Hopeless India

We all know India is failing. Oh, we have big bombs and planes and tanks and arms and new policies coming up everyday. But a heinous, unpardonable, disturbing and disgusting case showed India the mirror. The reflection today is dirty and bloodied. We also know the flaws. We all would have atleast one solution to the problems. But we all would have heard counter statements on how those solutions won't work because of some other flaw which we might have overlooked. Some say the mindsets and morals of 125 crore people can't change overnight. Some say the 35 lakh police people can't be taught the right way to deal with a crime anytime soon. Some say the foundation of the country's politics is so weak with corruption that any superficial change for the better would crash down. We are nation of people who are scared to help an accident victim fearing the police's rash investigation or rather lack of it. We are a democracy where the people in power promise but never deliver. So where do we start this change from? Us? Government? Police? Bribe takers? Bribe givers? Is a change ever possible when we know that those responsible to drive the change will either be corrupt or will be made helpless by the other corrupt people in power?

The girl's brutal rape case woke up the country's masses. She lit a flame. Which will invariably die soon. The story will shift from the front to the internal pages of the papers. Some sports tournament or celebrity controversy or the governing and opposition party's latest tiff will distract the electronic media. We'll have a friend's wedding or the weather or a new hobby to talk about on FaceBook and Twitter. And the corruption, which has infested our system to such an extent that there is absolutely no part of our lives untouched by it, will continue as always.
I'm sorry to the girl whose tragic case was riddled with corruption and scandals and politics and incapability of police, to the people who protested, to those who are still positive that change will happen; but the flame will die. And we won't be able to do much about it except express our anger and dissatisfaction, face the water cannons, lathi charge and tear gas.

I have given up hope. The golden sparrow is dead. Bharat mata is being raped everyday by her own people. I'm not a proud Indian.

Whats sets us apart

We might not be a clean and green country with a robust economy but India has one thing that sets us apart from the rest of the globe. We have a unique character. Brits are snobs. Americans are jolly. Australians are shrewd. Africans are...well... black. But Indians- the word which does justice to us is, unpredictable.

Despite years of trying to look suave and cool like the west, India's image is still that of an eccentric, poor and culture rich country. Just like our nation, we all try to fit in somewhere. We try so hard to blend in our new office, neighbourhood, in - laws family, even in a fancy restaurant we are paying to eat at. Sometimes we succeed too. But mostly we just end up feeling uncomfortable and someone we are not. So why try so hard to pretend when the characteristic we are trying most hard to hide is the one which sets us apart.

For those who follow the hit TV series, How I Met Your Mother, it might not be unbelievable that my favourite is Barney Stintson's. His character is a heady mix of a womaniser (understated) and a romantic who'll do anything to keep his beloved happy. Despite being rich, suit clad 24*7 and legen-wait for it-dary, his character is easy to hate with the way he objectifies women but irresistible for his unconditional love for his friends. I could guess the characterisation of the rest of the characters in the first episode but Barney surprised me in each season. That is what set him apart.

No, I'm not paid to do PR for HIMYM. The point I want to make is, different is good. Trying to make ourselves into someone acceptable and likable won't work for long. If we are different, let people categorise us as that. Which would be better than being thought about as a person we are not and have to work hard to be.

Save the disguises for the theatre. Being yourself is in! And that is what will set us apart.

But you are too young to be married!

I'm 23. I'm engaged.

And it seems like the most drastic thing that a 23 years old could be.

When the news got out, before being congratulated on having landed a talented and handsome young man, most of my well wishers asked, so soon? But you are so young! Why the hurry?

Its funny that I was never told you are too young for this when I won the lead actress award for a school theatre in second grade. No one asked what the hurry was when I read my first Shakespeare at age 7. Why was I not asked in surprised tones why I had to choreograph my parents' 25th anniversary programme when I was at a young and impressionable age of 15. I wasn't questioned about being too young to be a leading news channel's youngest anchor at 21 years of age. No one raises an eyebrow at the fact that at 23 years I'm as (if not more) qualified and in a better income bracket than their son of 30 years! So if I wasn't too young to be all the above, why am I too young to be married?

So when relatives, family, friends, colleagues or even random people sound more surprised than happy at the news,(What?! You are getting married! So soon?? Why?! I can't believe you are already engaged at 23! Oh anyway, congratulations) I fail to see the 'big deal' in the entire issue.

And for those, who keep asking me why so soon, the reason, my dears is love. And if that isn't reason enough for you, then to each her own.

P.S. I'll rather have my fun when I'm young and excited about it than waiting for the appropriate age. :P

Unachievables

We have all had that one thing which we wanted with all our heart and soul but certain situations or conditions rendered them unachievable. It is common occurence for the unachievable to be a person. Something or someone we have always fantasised about or wanted to call our own. The pursuit of the unachievable brings out the romantic, the poet and the dreamer in us. We are so engrossed in trying to achieve the unachievable that we never give much attention to how the desired object fits into our life. And when I say object, I mean both the living and the non - living because in our efforts to win the target, fuelled by mindless passion, even though unintentionally, we become a little selfish and end up disregarding the feelings and needs of the prize we have set our eyes on.

