***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!
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
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...
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...
Thursday, May 16, 2013
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…
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…
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
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.
***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.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Happy to help…yeah right!
Picture Vodafone and you picture the animated, cute, fluffy things called zoozoos; you hear ‘you and I, in this beautiful world…’ playing inside your head. But reality is far removed from the utopian picture that tv commercials paint.
If you’re using Vodafone, you realise that neither is the customer care service cute like the zoozoo, nor is the ‘You (the customer) and I (Vodafone) waala world beautiful. There is no green grass, no blue sky. There’s only frustration. Lots and lots of it.
My facebook posts testify how much Vodafone has harassed me. Many of my friends pinged and commented saying my boundless love for Vodafone has been spamming their walls for a long time. I agree. I might have been going overboard with my posts. But listen to my story and you’d probably try and put yourselves in my shoes.
It’s filmy. Or maybe soap-y. Like the K-soaps. There’s a Parvathy, and there is the Vodafone Vamp. Parvathy is virtuous, but vamp…vamp tries all she can to escalate Parvathy to her tipping point. That’s just a gist of the story. Here’s how it happened.
I have a blackberry and I subscribed (read: fell prey) to Vodafone’s unlimited BBM services pack that burnt a hole worth 450 bucks in my pocket, every month. Now, for me and for the world and its wife, unlimited means unlimited. But looks like Vodafone’s library stocks a dictionary complied by some cheap, illiterate cousin of the Wren and Martin duo. I was shocked to see Vodafone chopping off money from my main balance. Next step, call the customer care executives. That step was, but of course, fail, EPICFAIL!
They could neither speak English, nor could understand what I was saying.
After explaining my problem non-stop for more than 10 minutes, I could hear a beep, beep, beep on the other side. I tried calling again, and some Aunty kept on repeating: Your time is valuable. Our customer care executives will assist you as soon as possible. Bull shit! The call never got answered. I kept on trying like a fool and after almost 45 minutes, my phone protested and went on a hunger strike. The warning on the screen kept flashing in red: LOW BATTERY! Several attempts later, I started yelling at the guy who received my call. I said I wanted to speak to someone senior. I was put on hold, with the same “you and I’ crooning loudly on the other side.
Another spooky thing that was happening was, my network switched from EDGE to GPRS all the time!
My next fortnight was spent dialing 198 more often than my hubby’s number and explaining my problem to asses in the guise of customer care executives. They were rude! When I asked one of them, “Is this the way you’ve been trained to talk to customers?” pat came the reply. “Yes,” she said and banged the phone on my face!
I decided I’d taken enough of shit and I marched my way to the customer care centre. “Madam, pliss take token, then wait. We will read token number and hear to you. Ok?” Ok!
After having endured the trauma of recollecting and ‘explaining the situation’ all over again, I was reassured that my problems would be ‘taken care of’. They registered a complaint (1489809812) and the ‘happy to help’ people packed me off saying I’d receive a call within the next 48 hours. Looks like Vodafone either lives in a different time zone or has no idea of time. Two days later, I received a message from Vodafone, saying, “Your request could not be processed.” Beat that!
Almost a month and a half passed, but there was no way I could stop Monster Vodafone from eating into my balance unnecessarily. I posted complaints on various forums including one that claimed to the ‘consumer forum’, but no action has been taken so far. Vodafone also managed to block me from accessing 198, funniest part being, I could reach the customer care executives from other numbers, not mine!
Two-and-a-half months later, I deactivated the Vodafone BBM pack and received an acknowledgment of the request on 28.3.2013. Now, I have no internet access on my phone, I don’t fiddle with anything, except making calls and receiving them, but still, Vodafone happily continues deducting money from my balance, amounts including 10p, 50p, Re 1, Rs 2.60, Rs. 5. It’s gone from bad to worse today (8.4.2013), with amounts of 10p getting deducted every 5 minutes! I cant give missed calls or send messages, because apparently, my ‘network is out of order’!
I’m terrified of even touching my phone, for Vodafone could very well come with the excuse of ‘you touched your phone, so we deducted money.’
