Growing Up. Or Not.

Note: What you're about to read is just my opinion. Please do not inundate me with comments justifying your lifestyle and decisions you make. The internet is not meant to be taken this seriously.

It's in fashion these days to complain. The weather, the prices, our politicians, the economy, public transport, no public transport, parents, traffic, a chipped nail, the neighbour's dog, the boss' wife...

Most of the times there is just cause for complaint. I mean, a chipped nail can be extremely annoying. Everyone knows that. But in most other cases, it's just the cool thing to complain. How else will you be part of a group? Belong? Today, accepting and proclaiming that you're content and happy with your life is extremely uncool. And what is happening because of this, is that people are hoping they have unsatisfactory lives, just so they get to complain about it. Not that people have a problem being fake. But still. 

Everywhere i look, there are people holding onto things they did 10 yrs back, hoping that if they don't think about it, they won't have to grow up. And i personally believe that if, as a 30 yr old, you insist on behaving and thinking like a 19 yr old, you're going to have a hell lot to complain about. Especially if your peer group has evolved over the years and has moved beyond drink fests, casual flings and dissing long term commitments. 

A lot of "free thinking" people might suggest that it's only in India that such pressure exists for people to settle down, as it were. I disagree. It's just that here, we are more vocal about such things and families and relatives are actively involved in the process. Intrusive even. But the pressure exists around the world. 

The latest in trends these days, is to complain about all the people getting engaged/married/pregnant. But if you're 30+, single and complaining about these things, it's simply because you haven't grown up enough to make such commitments. I'm not saying that everyone should be hitched and or ready to be a parent by 30. But if you mock those who are, it says a lot about you and not the other person.

And that's all i have to say.

*end of rant*

Today I Was Told...

…I’ve been taking my medication wrong. I need to take it in the morning and not in the evening because what my doctor told me is wrong. You see, if you’ve been taking the same medicine for the last 15 years, you’re automatically made a doctor and the all knowing expert about it. Everyone else is wrong.

…I need to lose weight. Because I don’t know I need to lose weight. I like not having clothes fit me anymore. Also, it’s been a long time since I was this size so I’m shocking people. Oh the horror.

…I should go for my walk in the mornings and not in the evening. Apparently evening walks are only for mental good.  If I need any physical benefit, I need to go in the morning when the body is fresh. Sure. Because I’m the epitome of energy and joy at 6 am. Oh, and I can go back to sleep once I’m done with the walk so that’s supposed to be the silver lining.

…I should eat more fruit. A couple of apples and pomegranates a day isn’t enough. I should be able to put down half a watermelon and/or a whole papaya after every meal to make it count.

…I don’t drink enough water. I have to have a bottle surgically attached to my hand and make sure my kidneys are functioning at their optimum by drinking at least 10-12 litres a day. It doesn’t matter that my kidneys aren’t made to work so much. But so what? I have two.

…Bombay has *so* much variety in crockery. Which is why visitors who come here insist on buying more each time they’re here. Apparently I’ve been doing it wrong. You’re not supposed to make glassware last years on end. No. You’re supposed to buy a new set every year. Didn’t you know?

…My FitFlops aren’t as good as some others. They’re not as comfortable to walk in but where did I get them from? Because *everyone* is wearing them and it would only be right to buy a pair too.

…I have zero fashion sense because at my age I’m not wearing “frocks” when I go out with friends. Kurtis and jeans are for those turning 50. The young don’t wear them.

…I have fat arms. And a big bum. But these are hereditary so I’m not entirely to be blamed. Pitied rather.

…When I get blood tests done, I’m a fool for getting x, y and z tested. I should get only z. So what if all three might be important for a comparative study? Or that the same tube-full of blood can be used for multiple tests? No. I have to save that 100 bucks where I can. Because that 400 bucks on imported oregano (to be used in masala pasta) that was bought simply because it’s imported was plucked off a tree right?

This is day 1. The giver of all this gyan is here for another 2 days. You can imagine just how thrilled I am.

Questions Normal Girls Ask

Continuing from Mudra's list of questions, here is my own:

Another one for Palladium - Why no ladies restroom on the ground floor? I was directed to the first floor where, as Mudra pointed out, there are 4 cubicles. Maybe south bombay snootiness doesn't permit peeing in a mall and hence you didn't think it necessary to cater for us. But i'm from north bombay. I go when i have to. 

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What the eff is/was Teddy Day? Who the hell comes up with/starts this crap? 

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Older people who insist on being on Facebook and/or Twitter, why do you *all* put up passport photos as display pictures?

