That moment...

I saw his eyes twinkle. His face brightened up, his lips curved into a warm smile. I noticed something he was trying hard to hide -- a little tear glistening at the corner of his eye. He ruffled my hair, patted my back, as he helped himself to yet another spoonful of the payasam I’d cooked for him, on his birthday...I suppressed the urge in me to stop him from helping himself to yet another spoonful because of his diabetes...the sheer joy on his face prevented me from holding back his hands. He smiled, surprised, struggling to say, “It’s very nice” with a mouthful of the dessert...

As I was busy doing the dishes and tidying up the kitchen, I overheard his conversation with ammai over the phone. “She cooks, oh she cooks! She cooked for me, a full meal! Oh she cooks!!” I couldn’t help but notice the pride in his tone, like I’d done something extraordinary; like I’d won some medal; like I’d become the prime minister of the nation overnight; like I’d won the World Cup for India. I’d done nothing remotely close to any of this. I’d just cooked...a plain, simple meal.

He was beaming, patting my back constantly. His surprise was surprising. I had cooked for him for the first time, and the joy of relishing a plain, simple meal made by his daughter was evident. The full-toothed smile, the satisfied burp, the phone call with ammai and his eyes --- they said what he couldn’t put together in words....

***That moment, when the first shrieks of a baby echo in the corridor of a hospital. That moment when silent prayers are said, when relief floods those waiting outside. That moment when the parents meet their baby for the first time. Their eyes brim with tears of elation, sparkle with pride, their chests swell with unparalleled emotions. Every little movement the tiny one makes, every yawn, every shrill squeak, the tiny fingers and pearly toes, the fist-sized head, the pea-sized hands, the ruby lips, the button-like eyes...everything about the little bundle of joy fascinates the parents...

The first wobbly steps, the toothless smile, the first gurgle, trying a hand at babbling words. First song, first dance, first response to words. We might not remember any of these. Moments our parents treasure. Moments that are frozen in the albums of their happy memories. Moments that’ll never fade away like photographs. Moments that make them smile, beam with pride, elation...Moments, that’ll remain etched on to their minds, for eternity. Sadly, most of us wouldn’t remember any of these...***

I relived one of those moments. My father’s smile when I served him lunch would have been pretty similar to the one when I first sneezed, I first coughed, or first opened my eyes. The innocence and sincerity of the pride, that smile touched me, making me believe that every achievement of ours is theirs, every happiness of ours is the reason behind their smiles and everything we do leaves a little imprint on their hearts...they make us feel gifted, lauding every not-so-unusual thing we do...

That’s love -- unconditional, boundless, pure...

Cutting chai

As I zoom past with my husband on our bike, I notice splendid buildings, standing gracefully tall, showing the majestic setting sun a glimpse of its own beauty. Glass walls shimmering, adorning the horizon with ornamental diamond-like lights.

I wonder, at times, how would it feel to be on the other side, inside the posh glass frames, dining under glittering chandeliers, sipping sparkling water from the finest of crystal glasses and having the most fancy dishes laid out on antique tables. How would it feel to hear the metal fork tink against the expensive plates...How it would feel, attending meetings with the affluent, the well-versed, the well-spoken, the sophisticated. How it would feel carrying the most advanced technology in branded leather purses and handbags. How it would feel to breathe in the scented air of Calvin Klein and the like. How it would feel to step out of cars that make other people’s faces turn green.

Would I stare at the waiter struggling with his tray, juggling between expensive utensils, yet taking the risk to receive a phone call from a close one, reminding me, that I haven’t called up home in a while now. Will I notice a group of 20-somethings breaking into peals of uncontrollable giggles, wiping tears of bliss from the corners of their eyes and miss my time with friends? Will I sit in meetings, unable to concentrate, reeling under the guilt of screwing up yet another movie plan with friends? Would I struggle having formal conversations, missing the bindass ‘tu, tera, tereko’ that I am so used to? Will handshakes be alien to me, for whom high-fives and hugs work? Would I stand near the glass frame, looking at carefree couples zooming past me on their bikes, staring at the glass frame with awestruck eyes? Would I want to break free?