I’m really clueless as to how to deal with this issue and make Vodafone pay through its nose! Over Rs 300 have already been deducted from my account and there seems to be no one to explain why! Any feedback or suggestion is welcome! Is someone ‘happy to help’?
Thanks!
If you’re using Vodafone, you realise that neither is the customer care service cute like the zoozoo, nor is the ‘You (the customer) and I (Vodafone) waala world beautiful. There is no green grass, no blue sky. There’s only frustration. Lots and lots of it.
My facebook posts testify how much Vodafone has harassed me. Many of my friends pinged and commented saying my boundless love for Vodafone has been spamming their walls for a long time. I agree. I might have been going overboard with my posts. But listen to my story and you’d probably try and put yourselves in my shoes.
It’s filmy. Or maybe soap-y. Like the K-soaps. There’s a Parvathy, and there is the Vodafone Vamp. Parvathy is virtuous, but vamp…vamp tries all she can to escalate Parvathy to her tipping point. That’s just a gist of the story. Here’s how it happened.
I have a blackberry and I subscribed (read: fell prey) to Vodafone’s unlimited BBM services pack that burnt a hole worth 450 bucks in my pocket, every month. Now, for me and for the world and its wife, unlimited means unlimited. But looks like Vodafone’s library stocks a dictionary complied by some cheap, illiterate cousin of the Wren and Martin duo. I was shocked to see Vodafone chopping off money from my main balance. Next step, call the customer care executives. That step was, but of course, fail, EPICFAIL!
They could neither speak English, nor could understand what I was saying.
After explaining my problem non-stop for more than 10 minutes, I could hear a beep, beep, beep on the other side. I tried calling again, and some Aunty kept on repeating: Your time is valuable. Our customer care executives will assist you as soon as possible. Bull shit! The call never got answered. I kept on trying like a fool and after almost 45 minutes, my phone protested and went on a hunger strike. The warning on the screen kept flashing in red: LOW BATTERY! Several attempts later, I started yelling at the guy who received my call. I said I wanted to speak to someone senior. I was put on hold, with the same “you and I’ crooning loudly on the other side.
Another spooky thing that was happening was, my network switched from EDGE to GPRS all the time!
My next fortnight was spent dialing 198 more often than my hubby’s number and explaining my problem to asses in the guise of customer care executives. They were rude! When I asked one of them, “Is this the way you’ve been trained to talk to customers?” pat came the reply. “Yes,” she said and banged the phone on my face!
I decided I’d taken enough of shit and I marched my way to the customer care centre. “Madam, pliss take token, then wait. We will read token number and hear to you. Ok?” Ok!
After having endured the trauma of recollecting and ‘explaining the situation’ all over again, I was reassured that my problems would be ‘taken care of’. They registered a complaint (1489809812) and the ‘happy to help’ people packed me off saying I’d receive a call within the next 48 hours. Looks like Vodafone either lives in a different time zone or has no idea of time. Two days later, I received a message from Vodafone, saying, “Your request could not be processed.” Beat that!
Almost a month and a half passed, but there was no way I could stop Monster Vodafone from eating into my balance unnecessarily. I posted complaints on various forums including one that claimed to the ‘consumer forum’, but no action has been taken so far. Vodafone also managed to block me from accessing 198, funniest part being, I could reach the customer care executives from other numbers, not mine!
Two-and-a-half months later, I deactivated the Vodafone BBM pack and received an acknowledgment of the request on 28.3.2013. Now, I have no internet access on my phone, I don’t fiddle with anything, except making calls and receiving them, but still, Vodafone happily continues deducting money from my balance, amounts including 10p, 50p, Re 1, Rs 2.60, Rs. 5. It’s gone from bad to worse today (8.4.2013), with amounts of 10p getting deducted every 5 minutes! I cant give missed calls or send messages, because apparently, my ‘network is out of order’!
I’m terrified of even touching my phone, for Vodafone could very well come with the excuse of ‘you touched your phone, so we deducted money.’
I’m really clueless as to how to deal with this issue and make Vodafone pay through its nose! Over Rs 300 have already been deducted from my account and there seems to be no one to explain why! Any feedback or suggestion is welcome! Is someone ‘happy to help’?
Thanks!