Also, girls who talk to their mothers on Facebook, do you have to *heart your mumma* all the time? Alternatively, mothers, do you have to be proud of your baccha on every one of her photos? Even when she's wearing a leather skirt and fishnet stockings in the snow?

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Talking about fashion, all these fancy-pants shoe stores have come to India. But why the hell do they insist on putting 5 inch heels on everything they have? Also why the clunkiness? Or are their shoes only meant for the lollipop figured girl and hence the heavy shoes are required to weigh her down to stop her from tumbling over? 

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Bombay Store. What is with the prices? Also Fab India. Seriously? 

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Is being gay/lesbian/bisexual in fashion? Or was my generation just too busy doing other stuff in college (like studying. So lame, i know), and so didn't get a chance to explore own sexuality?

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Oh, and if every man i meet (in real life or on twitter) complains about simpering, whining, Twilight watching, Edward loving, damsel in perpetual distress type girls, why are all the intelligent, funny, well read, Tolkien reading girls single? 

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Several more questions are in the head but they are mostly those that i've ranted about several times earlier. In brief (and feel free to talk about them on your own blogs or in the comments) here they are:

Why do TV channels insist on showing the new Umrao Jaan with Ms.Plastic Bachchan every second day? Her performance is an insult to the memory of the whole profession really.

Why are doughnuts addictive and fattening? Ok so this is a rhetoric, for the universe really. 

Why the hell won't people stop talking about 21st Dec.2012 in hushed voices? I remember the same excitement about Y2K and look what happened. 

Why won't you leave that Beiber boy alone? All of you sing *baby baby baby oh* when you think no one is listening to you. Mainly because all the malls play that song. 

What is with the mass panic before a dry day? It's not like all of you are swimming in alcohol every non dry day. And if you do, give your liver a break. And if you can't stand the thought of an entire day without alcohol, might i suggest rehab? 

I Don't Get It

What do bollywood movies from the black and white era have in common with movies from the, lets say, 60's all through to today, the 21st century? 

All of them have parents of the hero and/or heroine mouthing that one standard dialogue - "times have changed. These days girls and boys find their partners on their own. As parents we only want their happiness, nothing more". 

And then they say art imitates life. Lies. That dialogue is as fictional as the power Dr. Singh has sitting there in Delhi.

Even today, everyday, you hear stories about how parents are objecting to their son/daughter marrying a person of their choice. And while i can't generalise this to all the different communities existing in India, i know for a fact it happens more often than is healthy in that group known for it's dal-baati and chartered accountants.

I went through parental objection myself and am the rare case that actually got what she wanted. But not all girls (or boys) are as stubborn (or rebellious) as i am. Especially when faced with the entire family and the associated guilt-tripping. But the question here is not how firm the girl/boy is in their decision to marry someone of their choice. What needs to be addressed is why should they have to deal with parental/familial objections and refusals in the first place. Why, as a community, have we developed this reputation (not entirely untrue of course) of being anti-"love" marriage (or as i like to call it, self-choice marriage)? Why do our parents, their friends, the entire village all look at choosing your own partner as something that needs to be pointed at and probably burnt at stake with people throwing stones at it?

And this, when the chosen partner is not of the same *community*. It doesn't matter what the qualifications, personality or family background maybe. They may be better than what the parents would probably have managed through the arranged route. Just because he/she belongs to a different community (i hate the word but can't seem to think of an appropriate substitute right now), the relationship has to be objected to. 

Imagine what hell is raised if the person follows a different religion. 

Now, if you've still not understood the level of pigheadedness and ridiculousness parents are able to get to, just think of the young couple, who face extreme parental opposition towards their relationship and the dream of a life together, not because they dont belong to the same sub-sub-community or (shudder) caste, not because they believe in different gods. No. The reason for objecting to the relationship is money. Yes. Look shocked. Not because it happened. That too. But because it's not uncommon. It happens more than you'd like it to, and in more families than one. 

I get that if the parents are looking for a match for their son/daughter, they look for someone in the same financial level as theirs, often disregarding several other factors such as education and class (i've seen it happen). But when a choice has already been made, shouldnt it be more important to know that he/she makes your child happy and that how much money they come from is not really essential? 

How does it matter at the end of the day unless you're a money-minded pig who only wants to know that the wedding will result in grossly over-priced and gawdy gifts for you (this is specifically for the boy's family, who, unfortunately, in our primarily patriarchal society, still have some kind of superiority complex). But apparently it does. It seems to make perfect sense to everyone not of my generation (and to some of those who belong to it too). They've all rationalised this behaviour and thinking down to the last argument and have given it that glossy and irrefutable (in their minds) label called *culture*. Yeah right.