Yes, I would. I don’t want to be on the other side, inside the glass frames, dining under chandeliers. I’m more than happy going to a roadside dhaba and licking off bits of gravy sticking to the serving dish, wiping my runny nose with a tissue paper and making an ‘O’ bringing my index finger and thumb together to indicate the yummi-ness quotient. I’m happier watching flops with my friends than attending premiers, sitting with big guns and exhibiting plastic on my face. I would be happy to get back home to my parents every few months and feel the excitement than having flight tickets got done whenever I want - it kills the anticipation. I want to be free to talk to ammai-appa, after every meal I have, after every little significant thing I do. I want to giggle, live, unrestrained. Living inside glass frames isn’t my cup of tea...my cup of tea is the one that brews on the streets, in my house..

I need no posh car, protecting me from the dust and heat...all I want is a bike ride with my husband, when the skies go crimson, and like birds returning home as soon as dusk sets in, I want to return to my nest too...

And the tables turned...

***It’s a nice artistically-lit restaurant, with groovy music, lip-smacking starters and an ambience that will make you fall in love with it. Great company too, if I may add. Yet, happiness seems to be something that I have been chasing for a while...a wild goose chase, I call it. I’m in the best of places, with the most amazing people, but I feel lonely, hollow. From the corner of my eye, I notice two of my best friends cozying up, lost in each other’s eyes, cooing sweet nothings into each other’s ears...A voice inside my head goes, “Awww, adorable!”, while I feel a pang of something entirely different within...a stab of jealousy, a pinch of disappointment and oodles of sadness. Tears brim in my eyes, and I bow my head and wipe them off...***

This was how my life was a couple of years back. I was this lonely, brash, mechanical woman, whose life revolved around deciphering bus numbers in Marathi and running behind them. Phone calls were limited to calling ammai-appa’s numbers and receiving their calls. I was single, like I’d been all my life...”Why don’t I have that someone special,” I wondered at times, attributing my relationship status to the not-so-nice reflection that I saw glaring back at me from the mirror. I am not ‘hot’, I’m not the seductress that every man would want to have, heck, I’m not even the regular girl next door, whose smile would make a few hearts flutter. “Maybe this is how I’m supposed to be forever,” I thought, silently recalling the couple of times I had to face the horror of having to ‘meet’ guys, meetings arranged by family.

I used to shudder at the thought of these ‘prospective grooms’ rejecting me because of the way I look -impish and small, like someone close to me chose to put it. I’d mentally prepared myself to get married to some random guy; a guy my parents would choose for me. I was also terrified of letting my parents down by getting married to some ‘non-tambrahm guy’, but I knew it’s possibility was minimal, considering the reflection, yeah the same one that stares at me from the mirror everyday.

But then, the tables turned. One fine day, my man arrived, sans all the violins and drumbeats that Yash Raj films have made oh-so-routine. With a tiny red number whispering into my ears that ‘he wants to do fraaaanship with me’, my choti si love story got conceived. With Zuckerberg as our witness, we embarked on a beautiful journey of that saw us transform from buddies, to besties, to sweethearts to a married couple.

And through this journey, I discovered shades of my personality (fifty shades grey and otherwise!), and honestly, I’ve surprised myself. From being indifferent towards mush to having become a hopeless romantic, belting out cheesy lines and blushing (yes, BLUSHING!), I have come a long, long way...

The bright blue and yellow flame, the fragrant smoke arising from the neatly bundled incense sticks, the sacred yellow thread, the maamis in bright sarees, the mamas in crisp white dhotis, the bling, the colours, the peals of laughter, the air of festivity, the vows - all of these stand as a testimony to our relationship - the one that facebook gave birth to..

Today, as we complete two years since that magical day, I am a wife, your wife, a happy, proud one, and the reflection, well, she looks at me with kind, loving eyes now...The tables have turned indeed!

Shut Up!

***A silver-haired, frail, wrinkled 80-year-young saying, “So what, so what if he hit her? He’s her husband...She doesn’t have the liberty to walk away from him...just because he hit her...”***

When the world and its wife is busy discussing women empowerment, we Indians, we should just shut the hell up! There, I said it!

We live in a country where girls are moulded to be future wives, future daughters-in-law; we live in a country, where stuck between an auto with a beedi-smoking driver and a shady, deserted street, is as good as being stuck between the devil himself and the deep sea; we live in a country, where most men (yes, most) want their wives to be sitas in public and shielas in the comfort of their bedrooms; we live in a country, where ‘never raped’ will become a criteria for matrimonial ads; where women hold belans more than pens; where wedding bells go hand-in-hand with the dying gasps of a career; where, ‘girls from good families’ adhere to whatever the husband says and where, what the husband says is ‘final and binding’....