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Oh Womaniya! Part I
Hormones gone haywire, ‘that time of the month’, pot-bellied pregnancies, dreadful deliveries – the one thing that’s thick as thieves with a woman’s life is pain. But wait, does pain stop there? No, certainly not!
We like to flaunt our curves, strut our stuff and tease the ‘not-so-fair’ sex. And for those of us who aren’t blessed with the hourglass 36-24-36 frame, ‘sundar’ face, lambe, ghane hair, or ‘fair and lovely’ skin, worry not, for the savior has mushroomed in almost every nook and corner.
Aaj kal ke womaniya not just do the ghar ka kaam, and mint money for their families, they also walk (sprint, in extreme cases!) the extra mile to make sure they are well-groomed from top to toe. Let’s not forget our most loyal companion – pain. Yes, she raises her ugly head most often during our parlour visits too.
Beauty not just comes with pocket-burning and jaw-dropping bills, it also comes with another price tag dangling on its neck. Pain. Extreme and severe pain. The pain of getting eyebrows plucked and shaped; the pain of ripping off ‘unwanted’ hair; the pain of having to lie down for hours while the parlour people have fun at our expense; the pain of having to endure uncalled for comments like, ‘ohhhhh your skin is soo rough!’; pain of having to pay through our noses!
The pain of anticipating pain would top the charts in the worst pain category. Just as the wax gets applied to the skin in a gentle fashion, the strip of paper very reassuringly patted on to the skin, one, two, and three! Wham, it rips off the life out of us!
That. Is. Pain.
Parlour visits are just the tip of the iceberg. The life of the womaniya is difficult. Almost always, our wardrobes seem to wear a sad, barren look. Enough is never enough. The first big task before going out is – what to wear. What follows next is the ‘mix-n-match’ mission, after which we do our hair, our eyes, our lips. We spray a dash of perfume, check the mirror, plucker our lips, re-check the mirror, bat our eyelids, check the mirror again. We swirl around to get a glimpse of how we’d look from the other side, try our footwear, and yes, check the mirror again. By that time, hubby/daddy/boyfriend/ brother (yes, men, they’re all the same!) dearest would begin showing symptoms of restlessness, levels of intensity increasing with each tick-tock of the clock. (levels of intensity for the benefit of those reading this: restlessness- anxiousness-irritation-anger-outburst)
And then, we wear heels. We wear them to gain a few extra inches, for the perfect posture, and most often than not, to flaunt a newly bought pair. Whatever the reason may be, we wear it, and we fancy it. But most importantly, we wear it, and paddle along like ducks. Snails would win a race with us, and sneer at us from the finishing line; penguins would seem more graceful, and those tagging along with us would be annoyed. Very annoyed. We end up sitting and making faces like we’re just about to die from the pain, and the outing, well, let’s just forget about it!
Our bags, like my father says, look like sacks. Someone could just kidnap us by stuffing us inside our own bags, and we would be surprised to discover ‘treasure island’ hidden inside! From hair brushes, to variants in lipsticks, kajals, powder, mirror, wet tissues, and other make up items, one could even dress a bride up with all the ‘equipments’ found inside. And then, our petite shoulders start aching carrying around all the weight, but as they say, ‘control nahi hota’!
Jokes aside, we are not just smart(hehehe), we are also strong. Just imagine a man with hormonal imbalances, or one who’s just about to pop out a baby. Not a pretty sight inside the head, isn’t it? Did I hear some guy crooning, ‘Oh womaniya!’ after reading this? ;)
We like to flaunt our curves, strut our stuff and tease the ‘not-so-fair’ sex. And for those of us who aren’t blessed with the hourglass 36-24-36 frame, ‘sundar’ face, lambe, ghane hair, or ‘fair and lovely’ skin, worry not, for the savior has mushroomed in almost every nook and corner.
Aaj kal ke womaniya not just do the ghar ka kaam, and mint money for their families, they also walk (sprint, in extreme cases!) the extra mile to make sure they are well-groomed from top to toe. Let’s not forget our most loyal companion – pain. Yes, she raises her ugly head most often during our parlour visits too.