To someone who hasn't grown up in and with such a close-minded and oh-my-god-what-will-people-say-mindset, this whole attitude is mind boggling. Medieval even. 

 I did, and i still don't get it. 

Married To?

For the one year and a couple of months I’ve been married, I’ve been getting all kinds of reactions to the fact that I have retained my maiden name. In some cases it’s become such a big deal - like my grandmom who thought I was doing something illegal by not changing my name. The same granny also thought to tell me of all the problems that can arise in a marriage by ‘small’ things like these (this she told me in hushed whispers and concerned tones). I tried explaining to her about how my identity is my own, and that getting married does not mean I change a name I’ve lived with and been associated with for 25 yrs of my life. I also had to tell her (hoping it would make her comfortable with the idea) that I had the Fellow’s support in this decision and that it wasn’t something he really bothered or even thought about.

But of course we had to think about it. In the organisation we are in, change is slow. Formality is abundant. And so if I’m married, I’m automatically Mrs. Last-name-of-the-chap-I’m-married-to. In the beginning, it irked me to no end, to be constantly referred to as Mrs. XYZ. Then I decided to not waste time getting annoyed since these people obviously hadn’t heard of retaining your own identity (and Women’s Lib, but that was asking for too much). But the more I saw around me, the more amazed I was. It was like the women didn’t want to think on their own really. They were mouthpieces for their husbands; their image depended on the rank their husband was at and his position in the larger hierarchical group. Everything they did was keeping their husbands future (and present) in mind, even if it meant not having a brain of their own (or using it). I don’t mean that anyone should go out of their way to prove a point, at the risk of someone’s career. But at least be sure of who you are, outside of your spouse.

Today I just got more proof of how the women around me have somehow lost themselves in their relationship, so much so that who they were or can be is pretty much forgotten - I was sitting in a school Principal’s office, and she was going through files full of CV’s of women applying for a teaching post. However, apart from the sheer number of applicants, the one thing that struck me was that along with their name, each and every one of these women had added “Wife of So and So”.

And I was left wondering - when applying for a job, unless you’re Rabri Devi, how does it matter whom you’re married to?

ODing

I’m going to see My Name is Khan in a couple of hours. But before I watch the movie (and then give opinionated gyan about it here) I wanted to get one thing clear – no matter how good, bad or simply annoying, the film turns out to be, I’m a tad bit fed up of the movie already. I mean, it’s everywhere you turn.

So there are the usual PR tricks and gimmicks and promotional tours happening on all forms of mass media. But then a political party had to throw themselves into the circus and everyone went into verbal diarrhoea mode. Especially SRK, who decided to do it on Twitter, and honestly, ended up sounding like he was stoned and depressed. That, or someone had stolen his identity. And then, all Bollywood personnel on Twitter were going gaga over the movie and its makers and joined the bandwagon. Oh, and not to be left behind (I mean it is a journey after all right?) everyone from travel agents to suitcase companies and shoe makers is latching on, making the whole thing beyond anything.

And so, even though I love technology and all the joy that it brings with it, I’ve been really wishing I lived in the age before television, radio and twitter. At least that way I wouldn’t have to OD on MNIK (and Rahul Dulhaniya Le Jayega. But that’s a whole new post).

Valenteen's Eve Party

No, it’s not a typo. Valenteen is what I typed.

But let me start whining right from the beginning – when I got that dreaded phone call, asking all the ladies (of the squadron) to assemble in the evening at X place. This meant only one thing – the women were going to plan something and/or spend at least one hour discussing random nonsense. And right I was. It was all nonsense.

Apparently, this over-enthusiastic-not-happy-with-two-parties-a-week group of women decided to have a Valentine’s day eve party. Now, the very idea is revolting at several different levels, beginning with how, one of the ladies kept calling it Valenteen’s day – something that made me want to giggle out loud (and I never giggle out loud) and then tell her she was getting it wrong so she would stop making a fool of herself (in a horribly self-satisfied sort of manner too). But I like to stay away from politics and the evilness some women thrive in, and so continued sitting quietly in my corner coming up with this blog post

Now this party, it was decided, would be a pot luck party. As far as I understand, it’s called pot luck because everyone brings a pot of something and you hope to get lucky and get some good food. But that’s not how we do it here. Luck is an alien concept. And so a detailed menu was planned (mainly involving super-boring food that you see at every party here) and before they (the annoying aunties of the group) could hand me a task way beyond my skill and/or motivation levels, I volunteered to do the salad. For a moment they were confused. Then I threw in words like macaroni and mayo and all was good. After all this meant I was making ‘English food’. Yes. I know. When I heard the phrase for the first time, I had the same reaction and confused look on my face. But I’ve come to terms with it. You will too.

