The BIG Beautiful World

So I was watching Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation a few days back. (Note: Go watch it! Cruise is mind blowing!) That night I tired to recount all the places Ethan Hunt visited in the movie - Washington, Vienna, Morocco, Afghanistan, London, Paris, Indonesia and I still couldn't recall all of them. I started thinking about all the beautiful, absurd, amazing, weird things in the world that I will never get to see. 196 countries in the world. How many would I get to explore. Not just as a tourist. Really see, experience, live and feel? This question pinched me for a long long time keeping me awake for a good few hours. 

This was immediately followed by all the negative things that my mind could conjure up about India. The politics, the poverty, the dirt. I know Gandhi wouldn't have been happy, what with his 'Be the change you want to see' ideology. But my getting angry alone at people littering on the streets and taking extra care to drop my wrappers in the bin won't get the country clean any time soon. At least not till the time I am around. The poverty won't vanish in another couple of decades or millenniums. Forget all the roads, even the NH - 24 won't get broadened or pothole free for another 5 years it seems (despite the project been approved ages ago). The corruption will just grow, whatever PM Modi might say or do. Things are not looking up for India. 

So the idea of escaping to another country, a better developed country, took seed in my mind and started spawning desperate attempts: frantic job searches in Europe, courses in Australia, work visa requirements for the US. Every red mail van, every stray lash from my eyes, every pair of mynah, every journey under a train on a bridge led me to repeat a carefully scripted wish of migration to a developed European country where I and my partner can be happy, wealthy and together!

I became irritable, spent my days dreaming about my life in a foreign country. I even stalked my friends living abroad on Facebook living vicariously through their Facebook posts. I took unnecessary stress.

It took unpleasant ways (nope, not writing about them!) to wake me up to reality. Uprooting your life might look like a pretty proposition, but it is not an easy one. Could I leave both sets of my parents behind? Could I leave the home that we have spent our savings to build (and I haven't even lived there yet)? Could I adjust in a foreign culture? And even if the answer is yes, things don't just happen overnight. And I should know myself better. After all, I am someone who craved and craved for the right anarkali suit, found it after much efforts, bought it, wore it twice and now it hangs neatly ironed in my wardrobe - half forgotten. What if this itch to migrate is like want of a an anarkali? What if it wears off after some time?

So, I have woken up to reality. Although that doesn't mean I will stop trying. Once in a while, I will try and wait for everything to fall right in place - the right opportunity, the right situation, the right time. Till then, I am letting go of my dream. Wander and come back to me if you are meant to :)

*sigh*

Plus, home is where the heart is. Aur aakhir dil hai hindustani. Tedha hai, par mera hai. *self consolation*

Aunty Mat Kaho Na

Remember the first time you were called aunty or uncle, instead of didi or bhaiya? It really twists up your gut, doesn't it? You smile politely, and maybe even correct the defaulter, who invariably is a kid, but inside you are writhing in fury and self doubt. But the transition from didi to aunty is an unavoidable one and rather painful too. The sad truth is that even I have resignedly accepted my fate. So when some kid in the elevator addresses me as didi (instead of aunty), I revel in the pleasure of knowing I still look young enough! And I am often transported back to the times when I was still just Pinki or Sukriti.

Till college first year, I had no one to even address me as didi. I was the baby of the family, the youngest kid. So while I had tonnes of didis and bhaiyas, I was never ever called that. Even when juniors in college took to calling their seniors as didi, I strongly asked them to call me by my name. And now, hearing didi (instead of aunty. Ugh!) feels so... rejuvenating! So how does this transition from didi to aunty happen? I try to find out:

1. The wrong side of 20s: Because I am still perched at the verge, 25+ seems like an aunty-able age (This opinion may change post 28th September this year). But I think post 25th birthday, all didis become auntys. It is like a cassette, whose side has to be changed from A to B. So after 25, your side B begins. I think the case is a little better for men. They get a grace period of 5 years and get to be bhaiyas till they are around 30 year old.