We live in a country where women are judged by what they wear; where even a 10th fail wants a bride who is sushil (docile, domestic, dumb), sundar (fair, tall, with a 36-24-36 figure) and padhi likhi (no, no, no, 10th pass won’t suffice. Minimum graduation chahiye); where grooms are sold for dowry; where wife-beating is a birthright; where the wife has to put up with any crap the husband pulls off; where girls are pensive before venturing out; where a ‘Nirbhaya’ has to die often, to remind people of the atrocities women are subject to..

If you’re picturing me either as an aggressive bra-burning feminist, or a domestic, scared wife/daughter-in-law, I think this is the time I clarify. No, I don’t belong to either category. I’m a simple woman, a happy wife and a happier daughter-in-law. The only thing I have an issue with is, when people say we have to enforce laws and bills and acts to secure women’s rights. That, I feel, is utter bull shit.

They say charity begins at home...I say, why just charity? Let everything begin at home. Indian women are brought up to become good wives. And these ‘good wives’ are the ones who prefer getting flogged and thrown around by their husbands, to holding the helping hands of the police. Even if no one expects women to take full responsibility of the household, there are some, who are happy to puncture big holes in the chairs they hold, and crib about it ten years down the line. We can’t expect sweeping changes to happen overnight...there will be rapists, there will be wife-beaters, there will be road-side romeos...we can’t go all out to put every single one of them behind the bars.

We can only change the way our families function. No, I’m not all for making women the head of the family. All I’m saying is, let us not make the aata and the detergent powder the identity of women. Instead, give her wings, let her be free to take up a career of her choice, to break the shackles of ‘girls from good families don’t behave like this’, without making the ‘silver heads’ nod in disapproval.

But, as I said, we live in a country where ‘log kya kahenge’ matters more than anything else. Yes, there has been progress, but deep down, we women, we feel guilty when we send our husbands to office without lunch; when fathers are doing the dishes; when brothers have to cook their own maggi...It’ll take a long time before we can shed these emotions, and emerge as stronger and more detached people...There’s no use blaming others...the cocoon of our mindset is so strong, even Ambuja Cement would be ashamed. No bill, no law, no act can whip up a miracle, unless we and our families decide to help ourselves and incorporate tiny changes in the way we live.

Till then, when others are busy discussing about women empowerment, we Indians, we should just shut the hell up!

I, Me, Myself..

Her eyes were looking for a corner, where she could hide; a box, where no one could see her, touch her or talk to her; a place, where she'd just be - herself. She just wanted to be a speck of dust, a drop of water and melt into the surroundings...Her mind was on the threshold of losing sanity. Like a nomad, her mind was wandering...

The road looked like a carnival; bright lights offending her delicate eyes. Impatient honking, aggressive engines wrooming out their wrath, autos on the verge of bursting with human overload. The divine smell of jackfruit, a baby sleeping peacefully on a bike, tucked into the secure arms of its mother. A cupid-struck couple engrossed in sweet-talk, fingers intertwined, blissfully oblivious of everything around. Fresh vegetables in a riot of colours, ripe mangoes giving a sneak peek into the gateways of heaven. A pair of twins dressed in identical golden frocks, clutching on to their mother’s fingers. Steam rising from freshly-made phulkas, the aroma, overpowering. Husbands returning to their wives with goodies and surprises bundled in little packets...

Shops with posters screaming of discounts; two kids happily hopping around, their feet generously coated with slush - a gift from the overnight rain. Street dogs socialising; bajjis and bondas on a creaky, old thela selling like hot cakes. Posters and hoardings of politicians posing like Gods. The night sky, in its velvety glory, adorned by diamond-like stars...

Yes, her mind, like a nomad, was wandering, a thousand thoughts flickering like the lights on the road. She was just a ‘looker’ - detached, indifferent, numb, sealed in plastic...Nothing could touch her or bother her. She had found the corner, the box that could shield her from everything. A looker was what she had to be, sans expectations, fears, concerns...and the box, the corner would for hers, or as long as she wanted...

“It’s going to be I, me, myself for a while,” she thought, her mind, despite the gazillion issues it had to focus on, still playing the nomad it was...

Some things money can’t buy...