The rest of the meeting post my salad moment is pretty much a haze. I remember tea being served with something hot and spicy to eat (who forgets food huh?). I also remember someone mentioning games and paper dance in the same sentence. There was also something about singing romantic songs at the party, at which time I barfed in my head and imagined the Fellow’s face when I told him about it. Oh, and red balloons – the heart shaped ones, candles and roses were definitely talked about. I know this, because the laughter inside my head got so loud it broke through the haze of disinterest and boredom.

So now, I have to attend a Valenteen’s day eve party on Saturday, have to wear red and black (yes that was discussed too), hide the rose I’m supposed to give the Fellow, forget about a gift I’m also supposed to get for him, may/may not have to play some ridiculous couple-y games (depending on how good I am at timing my bathroom break), eat terribly boring, run of the mill food (except for my English food of course) and then come back and write a long blog post about it!

Damn commercialisation of love and stupid over-excited women.

The Obligatory Post

Yes yes. Another year has come to an end. And it’s now time to pretend that you’re all nostalgic about the last 12 months and how much you’ve learnt from the experiences you’ve had. It’s also time to come up with fraud resolutions that are designed specifically to fool yourself and your pain-in-the-ass conscience.

Resolution #1: I shall try and wake up in time in the mornings so that the maid is not entertained by a half-asleep, messed up hair, terrible pyjamas me (please note the use of the word ‘try’. Indicates realism in expectations from self).

Resolution #2: I shall try and remember that bhujiya cannot be used as a substitute for vegetables and rice and otherwise so called healthy food (this is a tough one since the Marwari in me is already revolting at the very idea).

Resolution #3: I shall finish reading all the new books I bought in the last 2 months before going into a bookstore (unless something absolutely fabulous releases and I so have to have it).

Resolution #4: I will try and be polite to stupid people. I mean they can’t help it right? (I don’t have to be polite once they’re out of earshot do I?)

Resolution #5: I will go to my aunts’ houses for the pleasure of their company and not to demand I be fed all of my favourite foods (unless they call me specifically to eat. That’s a different thing).

Resolution #6: I shall try and learn the names of the flowers growing in my garden and stop referring to them as the purple ones and the red ones and the one with all the leaves (this is to stop getting weird looks from my gardener basically. Judgmental idiot that one is).

Resolution #7: When I take people shopping I shall refrain from spending more money than they do (I mean I live here so I can just go back and buy stuff by myself huh?).

Resolution #8: Attempts shall be made to get un-addicted to Facebook (except how will I have even the semblance of a social life if I did? Hmmm. This one has to be thought through).

Resolution #9: I will stop procrastinating (Hahahahahahahaha)

Resolution #10: I shall blog more regularly (or tweet. Wait. Are those Blog-gods attacking me?)

Done.

Depressing at Best

After hearing so much about Gurgaon malls and the whole “mall culture”, I have to say I’m super-depressed right now.

The Fellow and I decided to go mall-hopping since we were in the vicinity and had the time (though not necessarily the inclination on my part). And my instinct proved right. As always. Not only are the malls quite lame in terms of the shops they hold, they’re terribly designed, and are a complete waste of space and all kinds of important resources. And to complete the sorry sight is the near absence of people and bored security guards. The only things that are moving in these malls are the escalators.

My analysis and judgment of the gaon malls is purely based on my extensive experience with those in Bombay. And even without my natural and all too justified bias towards my city, Bombay malls are so much swankier, shinier, happier and generally welcoming (most of them at least). And even when people are not actively shopping in them, they give a sense of activity and the food courts are always full. Here, the food courts were a sad sight, with maybe half a dozen people looking lost and wondering what they were doing there. And I don’t blame them. The food outlets were nothing to write home about. Quite the contrary actually.

And the worst bit is that most of the shops in the malls (and I mean all the malls here) are closed on Tuesdays. It’s a mall for crying out loud. You can’t have 10 malls in a 2 kilometre radius and then pull the shutters down one day a week! Who does that? What kind of a place is this? Sheesh!

I never really liked Delhi. And now my disdain extends towards its suburbs also. Tsk. Tsk.

Of Tourists and Honeymooning Couples

The in-laws, like all native Shimla-ites, go to the Mall everyday. It doesn’t matter how cold it is or how late, this is one ritual they adhere to without fail. For them, it’s a way of meeting people and finding out what’s new in town. For me, on the other hand, this daily trip to the Mall is an interesting study in people.