2. Occupational Hazard: I got to know the hard way that-

working woman = mature, smart, worldly wise = AUNTY

Argh! So, don't take it personally when fresh out of college, with a spring in your step, you come back from your first day at your new job and suddenly you are now known as XYZ aunty instead of the much preferred didi.

3. You get married: So one thing that does happen overnight post marriage is that with the tag of mami, bhabhi, chachi etc. comes the 'aunty' tag too! Neighbours of in-laws introduce you to their kids as 'Beta, chalo aunty ko hello bolo'. And then it just sticks.

4. Insecure women: No, it is just not your fault alone that you suddenly become aunty. It won't be wrong to blame the insecure women in your neighbourhood, jealous of your youth, who teach their offspring to call you aunty, instead of didi, so that she isn't the only aunty around. It is a vicious cycle!

5. Face it!: So, ya, maybe I should be brave and face the fact that *sigh* I am getting older (and smarter too, hopefully) and I don't look like a kid anymore. My maturity shows on my face and hence, I should think of aunty as a term of respect bequeathed upon someone who seems considerably more wise and intelligent than the other person. Even though, it is mostly a kid in our case.

I won't lie, it is indeed one of the many reasons, howsoever tiny, that I wish to settle down in a developed country where women are still addressed by name or Ms. Jain or Mrs. Pandey. Till that happens, I am being a tolerant aunty.

Social Networking

Kanpur is a city rich in history and culture. Kanpuriya people have an attitude which can give Lady Gaga a run for her money. And their warmth is unmatched. Maybe these were the reasons I fell for a Kanpur boy. Even after over 2 years of marriage, the learning from the city are too many to remember but once learnt, impossible to forget! I am talking about the the sights, the smells of the city which leave no time for the distractions offered by the technological advancements like music players, smart phones, tabs etc. With the paan stained walls, among the gutkha chewing people and the borderline cute nuances of the language, Kanpur is one large offline social networking platform. Why? Here's why:

1) Smartphone: I checked my emails and Whatssap and Facebook and texts an hour before I de-boarded the train at Kanpur Central station. The next time I picked up my phone was on my way back to Delhi. The people and places at Kanpur are so engaging that a non - Kanpur resident won't find any time for the fancies of a smartphone. I was so entranced by warmth of relatives I had never met before or the home like feeling wherever I was invited, that I was almost rudely ignoring my phone.

2) Apna hi ghar samjho: Somehow, Dil waalon ki Dilli is still far behind Kanpur when it comes to treating guests. No fancy cutlery and crockery is on display, no starters and dessert and mouth freshners, you won't find tens of dishes on any grand dining table. Food at any one's home in Kanpur seems like food at your own home. I was served food in steel plates (most preferred by me), with desi ghee and lots of love. And no, the love wasn't the punjabi type (aur khaiye - aur khaiye). No one forced food down my gullet but instead made me feel like a member of the family - making me comfortable enough to take as many servings as I wanted. Oh, but the chaat is something most Kanpur-ites are very sensitive and passionate about! Never compare Delhi's chaat with Kanpur's. That would be an endless debate. Especially if you are the only Delhiite.

3) Aao panchayat karein: Within minutes of entering any Kanpur household, you shall know half the family controversies, complete history of the neighbours and all speculations about near and distant family! It's so entertaining and exciting! Who ran away with who, who should be getting married next, whose married life is on the rocks, which saas -bahu don't get along. You are made privy to the family's hot gossip. And there's nothing like gossip to make you feel a part of the family :)

4) Hey bhagwaan!: Religion is BIG in Kanpur and all the customs associated with it. Had I been a good Brahmin bahu, I would have been busy with poojas and fasts every other day. Fortunately my in - laws are sweethearts who know that I am an unsocial agnostic. So, the 7 day Holi festivities, all the different poojas involving orange sindoor, beautiful rangolis made with flour, supari, pretty clothes for the Gods and the yum food - sweet fried pooris, pede, fruits, kaccha khaana - pakka khaana, gujiyas - different items associated with different festivals or special days. It's fascinating to see the entire city celebrate each religious day with vigour!

