The VALENTINE DAY BOUQUET

Who thought being beautiful could be a curse? Anamika thought so. She should know- born with utterly beautiful skin, hair and the most delicate features, she was what most people would consider conventionally good-looking.

From the time she was a pretty baby she was bestowed with special attention. People coochie-cooed over her prettiness and remarked how exquisite she was. They fawned over her during her childhood years and were mesmerized by her increasingly breathtaking beauty as she turned into a teenager. Relatives advised her mother to ward off the evil eye, the buri nazar. So her mother used a dot of kajal under her jawline- always.  Everyone assumed that Anamika would have no trouble finding a suitable boy in an arranged marriage, that is if she hadn’t already found a boyfriend by then.

Anamika was not Anamika’s real name. But this was the name she gave prospective suitors, of which there were many. In fact, friends teased that there was a queue of boys pursuing her. Anyone else who was in Anamika’s position would probably be very pleased with their life- who wouldn’t be? The world was falling at her feet. Compliments, attention, the head turning second looks. The lead role in plays offered to her on a platter although she had stage fright- the perks of being beautiful were too many.

Then of course there was the queue of boys which deserves further description.

The queue consisted of boys in her class, uncles in her colony, watchmen in her coaching class, professors in her college and the nameless roadside Romeos in the college canteen, at the train station and even third cousins at wedding who all lined up like salivating wolves behind her.

It’s not that Anamika did not like attention. She did. It’s just that along with being pretty she also happened to have the IQ of a rocket scientist, although she nurtured dreams of becoming a forensic scientist. She much rather preferred a game of chess than checking herself out in the mirror. Of course the mirror on the wall loved her.

But it did not take Anamika long to realize that the burden of being beautiful could lie so heavy on her pretty shoulders. She had to prove to people that she actually had a brain inside the thick, flowing mane of hair and that brain was sharper and faster than most people she met. Just as most boys fell hopelessly in love with Anamika at first sight, most girls hated her at first sight. They would also viciously assume she was dumb and then if she happened to ace a test, they would spread rumours that the professor was partial to her.

“Arey, she doesn’t have to study, her face is enough”

It was another story that although professors lusted after her, she did not give them any attention. On the contrary, she went to great extents to ward off attention for how she looked. In fact, during face to face examinations, Anamika made it a point to look as unattractive as possible. She would take some of the kajal from the dot that her mother still painstakingly applied under her jawline and rub it under her eyes to make fake dark circles. She also emptied nearly half a bottle of coconut oil on her hair and tied tight plaits. Despite her efforts, much to her dismay, she still looked nearly as beautiful. However, the professors would find it hard to concentrate on her looks when she started talking and spouting knowledge that they had to later, double check in textbooks. They would nod in disbelief as if one so beautiful wasn’t meant to have a brain this clever.

If there was one day in the year that Anamika loathed, it was Valentine’s day. As if all year- round attention wasn’t enough, here was a special day created for boys brimming with testosterone to unleash their romantic potential. The day that the Romeos could give vent to their creativity and enterprise. Was it going to roses or chocolates? Bouquets or a single stem? Individual eclairs or a whole box? Was it going to be a proposal or was it simply going to be an extension of ‘frandship’ to someone who did not even know of their existence. Then there was another was another dilemma- Woo one girl or several girls? It was like a lottery after all- the more tickets you buy the greater your chance of winning. These gleeful thoughts ran in the minds of the many boys in the queue, all through the month of January. By the time February arrived, their modus operandi was ready.

Anamika had seen much action in her short life. By now, the roses bored her and the chocolates made her yawn. That year there was much excitement in her college. Some enterprising boys decided that eclairs and roses were passè and that something more exciting was needed to spice up Valentines day. After all, how many romantic messages could be written in the 2 Rupees card that was popular every year. The boys on a shoestring budget would write in their two-bit poetry on a coloured card paper bought in college and sign off.  The anonymous Romeo would sign off in illegible writing- the thrill of writing was enough, it required too much courage to reveal one’s identity- That’s it and off went the card by hand-delivery to the lady love who would either accept it or more often, toss it in the garbage bin after a few giggles. The eclair stood a better chance of being accepted as it was eaten up straightaway but the accompanying card discarded in the same bin which overflowed on V-day.