Since Shimla is a much visited tourist location, there is never any dearth of ‘study material’. So there is the usual group of tourists (mostly Bengali) looking frozen to death and generally swathed in several layers of hastily bought shawls and caps. Of course, since most of these women are wearing sarees, thus allowing access to the cold air, no amount of shawls and caps is going to help really. This group can usually be found huddled in front of stores, wondering whether a discount is available (the word discount is easily understood amongst a battery of Bangla). They also only move as a group wherever they go.

Then there is family vacation kind of tourists - mummy, papa and 2 children, all in varying degrees of excitement/irritation. The dad is generally loud and leading the way. He can also be seen expressing exasperation as the children insist on buying one of the many colourful and cheap toys on display in the shops. There are also indulgent dads, who smile and allow their progeny to buy whatever their little hearts desire, while the mother tries to keep up with the disciplining (and her shopping). The children, well, do what children do best – run around a lot and generate noise.

Finally, there is the honeymooning couple – a species by itself I assure you. I mean, I know they’re in love (hopefully) and all that. But how does that translate into skimpy and tight clothes – for both, the husband and wife? I could assume they’re trying to show off their cold-bearing prowess to each other…but at what cost? Looking like a complete fool when you walk around in thin tee shirts and capris when everyone else is bundled up to their necks in woollen clothes? Oh and the shoes! You can differentiate a honeymooner from her shoes alone – strappy and/or shiny heels, completely inappropriate for the cold as well as walking! It’s quite a sight, watching these couples cling onto each other as they walk about the Mall. Of course, now I know the clinging is more for warmth and balance than any romantic notion!

And so, while the tourists and honeymooning couples look around them, and take in the sights of Shimla, I look at them. Now if only I could have gotten a picture of the aunty in a saree, monkey cap, 2 shawls and a bright blue pair of rubber chappals, this post would have been complete.

The Analysis of Persons on Two-Wheelers

(Day 106 of 112)

It’s simple. They should all be consigned to hell. Hot fires, pitchforks and run by the devil kind of hell. Torturing them might be a possibility too. I’m thinking Chinese torture methods. Maybe having them listen to George Bush talk politics. Anything that makes them want to jump into one of hell’s fires and atone for the sins committed on the roads of small town India.

I mean, driving here is like asking for trouble and begging for three more sets of eyes. It’s impossible to be a good driver here and follow all the rules of traffic because there aren’t any – good drivers or rules of traffic. I know this because I’m very sure that I’m one of 3 people in this entire place who actually uses the indicator in the car. I’m also the only one who likes to stay in the lane I’m in, and not weave around like I’m have a seizure or something. And when I stop to let pedestrians cross the road, they look at me like I’m the crazy lady from Timbuktu and am luring them into a trap!

Why do men on two-wheelers think, that by virtue of being on two wheels (and this includes everything from a cycle to a motorbike), they are suddenly endowed with immortality and skin that’s like armour? That could be the only reason for a) not wearing helmets, (b) weaving in and out of traffic like they’re in a video-game arcade, (c) piling on people on the two wheeler like it’s the roof of a State bus, (d) looking for my car to try their stunts with. Morons each and every one of them I tell you. And suicidal to boot.

And you know what scares me more than hitting one of these fools? The Fellow. I mean it’s his beloved car that will bear the brunt of immense stupidity let loose on the roads right? And I really don’t want to be the one behind the wheel when stupidity collides with the car. And I refuse to be the one to tell the Fellow about it. I have a feeling love will take a back seat then. At least for me.

Grandma's Tales

(Day 102 of 112)

Q: If you meet me on the road (or anywhere else for that matter), how will you know I’m married?

A: By the fact that my grandmother will be with me, telling anyone who cares to listen.

Of course, if you stop to listen to her, you will probably end up listening to some serious Avantika-bashing (she seems to be doing a lot of that lately isn’t she?). This time the bone of contention is not my questions, but rather my defiance.

I refuse (vociferously) to walk around like a billboard advertising the fact that I’m a married woman now. I believe that I’m an independent person in my own right, who does not need to define herself in terms of anyone. Just like I don’t see the need to change who I am or how I dress just because I’m married. And luckily for me, the Fellow thinks the same way. And so you won’t find me ‘looking married’ the way that has, unfortunately, been made popular through the media. The Fellow even refused to let me wear those red and white bangles for more than a week after marriage. As soon as I got back into my jeans after several days of sarees and salwar kameezes, the bangles came off too. I mean, seriously, I don’t think there is anything more ridiculous looking than that horrible clash of ‘western’ clothes worn with bangles, bindis and all that paraphernalia. It’s like the person is confused about which way she wants to go, and ends up looking like a..a…monkey in a circus maybe?