5) Offline connections: In a close knit city like Kanpur, friends and family don't keep in touch just over Facebook. They meet on weekends, public holidays, festivals and special occassions like birthdays and anniversaries. Shopping in Naveen Market is still more happening than the Rave 3 and Zed Square malls or Jabong and Flipkart. If you don't see them active on the social media, just assume that they are busy networking in person.

The vibrant city of Kanpur might not be of everyone's taste, but it's flavours are uniquely endearing. Among all the paan spitting, gutkha chewing, gossip sessions, chaat tasting and food rich religious activities, I learned the true meaning of 'social networking'.

Kuch din to kaatiye Kanpur mein! :P

All about the money

Isn't it all about the money, almost always? Well, I am not being negative or beginning a philosophical monologue stating that money can't buy true happiness. I am just starting a conversation. Don't you think that our life revolves around and because of money? Money has become our life's fuel. We run on money, for money. Whoever thought of graduating from barter system to the currency system, would never have imagined that bits of paper, metal alloys and plastic would gain so much value in today's world. I mean, everything that we do has one common point, money. But what is interesting is that while money treats everyone the same (with an air of superiority, if I may add), everybody treats money differently. Here's what I have noticed:

1. Reverence: Some treat money like the god that it is. It is something not meant to be wasted on measly items of luxury like a meal at a high end restaurant or a fancy dress. It is meant to be saved and counted and counted again (in hopes that it would grow in number this time!) and saved. Saved for things that they won't get much time to enjoy. And sadly, their next generation would not even value the things that this hard earned money would have bought. Or maybe they are saving for a calamity which might never befall on them (god will), or if it does, the money would still not be enough (because it almost always never is).  

2. Pride: I have always felt that this seemingly positive word has a strong undercurrent of some sort of negative emotion, although I could never quite put my finger on it. People take pride in their money. In the wealth that they have inherited, earned, collected through whichever mean or the wealth they don't have but like to imagine out loud that they do. And when we are proud, it tends to show, whether we intend to or not (mostly we intend). Extra information like the stars of the restaurant, the brands of clothes, the carats of diamonds, the make of cars, the cost of watches and shoes starts slipping in conversations. It can be fascinating for those who have reverence for money or irritating for those who are just 'matter - of - fact' about it. 

3. Matter - of - fact: These are usually those who have been brought up with money. They usually don't brag about it, but they still stink of the moolah (their or their daddy's). Be it the latest iPhone in their Gucci purse, or the always perfectly french - pedicured feet in Jimmy Choos, the dark and light brown squares of Louis Vuitton  on the belt which is holding their Armani denims, the money isn't shown, but is very clearly visible. They don't bother about the money. Have always had it, will always have it, don't really care about it but won't be able to survive without their Calvin and Klein eau de toilette or Victoria's Secret undergarments. 

4. Disdain: I have also known people who have they big money, and feel guilty about it. They would rather be the aam aadmi travelling in public transports and eating roadside vada paos. They are acutely aware of the extra attention being doled upon them because of the shiny platinum credit cards in their wallets and they hate it! They would work extra hard to seem like just one of "us" because they scorn the money that they were born in. But try as much as they can, it becomes difficult for them to dissociate themselves from the wealth.

5. The Whip Holder!: Ooh, this section of people is exciting and fun and just so interesting! They have the  money, they know it and they want people to know it through all fancy means. Family weddings (nothing less that Jodha - Akbar style), birthday bashes (foreign trips with free loader friends!), shopping (although preferable in London, Dubai or New York, but Emporio Mall in Delhi might do as well) etc. They are the uncrowned leaders of their social circles (even though their social circles would mostly comprise of  other whip holders or some matter - of - fact-ers).