Beauty not just comes with pocket-burning and jaw-dropping bills, it also comes with another price tag dangling on its neck. Pain. Extreme and severe pain. The pain of getting eyebrows plucked and shaped; the pain of ripping off ‘unwanted’ hair; the pain of having to lie down for hours while the parlour people have fun at our expense; the pain of having to endure uncalled for comments like, ‘ohhhhh your skin is soo rough!’; pain of having to pay through our noses!
The pain of anticipating pain would top the charts in the worst pain category. Just as the wax gets applied to the skin in a gentle fashion, the strip of paper very reassuringly patted on to the skin, one, two, and three! Wham, it rips off the life out of us!
That. Is. Pain.
Parlour visits are just the tip of the iceberg. The life of the womaniya is difficult. Almost always, our wardrobes seem to wear a sad, barren look. Enough is never enough. The first big task before going out is – what to wear. What follows next is the ‘mix-n-match’ mission, after which we do our hair, our eyes, our lips. We spray a dash of perfume, check the mirror, plucker our lips, re-check the mirror, bat our eyelids, check the mirror again. We swirl around to get a glimpse of how we’d look from the other side, try our footwear, and yes, check the mirror again. By that time, hubby/daddy/boyfriend/ brother (yes, men, they’re all the same!) dearest would begin showing symptoms of restlessness, levels of intensity increasing with each tick-tock of the clock. (levels of intensity for the benefit of those reading this: restlessness- anxiousness-irritation-anger-outburst)
And then, we wear heels. We wear them to gain a few extra inches, for the perfect posture, and most often than not, to flaunt a newly bought pair. Whatever the reason may be, we wear it, and we fancy it. But most importantly, we wear it, and paddle along like ducks. Snails would win a race with us, and sneer at us from the finishing line; penguins would seem more graceful, and those tagging along with us would be annoyed. Very annoyed. We end up sitting and making faces like we’re just about to die from the pain, and the outing, well, let’s just forget about it!
Our bags, like my father says, look like sacks. Someone could just kidnap us by stuffing us inside our own bags, and we would be surprised to discover ‘treasure island’ hidden inside! From hair brushes, to variants in lipsticks, kajals, powder, mirror, wet tissues, and other make up items, one could even dress a bride up with all the ‘equipments’ found inside. And then, our petite shoulders start aching carrying around all the weight, but as they say, ‘control nahi hota’!
Jokes aside, we are not just smart(hehehe), we are also strong. Just imagine a man with hormonal imbalances, or one who’s just about to pop out a baby. Not a pretty sight inside the head, isn’t it? Did I hear some guy crooning, ‘Oh womaniya!’ after reading this? ;)
Monday, April 1, 2013
Wife-Life!
*There was darkness all around. As soon as her eyes adjusted themselves to the dim-lit surrounding, the unfamiliarity of the room hit her senses. Her nimble fingers, nervously searching for her bottle of water, brushed against something unwelcome; there was someone snoozing on her bed! She could hear her heart thumping aggressively against her chest. There was a stranger snoring away on her bed, but as she tried to scream, her voice ditched her. As she tip-toed to the door, she felt someone stop her. There it was…that sick feeling in her gut, that feeling, when you trip; when you know you’re going to fall flat on your face.*
“Hey, it’s ok. It’s me,” he cooed into her ears, patting her gently. It was all yet to sink in; she was married, the house was new and so was the city. Everything seemed unfamiliar, except for the man who was looking at her lovingly. A quick glance at the clock buzzed sirens in their ears. It was her first day at office – the kitchen.
It looked like a demon ready to devour her. The dishes seemed alien; the knife stared at her threateningly. Vindictive veggies, fire-spitting stove and powders of various colours greeted her into a world where she’d end up spending most of her time. She remembered how, with an air of confidence, she’d asked him the other night, “So, Sir, what would you like to have for lunch tomorrow?” The reply was instantaneous and smooth, as if rehearsed a gazillion times. “Rasam and aaloo fry.” Uh oh.
But then, convenience managed to elbow out the request, and the menu was tweaked. With a little help from her husband, the task was done and she heaved a mammoth sigh of relief. But then, she had to do this everyday. Twice. Correction, at least twice. She was terrified; she wanted to shoot her letter of resignation. Oh wait, this wasn’t a job; there was no option of resigning. “Oh good Lord, what the hell am I going to do,” she asked the lean woman with puffy, petrified eyes staring at her from the mirror. She shrugged her shoulders, snynchronised with the ‘other woman’ from that side of the shiny mirror. They agreed. Neither of them knew how the plot would unfold.