And now, here is my grandmother cribbing about the exact same thing. Only she wants me to look married. She would love it if I walked around with bangles and a bindi everyday (the mangalsutra and sindoor would be a bonus she never even dreamed of really). So what if I wear jeans and tee shirts everday? So what if I looked like I’ve grown up in Hicksville, India with a negative fashion sense? And so what if I end up being the kind of person I laugh at and pity?! At least my grandmother would be happy right?

Hell no. It would be salwar kameezes and sarees next. Shudder.

The Black Sheep

(Day 100 of 112)

Warning: Long Post

That’s me. Thank you very much. About an hour back, the uncle, aunt and grandmother would willingly have traded me for a more obedient, docile and annoyingly white sheep, whom they could have herded as they wanted. Unfortunately for them, they’re stuck with me – the kind who refuses to go where they want and insists on straying outside the boundaries.

So what I have I done that makes me black?

I asked…ask questions. Have been doing it since I was not more than 4 feet tall actually. But what else can I do huh? Nobody gives me satisfactory answers to my questions and I absolutely refuse to accept “don’t ask questions and do what we say” as suitable.

That my questions are most often to do with the ritualistic practices and blind acceptance of what the holy man says, is what troubles the family most. Even as a child I couldn’t do something unless I understood the logic and reason behind it. And so I questioned everything I was asked to do, right from the prayer (and if anybody understood the pandit mumbling away at full speed) to why I had to take the prasad in the right hand and even why, when someone passed away, did the women not go to the cremation grounds (this was generally met with a lot of shushes and frowns). And these are the milder questions I asked. I’m not even getting into the whole position of women in religion issue!

Today the blackness in me came to the surface because of the issue of death. Someone we know passed away (after a long illness and at least 80 years on the planet). Today was the 12^th day and the grandmother and aunt went to pay their respects etc. When they came back, they were carrying steel boxes (the kitchen-use kind) –one for each of them, and one for me (apparently getting married entitles me to all these kinds of things)! Additionally, I was also given an envelope with cash in it – in place of the usual saree that all the other women were given. Needless to say, I was thoroughly confused and more than a little embarrassed. I mean, someone had died. And there we were getting gifts and cash/sarees? Why? This was question one.

Next, the grown ups spent quite a bit of time (today and in the last week that I’ve been here) discussing how the deceased woman’s older son did not shave his hair off and how the younger one was doing it everyday, thus making it more of a fashion statement. I asked the question in my head (obviously) – What’s the big deal? Why the fuss about such a small thing? How does it matter? What’s the logic behind it anyway? The answers I got? (a) it’s what society expects (b) it’s been happening in our community forever (c) that’s what marwaris do (d) you talk too much (e) what’s the logic behind using a rolling pin to make rotis? (f) something about people not making fun of them by seeing a shorn head and knowing they are in mourning (this I refused outright because hair grows back and no one is as insensitive as to make fun as soon as someone dies).

Sigh. So yes. Dinner today was accompanied by a cynical and understandably bemused (and slightly frustrated) me. I mean, none of these people question what they do for even a moment. They just continue with what people have been doing for generations, irrespective of whether it makes sense in the 21^st century or not. All in the name of religion. From a doctrine and a philosophy, the religion is being turned into a ritualistic circus which no one understands. And worse, no one wants to understand. They just find it easier to follow the practices blindly without sparing a single thought to the why of it.

Anywhoo. I can go on and on about it, especially since I’ve just encountered several mumblings and grumblings from the grandmother about how studying psychology has ruined me, and how this was probably why girls weren’t educated too much.

I think my grandfather just had another heart attack in heaven.

PS: This rant seems appropriate for a momentous event like writing 100 posts in a row na?

Hair Dye

(Day 97 of 112)

I know maybe 2 women who don’t resort to that little bottle of hair colouring which helps them conceal the all dangerous fact of their true age from the rest of the world. For the remaining population of my beauty-lies-in-the-makeup-section-of-the-mall believing sex, nothing is as vitally important in their middle age, as stocking up on that essential bit of the modern ‘solah shringar’ – the hair dye.

I know I’m still young enough to not worry about grey hair and all the attached stress, but I still can’t help being amused at the women who do worry. I mean considering the amount they worry about their greying hair, it’s no wonder the hair is turning white!

And then there is all the lack of privacy. If it was just the one person involved, nobody would know about it right? But since it’s near impossible (apparently) to self apply hair dye, it necessitates calling upon another person to get his/her hands dirty. It’s not called hiding if you can’t do it alone I say.