This is just a snapshot of the middle class, upper middle class and high class sect of the society. There are a hundred and more ways in which people treat their money. I pendulum from reverence (I got this from my parents, especially Ma) to pride (depending on the status of my salary, currently  very very delayed! hence, past reverence to desperate for some green in my bank account!) and hope to be a matter of fact. I have no qualms or judgement about any of these people. It is their money and they can treat it however. All I wish to say it is that money might be something that the world is revolving around, but it is always nice to have someone with whom and on whom you would want to spend that money. And when you have that someone (or someones), the money does make things much hunky dory, but little or no money doesn't hurt that bad either. :)

  

Order Order!

I have often said (in my blogs and otherwise) and believed that I am a good person. But good people can make mistakes too even though unintentionally. The past couple of months have made me realise that I am a little mean. And I will be honest in admitting that I can be very very mean if I am not careful. Although its all in humour which makes most people laugh but this humour is often at the cost of someone's dignity. A sly comment on someone's dressing sense  on their face or behind their back, a straight up insult hidden in humour about their accent, or simply a joke at the expense of their appearance. I have often made many people laugh with my quick and witty comments about strangers we pass, acquaintences or even friends. But when I put myself in the other person's shoes, my spontaneity and quick wit just seem rude and mean. So I have taken a decision of not being judgemental.

"I vow to try and not judge people negatively based on anything because no one has given me the special power to pass judgement and comments on anyone."

I know it will be difficult but it is indeed worth a try. Its been almost a week since I gave this small assignment to myself. So I try and change the negative thoughts into positive. The little insults into appreciation for any other trait. Although the edge to my quick wit has become a little blunt but in exchange I feel at peace with myself. Controlling the tongue and more importantly, controlling the thoughts is more tough. Besides, my opinion, whether made in good humour or with malice, might influence others opinion towards something/ someone. Even if it doesn't, now it will certainly make my heart heavy.

No, I won't preach my philosophy or urge other people to follow suit because that again, is a personal choice. But if it continues to make me feel good about myself, I shall try and keep up with it.

*Feeling light and happy*

Living with Curls

I was 13 when I realised that the ends of my hair curled up. That was when I had taken a shot at growing my hair. Till then I had a cute mushroom/ boy/ bob cut with the hair at the end of my neck cropped close with an electric razor. When estrogen finally kicked in, I took the life changing decision of letting my hair grow.  

Till I was in school, the responsibility of doing my hair was still my mother's. In the first year of the experiment, the wily tresses were tamed with tic - tacs and bob pins. As they grew longer, she tugged, pulled and combed my hair with a fine toothed comb till they were always firmly tied at the middle of the back of my head in a ponytail. The ponytail was so tightly bound with 4 folds of a scrunchie that I still blame my mother's genes and her combing my hair for my broad forehead. In college, my mom left me to fend for my hair myself. The freedom did not suit me well. It was like my head had a life of its own! They smirked at rubber bands, scorned clutchers, became a maze for tic - tacs and hated being combed. My arms got tired trying to comb them. And hence began my love - hate relationship with my curly head.

Many women have aww-ed and aah-ed at my hair exaggerating that they'll trade their silky straight shiny hair with my wild curls any day. I could never believe them. Almost all the hairdressers have tch - tch-ed at the state of my head  reprimanding me for the discriminating manner I treated my hair. I have warned people for not being overtly curious and trying to pass their hands through the curls. I do not take any guarantee of untangling their hands from my hair later. Bees and flies, rubber bands and pins, tinfoil balls and little toys of children have all been lost here somewhere in my head to be never seen again.
It's not like my hair act mean to others only. The don't like me much either. Sometimes overnight oiling followed by a vigourous shampooing and almost an hour of conditioning followed by half a bottle of expensive serum, all done for a special occasion, would result in a perfect little messy nest for the birds of the world. They are very moody my hair. When I am least expecting it, they'll emulate Preity Zinta's springy curls of Dil Chahta Hai. But that's very rare.