Anamika had one notorious suitor, Laalmani who was at the front of the queue. At the front, because he was a much-feared character who had shoved and muscled his way to the front of others. Over the years, he had failed his exams several times and at an age when he should be a professor was still rubbing shoulders with students. That itself filled most people with dread and the boys in the queue let him go ahead of them.

Now, it was one thing giving out roses, cards and eclairs innocently on one day of the year. But Laalmani, being Laalmani crossed the line too many times well before the day he officially got a chance to exhibit his sleaze. Before V-day arrived, he honed his romantic skills by singing a recent release ‘Jumma Chumma de de’ to any girl who passed by. It gave vent to his frothy, bubbling masculinity. There was no shame in asking for a kiss publicly if a Bollywood hero had given it the stamp of approval! It was another thing that nobody in their right mind would ever want to have anything to do with his filthy, gutkha-stained mouth which saw a toothbrush only three times a week. He usually hung around with his cronies who were also at an age where they could be escorting kids to kindergarten. The cronies were nameless and shameless, known only as Laalmani’s yaars. They hung on each other with locked arms as if they would fall if unsupported. If Laalmani grew in confidence it was largely his yaars who were responsible. They applauded his singing, patting him on his back as he smoothed down his oily, middle-parted hair. Laalmani’s vocal chords were every bit as badly behaved as him. They screeched, howled, and sank lower each time. His loyal yaars tried to provide a chorus to his off-key singing, but failed miserably. The cronies also hissed “Kiss me, kiss me” to unsuspecting girls as they passed by. They also encouraged Laalmani’s literary pass-times which mainly included writing filthy graffiti on the walls of the girls’ hostel. Laalmani began to believe that he could achieve anything at least in the romance department.

*

Among the many activities planned for Valentine’s day in college was a new enterprise called Valentine Bouquet auction. Not many people knew what an auction was except the organizing final year students.

The students gathered in the main hall of college. Of course there was a choice of not attending such events. But most did as there was little else by way of entertainment in college for a long time during the year. The annual day was not until November.

The girls gathered in their groups, sitting on one side of the aisle, while the boys hung separately with their coteries on the other side. A few couples hung shyly at the back in the dark. In those days, public display of affection was blasphemous, let alone acceptable. Just in front of the couples, sat Laalmani and his yaars.

A huge bouquet of luscious red roses had been bought for Rs.20 at the phoolwala outside college. It sat in a wicker basket, covered by a glittery cellophane paper, making it look more expensive than it was worth. The bouquet took centre stage and stood on a stand like a trophy ready for the finale.

The Valentine’s day programme started off with the obligatory distribution of the eclairs, single roses and cards amid cheering and whistling from the boys’ side.

Girls dreaded the moment their name was called and reluctantly went forward to receive their Valentine present. Some rejoiced inwardly. Some cringed on reading the name on the card. Some were just grateful to receive something but refused to divulge the name of the suitor.

It wasn’t surprising that there were no cards, roses or eclairs for the boys. They were simply content to see the surprise on the face of their loved one or loved ones.

That year, Laalmani had lecherous eyes only for Anamika although he did sometimes wonder if he should have a back-up. He had planned on giving Anamika seven roses. One for each letter in her fictitious name. But the deadline for sending the roses had passed and his roses did not get sent. He was already furious at this yaars for not reminding him and even kicked one of his yaars, so he could remind him next year.

The hall filled with the fragrance of roses and eclairs. Eclairs wrappers and torn cards littered the aisle. It was now time for the bouquet auction. For Laalmani and his cronies, this was a new experience. They thought they had seen it all in their many years in college. Checking the dictionary meaning of the word ‘auction’ was out of question because the library was unknown territory for them despite knowing the college inside out.

The organizing students were led by the student leader who armed himself with a microphone and screamed to the crowd who was already on a sugar rush.

‘Ok, now it’s time for the grand Valentine day auction. Are you with me”

The boys cheered. The girls looked on nervously.

“Alright, we are going to start with bidding at 25 Rupees”

No response.

“Do we have anyone for 25?” the student leader cried out, worried that this was not going too well. He signaled to one of his cronies to start the bid. The crony lifted his hand.