She cooked perfect recipes for disaster. She didn’t stop at ‘just’ burning dishes. She was different. She was ‘oh-so-creative’. Trying her hand at cooking something different, she ended up doing something VERY different indeed – she painted her kitchen green! Mixie’s lid let all hell ‘loose’ and with a loud and extremely aromatic splash, all the cooked palak (now in paste form) flew towards the wall, to give it an extremely eco-friendly colour! And with butter fingers to boot, her husband anticipated some kind of trouble, every time there was some untoward noise in the kitchen.
But failures (disasters in this case) they say, are the pillars of success. Pretty strong ones, she’d testify. Not just did she rise above her own expectations, she started enjoying the whole process too! She looked forward to the routine she had set: wake up-freshen up- walk into the kitchen- sort veggies-chop away- cook- taste- pack. She learnt slowly yet surely, how to take the ‘cooking’ bull by its horns.
His smile, his burp, his ‘Oh, I’ve overeaten’ remark – those were her perks, her certificates of appreciation. Clean floors, dazzling washrooms, crisp curtains, fluffed-up pillows and cushions, wrinkle-less and neatly spread out bedsheets – those were the things she wanted to tick off her task list every night.
Yes, she was a housewife. Not a perfect one, but a proud, happy one.
“Hey, it’s ok. It’s me,” he cooed into her ears, patting her gently. It was all yet to sink in; she was married, the house was new and so was the city. Everything seemed unfamiliar, except for the man who was looking at her lovingly. A quick glance at the clock buzzed sirens in their ears. It was her first day at office – the kitchen.
It looked like a demon ready to devour her. The dishes seemed alien; the knife stared at her threateningly. Vindictive veggies, fire-spitting stove and powders of various colours greeted her into a world where she’d end up spending most of her time. She remembered how, with an air of confidence, she’d asked him the other night, “So, Sir, what would you like to have for lunch tomorrow?” The reply was instantaneous and smooth, as if rehearsed a gazillion times. “Rasam and aaloo fry.” Uh oh.
But then, convenience managed to elbow out the request, and the menu was tweaked. With a little help from her husband, the task was done and she heaved a mammoth sigh of relief. But then, she had to do this everyday. Twice. Correction, at least twice. She was terrified; she wanted to shoot her letter of resignation. Oh wait, this wasn’t a job; there was no option of resigning. “Oh good Lord, what the hell am I going to do,” she asked the lean woman with puffy, petrified eyes staring at her from the mirror. She shrugged her shoulders, snynchronised with the ‘other woman’ from that side of the shiny mirror. They agreed. Neither of them knew how the plot would unfold.
She cooked perfect recipes for disaster. She didn’t stop at ‘just’ burning dishes. She was different. She was ‘oh-so-creative’. Trying her hand at cooking something different, she ended up doing something VERY different indeed – she painted her kitchen green! Mixie’s lid let all hell ‘loose’ and with a loud and extremely aromatic splash, all the cooked palak (now in paste form) flew towards the wall, to give it an extremely eco-friendly colour! And with butter fingers to boot, her husband anticipated some kind of trouble, every time there was some untoward noise in the kitchen.
But failures (disasters in this case) they say, are the pillars of success. Pretty strong ones, she’d testify. Not just did she rise above her own expectations, she started enjoying the whole process too! She looked forward to the routine she had set: wake up-freshen up- walk into the kitchen- sort veggies-chop away- cook- taste- pack. She learnt slowly yet surely, how to take the ‘cooking’ bull by its horns.
His smile, his burp, his ‘Oh, I’ve overeaten’ remark – those were her perks, her certificates of appreciation. Clean floors, dazzling washrooms, crisp curtains, fluffed-up pillows and cushions, wrinkle-less and neatly spread out bedsheets – those were the things she wanted to tick off her task list every night.
Yes, she was a housewife. Not a perfect one, but a proud, happy one.
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