But overtime, me and my hair, we have agreed on a cordial relationship. Because they don't like being combed, I don't bother any more. But they deal nicely with the insistent probing of my combing efforts when I do wash them twice or thrice a week. I have also succeeded in 60% success rate with them while going out. All I have to do is wash them and tie them up wet in a bun. And when I open them, voila! I have a party - goer look ready.

 
But I'd rather not talk about the disastrous outcomes of the remaining 40%. (You can have a look below)

Well, there are certainly some drawbacks like I can't ever, ever, experiment with haircuts. No short hair, no bangs. I have a pretty regular hair style that I can't do much to change unless I decide to splurge on salons every alternate day. But that's OK. The occasional compliments, especially those from total strangers in my society, in the mall or in the metro balance things out. 
I'd be candid and admit that I do love the fact that my hair are different, independent and wild! They sort of define me. I don't think my personality would have been the same if I had the same boring straight hair. Hence, I refuse to get them chemically treated and straightened or smoothened or whatever term is In in the market these days.
Living with curls is a bitter - sweet experiment that I have come to love!  

The Feel Good Robbery

It was a Friday. I was excited about the coming weekend. Thanks to a meeting, I was dressed in a smart Indian outfit, had gotten a couple of compliments and was feeling good. It was just 11.30 AM, but it felt like it was going to be a good day. It wasn’t. I was brushing up a presentation when Bobby called. He asked if I had brought the car with me. I hadn’t. He couldn’t find it at our usual parking spot. The society guards had no clue. Our car had gotten stolen! There went my good day and mood.

Till the very end I thought, rather hoped, that Bobby was playing a silly prank on me. Even when he called me to the nearby police station, I fervently hoped it was to throw me an elaborately planned surprise party, even though my birthday is 3 months later and it is very unlike Bobby. But as I digested the unpalatable information of our beloved Katrina, Bobby’s first car being stolen, I felt my heart sink. I tried hard to maintain a calm exterior. A stolen car was enough of a worry already, Bobby didn’t need a panicking wife to make it worse for him. As Bobby filed an FIR, I made calls at the insurance company. With each passing minute, the feeling of dread worsened. My throat was dry, tears were stinging my eyes every time I looked at Bobby who was running around completing the formalities to report his stolen Alto and understand insurance claim procedures for his Katrina, which he had bought on his own, with his hard earned money. All the good memories, the fear of being vehicle less were making rapid entry and exits in my mind.

When there was nothing more we could do, we returned to work. Relatives and friends were informed on Whatsapp, messages and calls. And this is where the feel good factor begins. There were many who scolded us for being lazy and not parking more safely. There were I – Told – You – So’s. But there were also sympathies. Consolations. What touched me the most were the genuine offers from friends and relatives. My dear old Papa insisted that I take his car for as long as we need it. A young brother – in – law offered us his bike till we made arrangements for a new car. Relatives who spent hours on the internet researching and on the phone with us discussing pros and cons of different cars like they were researching for buying a car for themselves. Discreet, genuine and insistent offers of lending money (big sums!) for the new car in case we were tight. Calls from distant relatives whose words offered so much comfort and hope. Friends, who actually made us believe that we were lucky to have our car stolen as its insurance value was much more than it’s resale value and then they asked for double parties – for getting a higher sum from insurance and for the new car! Friends who made me laugh and smile when I could have been depressed. A close friend, who lent me his car whenever I needed it and never made me feel like it is not mine. While we did lose a car, precious for its position as the first big investment by Bobby, invaluable for the memories associated with it and loved for the joyful moments it made possible, we also found out how dear we are to our loved ones. We have certainly done something right to have such wonderful people in our life who made us excited about the new car, rather than let us wallow in the misery of losing our beloved Katrina. Heartfelt thanks and love to everyone who made this tough time so much easier. We wish no such misery every befall you, but if god forbid it does, we shall always be there to.

Thank you :)

P.S. Our new car would be a Hyundai Xcent!