“Ok we have 25.” The crowd cheered not really understanding much

“Do we have a higher bid? 30 anyone?”

The crowd was just puzzled. What happens now?

“Any dashing boys who would like to bid higher?” the leader screamed.

One boy from 2^nd year put his hand up.

“Ok we have 30 from the gentleman in 2^nd year”. The crowd cheered, warming up to this.

Laalmani and his yaars looked around wondering why the crowd was cheering.

“Ok anyone for 35?” the leader tried his luck. He was already fed up shouting his lungs out over the mic trying to convince people how popular this game was. He longed to go out for his cigarette and wished it would get over soon. 10 Rupees profit was enough- he could buy a few more cigarettes with it.

“Anyone bidding for more than 30. C’mon guys you can do better than this” he roared enthusiastically.

Laalmani and his yaars had finally cottoned on to this auction thing. He raised his hand lazily.

“Ok we have Mr Laalmani Sir at the back. How much do you bid Sir?”

The yaars whispered among themselves.

“50 bol” Laalmani commanded. He needed some thrills today. He looked at the giggling girls on the other side of the aisle, trying to spot Anamika.

“Ok we have 50. Fantastic, things are heating up now”

“Anyone more than 50?”

A boy from final year lifted his hand up.

“70” he said, sacrificing nearly all his pocket money for one month.

The crowd in the hall cheered lustily. It wasn’t every day that an auction took place.

Laalmani was not one to be outdone. His yaars poked and prodded him and he decided if he should kick them or get a kick by upping his ante. He decided on the latter.

“90 Rupees” he screamed hoarsely, excited by the number. He knew he would never score 90 in his tests but this 90 was definitely doable.

“90 from Laalmani Sir”

“Anyone for higher? 100 anyone?”

A wannabe Laalmani in first year decided he would risk it.

“100” he screamed. The crowd went crazy and roared. Here was a new hero and that too from first year.

The girls restrained themselves. They laughed, but into their hankies or dupatta ends and craned their necks to see who this daredevil was. Anamika debated if she should leave the hall and go to the library, but her friends pulled her back. The action was just heating up.

“Anyone for more than 100? Do we have a new challenge?”

Laalmani’s yaars provoked him further. They could not allow a new competitor on the scene. It was a question of their reputation. Laalmani was getting a bit irritated now. He just wanted to get out of the hall for a dose of gutkha.

Without thinking he lifted his hand.

“How much do you bid Sir?

“150” said Laalmani lazily.

The yaars were shocked by this sudden jump in the stakes. But Laalmani was nonplussed.
“Anyone for 150?”

Laalmani’s competitor who was equally crazy shouted immediately “200” knowing he could never afford 200 unless he took a loan from his buddies.. The crowd cheered lustily.

“More than 200 anyone?” The senior screamed with delight. He was busy making plans with the profits for his own Valentine’s night at a special restaurant.

Laalmani was incensed by this sudden increase in stakes. Could he afford 200 Rupees? It was his gutkha allowance and bus money for a week. Just then he spotted Anamika’s pretty face in the crowd and to his sheer thrill, she happened to look in his direction. She happened to have a small smile on her face or at least he imagined it.  Laalmani did not need any further coaxing. It was a small sacrifice he told himself. He wouldn’t eat gutkha for a month and he would walk to college.

“300” he bellowed with pleasure.

The hall fell silent. An astronomical sum of 300 Rupees for that bouquet? Was Laalmani out of his mind?

The first year student fell silent. He could no longer muster the courage to go further. Laalmani looked around and expected applause. But the students just whispered among themselves. Then someone giggled and then some more giggles and then more, until the hall reverberated with laughter. Laalmani did not know if he should laugh or cry. He tried to be brave thinking of the bouquet he had won. He reminded himself that he had never won anything in his life.

The organizer was afraid of being beaten up by Laalmani and his cronies. Instead of joining the laughter of the crowd, he invited Laalmani to come up on stage to receive the bouquet.

“I now declare Mr Laalmani Sir the Valentine King”.

This wasn’t Laalmani’s first time on stage, He had broken up many functions with his rowdy behaviour in the past. But it was his first time being honoured. The epithet of Valentine King was his. It had come at a price but was worth it.