In our minds, the race to win becomes an unending process, the end of which we don't give much thought to. When maybe just by coincidence or maybe owing to our incessant efforts or maybe because of a little bit of both, we achieve the unachievable, our joy has no bounds. I'm sure you know where I'm heading. But I'll continue anyway. The rejoice is often short lived because after we are done admiring our achievement, we might be at a loss of words when we ask ourselves 'what next' or when we begin to think 'this doesn't feel right'. This moment maybe delayed but it will come. One day or the other. The romantic in you will never acknowledge it but there will be no getting away from it.

But it shouldn't keep you from wanting, desiring and aiming. Because whether we have realised it or not, we all live for the race. We all need a dream which becomes a purpose towards which all our efforts are aimed. It is just important to remember always the feeling we had when we first made the unachievable our life's goal which will help us keep its importance fresh in our minds. And to find a new unachievable. But it shouldn't conflict with your achieved unachievables.

The world is full of possibilities and impossibilities. Never stop dreaming. Never stop cherishing the dream you turned into reality.

Pain and Pleasure

There are days when I thank my father for sharing his X chromosome with Ma. Days like rakshabandhan, weddings, navaratri pooja, travelling in the ladies coach of the metro and marvelling at how so many men could fit into that space in the general coaches! etc.

And there are days when it absolutely sucks being a girl like during 'Those' days of the month, walking on the street and being undressed by mere eyes of scores of lechers etc.

But there is one place about which I have never been able to make my mind. It makes me feel beautiful. It gives me immense pain. It gets me compliments but it can be expensive. I am sure most girls would have guessed by now that it is our very own (drum roll) Beauty Parlours!


Well, I don't know how the rest of you feel about these places but I absolutely detest spending a good part of the coveted weekend in salons. Just the thought of hot wax and the sound of hair being uprooted makes me want to delay the torture for as long as I can. Only the undeniable want of lounging in a pair of well worn shorts on a hot summer day makes me endure the torture. I remember asking my Ma the reason behind the discrimination: Why do girls have to keep their mane long, and body hair free and eyebrows tweaked? But metro sexuality becoming a rage has satisfied the feminist in me. Now the 'un'fair sex knows that beauty comes at a cost which can't be paid in money alone.

Last weekend, after delaying it for as long as I could, I finally visited a salon. My regular parlour being shut on Sundays, I drove to the nearby market and entered the first decent looking salon. I could guess from the plastic on the chairs and the extra white towels that it is a new facility. A boy wearing a horrendous shade of blue denims, pointy black shoes, an eyebrow ring and bleached spiked hair greeted me. I rattled out the list of 'surgeries' I needed. After denying the need for too long I had decided to go an extra mile today. The boy looked startled and looked around for help as I explained the procedures I wanted performed. Seeing his distress a matronly woman, the arch of her eyebrows touching her hairline, came nodding at me. After a round of explanations, suggestions and discussions, I finally settled for a satisfactory package.

I was led to a booth with a wooden table like bench in the centre, flanked by tables and drawers full of bowls, pastes, creams, lotions, tools and other surgical looking equipment. Despite many many visits to salons, I could never get quite used to getting undressed in strange places, be it changing rooms or parlours. So I blushed when a sweet looking girl with long curly hair asked me to take off my weekend attire, Papa's old T - shirt and a dhoti, and offered me a big fluffy white towel in exchange. As she powdered my arms and heated the wax she began the preliminary questioning: Is it my first time here? Have I tried Italian wax?
As she applied the hot wax on my bare skin and I winced, she blew lightly on the wax and asked me gently several times if it was too hot. And the questions became bolder and more personal: What college do I study in? Oh! Working? But you look so young! The girl herself didn't look much older than me. As she checked the temperature of the wax, I asked if she was training here and since when has she been working. So as she deftly dealt with my arms using a spatula, hot wax and strips of special paper, we exchanged life stories.

By the time she led me to the black swivel chair to tweak my brows, we were comfortable as old friends (and she had convinced me to take my first pedicure). She talked about her parents and how she decided to become a beautician as the sharp thread plucked at my eyebrows. She let me relax quietly as she massaged, scrubbed, washed, buffed and polished my face with a large number of products, many of which I can't even pronounce. As I talked about my job, bitched about travelling, told her about my friends and family, shared my woes, she listened patiently while scrubbing away at my feet asking me a question or two to keep me going.

At the end of the 3. 5 hour session and some 6 intense treatments later, I felt pretty and so much lighter (my wallet felt pretty light too). As I stepped out of the salon wearing the same old T - shirt and dhoti, I felt more confident and happier. Thanks to that girl who worked hard on me to make me pretty and also to help me release my mental pressures. As I drove back home, I realised I didn't even know her name and I never told her mine. These directionless conversations which go beyond the formalities of exchanging names sometimes mean so much more than so many conversations we have with different people everyday.
Hundreds of girls get the pain and pleasure treatment everyday in parlours across the world. And these parlours aren't just a place for beauty treatments but also a place to exchange stories and smiles :)

Drifting Away...

 Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. College was the golden era of my life. And my definition of this era isn't limited to endless gossiping, our 'chit' chats in lectures, the night stays, Momo's point, mindless discussions on everything under the sun sitting on the metro station platforms, bitching and more bitching, and uncountable such things. Though these things make my three years from 2007 to 2010 most memorable, what makes this time of my life is how life changed after it. Sitting on the worn out blue linoleum floor of the freezing studio, lounging on the blue frayed velvet couch, feasting on subsidised snacks in the canteen, along with making opinions about some important and many not - so - important things in life, I made friends who taught me the real meaning of the term friendship.

In those three years, life revolved around these handful of people. Sharing joy and sorrow, we forged a bond which was to last a lifetime. It wasn't during the final examinations or the farewell party. It was in the spring of 2010, on the last day of college, forgetting and forgiving all trivial differences and grudges, when we hugged and cried and wished each other well in life, that it finally began to sink in. Sitting opposite the building where we had sat till late in the night discussing movie scripts, assignments, politics, fashion, boys and the like, that the realisation dawned that this is where our journey together ends and we take separate ways. The following few days I chided myself for being unnecessarily dramatic. Technology has advanced ample to keep us in touch and still avoid the hefty bills! But silly me, the remaining balance in my cell phone should have been the last of my worries.

Two years after graduating, time and distance have begun to prove my smartphone useless for staying in touch. There is an option to text, chat and email apart from calling, but it is just that we have begun to run out of things to talk about. 'Real life' has changed the idealistic opinions I once sweared by and changed are the friends with whom I debated endlessly defending my stand on multiple issues. It was never intentional, this growing apart. But somehow, catching up with friends, laughing on old silly jokes, talking about us kept going down the priority list. Some people with whom I shared my deepest secrets and worries have just become a name on my BBM friend list. Friends who used to know what's going in my head just by looking at me have gone so far that when we talk on the phone after weeks, all we get to do is exchange formalities. No one is to blame. Time is always too less and distances too much. Work keeps us busy and there are things to keep us preoccupied in the free time. I hold no grudges against the friends with whom I shared Rs. 2 per piece samosa, class notes and my life story. I hope they don't either. I am glad we met and bonded.  I wish things had been different and efforts had been made to stay in touch. But then friendships which require efforts never go a long way. People meet and move apart. This gradual drifting away becomes prominent on days like today, when I sit with newer friends and hear them reminiscence about their friends and their golden era.
All friendships aren't bonds. Most are just beautiful pictures which bring a smile to our faces when we think about the memories they gave us. Those friendships which survive the growing distances and shrinking times are like a film shoot which never ends. Keep adding newer scenes to your film story and visit the memory albums often. They might have drifted away, but the memories we have with them are ours to keep.

:)

High Point

Whenever I am reading celebrity interviews (although I strongly believe that more than half of the people flashing their best smiles or other assets on cover page of glossies don't deserve to be called that, but to indulge them and move on quickly to the point I'm trying to raise, let's call them celebs), I begin to imagine how I would have answered those witty, straight, sharp or philosophical questions and I often end up paying more attention to the questions than to the highly diplomatic or dramatised answers of the 'stars'. But one question always leaves me at a loss of words or thoughts.


Q: What is the high point in your life?


By this terminology, I believe they mean the time when a person has felt best. Now, at 22, I used to think I had seen life and its ups and downs. That I had seen, if not experienced, all varieties of joy and pain. And after careful analysis of my past diaries and racking my mind for a suitable memory or incident which could fit the bill, when I still came up with a blank expression, or at best a shrug, to that question I surmised that it isn't really necessary to have a high point. Maybe soft slopes are all I will have in my life and never a 'high point'.


Well, that was till 15 days back. On the night of June 1, 2012, my high point came in the world batting her eyes at me like a little white alien. Meow had arrived.

Nothing has given me such indescribable joy than seeing this tiny life which shifted the axis of life for atleast 8 people. Although I can't claim any biological right on her but if you ask me now whom I adore the most in this whole wide universe, I won't take a second to take her name. My sister, this angel's mother, might never have meant so much to me (and that is something to say because I love her like I love my right hand!) like this new comer does withing seconds of her arrival. I still spend nights flipping through her pictures, laughing out loud at some of her expressions or shedding a tear or two of joy looking at her cherubic face, the peace emanating from this serene being and the tiny fragile looking fingers which hold your finger tightly with unconditional trust.


With Meow, my life feels complete and as she blossoms, my joy would multiply. Like a friend of mine beautifully said, my world revolves around this baby girl who had been a stranger 20 days back. I'll change my priorities for this little bundle of joy who wouldn't even talk to me for almost a year!


Meow is the beginning of many high points in my life.