One moment. Could be one second, could be 60 seconds, could be more. But sometimes, that one moment is enough for us to count our blessings.

We fight, we argue. There are heated arguments, accusations are hurled freely; dirty linen is washed, wrung, dried and rewashed. We hurt each other and keep scores. The ‘We’ gets slaughtered into ‘you’ and ‘I’. Then, we wait for the opportunity to settle scores, the chance to give it right back. Tit for tat, we claim proudly as soon as we sniff a victory around the corner. And then, like tired animals, we retreat into our own dens, licking our wounds, feeding our egos.

Sometimes, our relationships get elbowed out and pushed aside and our egos emerge as two angry wrestlers, shoved into a ring, to punch and kick each other for the sake of the entertainment of the thousands of fans watching every move with awestruck eyes. Once the duel is over, one ego wears the crown of victory, while the other gets sidelined. And most of the times, it is the relationship that gets beaten to pulp in the ring.

I’m sure every couple can picture itself in what has been described above. It’s natural.

***She emerged out of her bedroom, her fingers intertwined with those of the man, the world called her husband. Her face was grim, the lips pursed together tightly. There was hatred inexplicable, a coldness and indifference she couldn’t fathom. She looked at his face and to her horror, realised he isn’t the man she loved…

She looked for her love desperately, sniffing around for clues of his whereabouts. She ran around, aimlessly. She could do anything to see his beautiful face; only the melody of his voice could soothe her bustling nerves…There were no traces, she was dragged back to the confines of the four walls, where she would have to be with the man; the man, the world called her husband...

She woke up, her eyes popping open. Slid her fingers on her bed to discover her treasure…Oh there he was, snoring away, and even in the dim-lit room, his silhouette looked like the one of a Greek God. It was just a bad dream; the man she loved, was indeed the one the world called her husband, and the one in the dream was just a God-sent messenger, who was there to remind her, that the man sleeping next to her was precious; that some of God’s gifts don’t come gift-wrapped…***

It could be a dream; it could be a moment from reality. Whatever be it, realising the value of relationships and guarding them fiercely is what matters most. And sometimes, even unconsciously, what we do sets the tone. Sometimes, even after a fight, when the husband leaves for work, he waits down on the road, looking towards the balcony, to wave at his wife, and she waves back. The husband’s confidence that the wife would be there, and the wife’s blind faith that the husband would be waiting for her – is enough to prove that no matter what, ego can never ever come anywhere close to love.

A moment. Sometimes, a moment is all we need to understand…

Done and dusted

The crossroads were beckoning yet again; it was stormy, dust clouded her vision, the ‘what next’ seemed to hang in uncertainty. The air was pregnant with greyness, the soles of her feet were bruised and bleeding after their tryst with the rough, stony, cracked paths. They had given up; they had refused to undergo the onslaught, but drag them on, she had to. Every muscle in her body was shrieking in protest, but the plot had a mind of its own.

***LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats***

Echoing in the air, these lines seemed to have an uncanny aptness.

She walked alone; the ‘me’ and ‘I’ lived in parallel worlds. The dichotomy of human existence could not have been more apparent. She stood there, where the road ahead forked into two; in a way like her split self, thus making perplexity within more intense than ever before. She felt immobile, limp and feeble. It seemed some power had taken possession of her body; as if she was in the clutches of a demon sapping every bit of positivity out of her and enjoying it with sadistic pleasure.

She could hear someone chuckling. It seemed to inch closer, that dark, devilish scary laughter. She felt bile rise in her throat; the noise was coming towards her. She tried to scream for help, but her own voice seemed to have ditched her. She tried to run, gathering every ion of energy she had. The storm blew with all might, the dust rising in whirlpools.

She took the path that curved towards the right. Her feet desperately wanted to feel some ground beneath, but fate had the last laugh. She fell, for what seemed to be an eternity, through nothingness, fear gripping her from everywhere. She nosedived, falling flat on her face, breathing into the very dust that had deceived her into making the fatal choice. Her face was covered in dust that rose and settled mirroring her frail breathing.

She could feel the blazes consuming her skin. Her flesh stung. The vultures up there were waiting for their moment to strike. And the moment had come. They feasted, pecking at every little bit they could lay their beaks on, till there was nothing left.

The wind blew with pride, consuming the remains of what she was. Done and dusted, she was, indeed.