiece!
The Goat: “I wish that old fool would stop making her do all that hard work; her calloused hands hurt my teats every morning”
Lady- “Don’t you dare take that last chapatti!”
Jagdish, dear, did you file for Hetch-Vun-Bee?
Yes, dearest Pallavi; I hitched one bee to the cart, as well as one tree, for good measure.
Anjali had had it. She was tired of hiding her hidden talents in order to be the demure and fecund baby factory that Subramaniam demanded. She was going to pursue her dream – to be winner of the Lumberjack World Championship – even if it meant the death of her… or him. She swept her sari aside, flexed her abs, gripped her mighty hammer, and deftly swung.
I think coment 35 takes the cake. Uber shut it down. There’s no point in continuing.
Director: “Ramu, that is good, stay facing me while looking at the piece of metal on the ground. And Somu, stay there in the background and act like you are watching them, do the metal work. Parvati, now raise that hammer slowly above your head and pose like you are going to hit that piece of hot metal to shape it.”
“OK, action! Cameras roll!”
Poster-maker/painter aka Sudo-Froid: (Thinking to himself) Hmm! This will make a good poster for the movie and I can also sell this in Amreeka to those desi sudo-art collector market for a handsome price. I will angle the hammer such that it looks like it could strike the hot metal or Ramu’s head. It will be interesting to hear from all those art viewers and get their take on what exactly is happening in this scene. It will reveal their dark inner secrets. Only question is how to get them talking.
A few months later…
Sudo-froid reading SM: “Wow! This is great! Boing Boing Zindabad! David Pescovitz Zindabad! Sepiamutiny Zindabad! Abhi Zindabad!
Ramlal to Dhano: “Hold on. Let me grab a quick fix from my hooka before you do this. It’ll make it easier.” Dhano to Ramlal: “This is the last time I’m doing this. I’m tired of partaking in your silly amputation fetishes.” Fakirchand (in the backdrop): “Man I’m so jealous of that old fart Ramlal. He gets to tap that azz all the time.”
Having run out of eggs, Chameli found a novel way to make Bhurji
raam dulari – ‘…no one craps in my backyard and gets away..’
spray less, hurt more.
raam dulari- akal ka dusman
Chameli: This is what happens when you let men make rotis. I now have to use a freakin axe with a freaking laser beam attached to it’s head to cut this.
The Indian version of Johanna Spyri’s Alpine classic, Heidi, takes a rather fatalistic approach to its source material.
Inner thoughts:
GangaLal: I can’t believe I am just holding, while she hits and molds the iron. Rampyari: he ma bitch!!! Paaro (lady in the background): kya zamana aa gaya hai :>/
Father a blacksmith and his daughter. Daughter is helping her father beat the product so he can put it back in the fire.
I take that back. 49 wins, in my opinion. That’s the funniest comment I’ve read.