Why hair dye? For the obvious reason – I’m the one who had to get her hands dirty to allow for the vanity of those around me. And the funny thing is that these people whose hair I’ve been camouflaging today aren’t exactly in the first blush of youth (or even the second, third or fourth). So it’s not like anyone is going to believe that their hair is magical and is washed with water from the fountain of youth.

Isn’t it better to accept the fact that you’re getting older and that grey hair can be extremely dignified? I mean at least it will show that you’re definitely as (if not more) mature than your hair!

Of Court Verdicts and Personal Guilt

(Day 92 of 112)

The Allahabad HC has acquitted Moninder Singh Pandher in the Nithari murder case while upholding Surinder Kohli’s death sentence. Needless to say, there is massive hue and cry about this verdict and nobody seems to be convinced that Pandher is innocent. However as it often goes in this country, this too shall be forgotten and since the media has the attention span of a toddler, something else will grab their (dubious) attention.

Meanwhile, families of the victims will continue seeking answers and maybe one day, justice. The one whose death sentence has been upheld will try looking for mercy, and the acquitted will try and remain free – in more ways than one.

For even though he may have escaped (so far) incarceration and capital punishment, where is he to run from the truth? And while I can’t pass judgement on Pandher and his alleged innocence, I can have an opinion.

And I believe that no matter what any court says, human guilt is punishment enough. Yes I know that sociopaths and psychopaths are not overly burdened with a conscience and the accompanying guilt. But I also believe that no matter where you hide, you can’t hide from yourself. Where are you to run from the memories, the voices, the faces, the dreams? You may convince yourself of an alternative truth and even repress memories. But it’s not as easy as Freud made it sound. Reality traps you and never really allows you to be free.

So whether Pandher took a life himself or stood by and watched, he knows what really happened. And he has to live with this knowledge, no matter what a court of law decides.

Why I'll Never Tweet

(Day 91 of 112)

I signed up on Twitter after coming across it on someone’s blog and before Hollywood made it big. But since I couldn’t figure out what to do with it, I didn’t go back even once and then I forgot my username and password.

Now the whole world is tweeting and it’s what all the cool kids are doing. It just convinces me that I’m the uncoolest kid on the playground. Of course I did give it about 5 minutes of thought and even framed an answer to “What are you doing now?” But then several things stopped me from becoming a twit .

To begin with, I don’t understand why I would even want to be followed. I mean do I really want to tell the world what I’m doing all the time? And then have them comment on it? I don’t think so.

Secondly I don’t think I do enough with my life to be making it public (this blog is a different medium of communication and not the focus of discussion here). And I’m definitely not deluded enough to think everything I do, think, want to say should be discussed.

Thirdly, if I have something to say, I want to be able to say it properly. I mean I worked hard at acquiring a vocab and learning how to spell the right way. Might as well make use of it right?

Fourthly, I have avoided using my phone to access the internet. And if I tweeted, I would have to use my phone (I mean how else can I be sitting in a theatre and tweet about how bad the movie is right?). But since I’m addicted enough to my laptop and the world wide web (read: Facebook and my blog) not tweeting is the only way not to cross over to the dark side.

Finally, and most importantly, I’m not self involved enough to believe that anyone would want to follow me. And I’d rather not get validation of this belief by starting to tweet and then having no followers. I don’t think anything would be more depressing and damaging to self esteem.

I mean I’ve had enough trouble getting readers for this blog (now numbering 5, one of whom is the Fellow) without worrying about how many people are following me!

The Nose Always Knows

(Day 85 of 112)

A few days back I vented here about my hyper-allergic immune system. I also complained about how, when the immune system decides to kick into high gear and react to itself quite literally, it gets very difficult to have a nose.

However today I was proud. Proud of my nose and all that it does.

What does it do? Apart from making me want to rub it off my face in an attempt to stop the itching, my nose responds brilliantly (albeit a little too aggressively for me) to changes in the weather. And so, be it changes in the cold, heat or rain, I’m off on a sneezing bout accompanied by crazy itching.

So why was I proud of this organ which, if it had been the medieval ages, would have sent me straight to the burning stake? Because for the last three days my nose has been working overtime (and usually I would whine about it, but I have a point to make here). And while everyone around me was sure that I’m too weak and city-bred to handle the cold, I kept explaining that it was due to changes in the weather blah blah blah. Obviously no one believed me. Thought the cold had frozen my brain cells or something.

Then today brought validation for my hyper-allergic soul and my unfortunately afflicted nose. Apparently it snowed in the higher altitudes yesterday. Obviously the weather had been getting colder and changing for a few days right? In fact even the locals agreed that there was a chill in the air today and brought out the warm clothes.

And all I could do (while everyone discussed the snow and change in weather) was look exceedingly smug and pat my nose on its back.

As I pointed out to the MIL, the nose, always knows.

Confession Time

(Day 77 of 112)

I have a confession to make. As stupid and moronic as I think the Gujarat government has been in banning Jaswant Singh’s book, right now I can’t help but wish the Himachal government had also banned it. At least that way I wouldn’t have been able to buy it and my brain wouldn’t have been put through the entire trauma.

And trauma it is. I’ve read only the introduction and a couple of chapters but already I want to use this 669 page book as a weapon, preferably on Jaswant Singh’s head. I mean, it’s such a cumbersome and heavy read. The sentences are super-complex and it seems like Singh has only recently discovered the semi-colon. There is no other explanation for the liberal use of the annoying punctuation mark. In a first, I’m finding myself reading each sentence several times over just to get some connection between the different parts. And while a lot of ideas are definitely interesting and insightful, they’re lost in punctuation, making it a tad bit difficult to appreciate wholeheartedly.

Of course I believe that the editor has to take some of the blame here. I mean so it’s a book on a figure prominent in the history of India and Pakistan. But why the book has to read like a history tome is beyond me. So far the book is as dry, drab and depressing as most history texts, the kinds that make students hate this otherwise fascinating subject.

And so I have a confession to make. I don’t want to read further. I know I should. Maybe it gets better. Maybe the beginning is like an acid test to see if you’re really worthy of reading the book. Maybe I’ll have a different opinion once I struggle through to the end. But right now, I don’t want to read further.

PS: Knowing myself, I probably will continue reading. And I will continue handing out opinionated gyan whenever I can. But at least it will be informed opinionated gyan right?

Of Political Expulsions and Book

(Day 75 of 112)

So the last several days have all been about Jaswant Singh, his book and the BJP. To put it in a nutshell, Singh wrote a book, the BJP over-reacted and Singh got humiliated with a no-warning expulsion from a party he’s been with for 30 years.

However with the BJP’s knee-jerk reaction being discussed everywhere and on every news channel, two things were certain – those who hadn’t heard of the book before did so now, and those who would have not read the book or left it for a couple of years later, made a beeline for the bookstore, just to see what all the hype is about.

I mean like Singh said, it’s just a book. It’s a personal opinion expressed in a democratic country. So what’s the big deal? The answer, I know, lies in politics. But I have a minimal understanding of politics and am not ashamed to say so (yay for me). Thus all the political jargon being thrown around on national television bores me (seriously) and also serves to simply confuse me further. Thus the only way I can make sense of this whole issue (and pass judgment on all the hype) is by reading the book in question.

And this is just what I’m going to do. At present I’m simply enjoying the smell and sight of a new book and fresh, crisp, untouched and unread pages. The reading shall commence soon.

Look out for some opinionated gyan soon.

Eye Witness

(Day 58 of 112)

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it. Not in a hundred years.

Thanks to my aunt’s emotional blackmail, I found myself part of a gathering I wouldn’t have ever thought a probability. It was basically an event organised by some ladies club here and promised an evening of culture, music (by an ex-Indian Idol participant) and “enjoyment” (as the shrieking woman holding the microphone repeatedly told us).

What it actually was, was an evening of noise, shrill voiced women, ego-boosting, ass-kissing and an excuse for women to get out of their houses wearing their most loud clothes and every piece of jewellery they possessed. Honestly. I haven’t seen this much bling since…ever! Shudder. It was gold and shiny everywhere. And the hair! Here is a sample of what I had to look at while the women wearing green sarees had to parade in front of a judge in order to win a 5 kg packet of rice (or a 21pc dinner set. I’m not sure).

But what made me a little glad I was there – simply because i couldn’t believe what I was seeing – and also because it gave me blog-worthy material, was the dance floor, complete with a DJ and people dancing. That these people dancing were mainly heavy saree and jewellery clad women who belong to traditional, conservative families is not the point. What is also not important is that the song they ‘grooved’ most to, complete with expressions and movements was “Beedi jalayle”, not a song you associate with traditional Marwari women.

What was important was how much I was entertained. It was quite the spectacle actually and I think only I was fascinated by it, by the whole paradox I was seeing explode before me. It was also a totally out of body experience when I saw a lady, in her late thirties-early forties, with her head covered with her saree and wearing at least 5 kgs of gold doing the moonwalk.

Like I said, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it. Not in a hundred years.