The crowd decided to humour him and were rapturous in their applause. Laalmani greedily grabbed the bouquet, a bit annoyed that he couldn’t smell the roses through the cellophane paper. He waved at the crowd as if he had won an Olympics gold medal.

“Sir who do you dedicate this bouquet to?” the organizer asked in feigned innocence.

There was only person he could think of.

“Anamika” he squeaked. And then finding his voice roared, “ANAMIKA”

“Who is Anamika?” the organizer asked the crowd. The crowd fell silent.

There was no one by that name. But the crowd knew who he was referring to.

“Can I request Anamika to come up on stage?” the organizer demanded.

Anamika did not have to go on stage. That was not even her real name. But she decided she must.

There was pin- drop silence as she walked slowly and purposefully up the steps. She looked at the crowd in the hall and then at Laalmani.

“I will accept the bouquet only on one condition” she announced.

“Yes sure” the organizer nodded, as Laalmani stood, tapping his feet, impatiently. The trophy was his and the bigger trophy was about to be his too. His cronies sat at the edge of their seats ready to break into a dance.

“I want you to sing a song for me- Jumma Chumma De De is my favourite” she said sweetly into the microphone. The crowd erupted with excitement and then fell quiet. All eyes and ears focused on Laalmani.

The chorus group of yaars sitting in the audience became dumb statues. The time for singing a solo number had come. They had to let him do it alone.

A sudden spasm erupted within Laalmani’s vocal chords which matched the sudden contraction of his bladder.The excitement of being Valentine King was too much. He stood mute, motionless and blank. All he saw was darkness explode in front of his eyes.

Check and mate.

First written for womensweb

21 Intrusive Questions One Woman Should Never Ask Another

Have you been at the receiving end of a question which has no answer? Have you been been stung by a question which is not a question but a statement in itself? Have you been asked a question so powerful that it has taken the wind out your lungs and almost choked you? Have you been hit so hard by a question, that you recoiled at how mere words can have the effect of a physical blow?

Of course we all have and I am not talking or a viva voce of a 12th standard exam where the examiner grills you about the laws of quantum physics or the anatomy of a frog brain.

This is the viva of day-to-day life, where we women interact with other women – women who are our ‘friends’, women who are acquaintances, women we meet socially or just random women who flit in and out of our lives, who just ask, ask , ask – without waiting for an answer, without wanting a response, without knowing us, without a thought.

Since we women speak mostly to other women and love to talk among other things, we ask a lot of questions – all playfully, unintentionally of course!

In an attempt to make small talk we women and men too, ask questions – as fillers, as conversation starters, as ice breakers … heart-breakers?

In 12th standard exams, we used to have a booklet called ’21 questions’- questions likely to be asked in the exams.

Here is my list of 21 questions women ask each other; questions that are questioning, investigating, probing, scrutinising. Questions that do not end with a question mark, but actually with a few exclamation marks. Questions that are statements. Questions that end in tears. Private tears!

Here is my list of 21 questions that one woman should not ask another.

“When is the good news?”
‘Good news’ as in “when are you getting married?” or ” When are you getting pregnant?” The most prying, inquisitive question of all. Is there an answer? I don’t know. A few days down the line, you recover from it and think of clever answers you could have given that woman who hurled it at you. Too late!

The ‘good news’ question is designed to make the toughest among us tongue-tied and speechless as we cower guiltily at our failure in delivering the ‘good news’. We glower in shame at not being able to give the ‘good news’ that is expected of us. Nope, that new job you started doesn’t count as ‘good news’, neither does that degree you acquired last year after months of hard toil.

“Have you put on weight?”
Why oh why does anyone need to know this? You may have put on a few milligrams or a few kilograms. How does it concern the questioner?

Wish you could counter this question with positive questions such as “Are you going to buy me a new wardrobe darling?” Or “Are you just admiring my new curves?” However, you squirm shamefully, hopelessly pulling in that tummy fat, pinching those love handles, sucking in the armpit fat as if that is possible and rue the last time you ate a gulab-jamun, swearing never to go near a dessert again.

The question haunts you as you struggle with your post-delivery hormones or menopause hormones or for that matter any womanly hormones that misbehave and no diet fads help either. The question destroys the self esteem that took a recent beating and just got back on track. Why couldn’t the questioner admire your well-filled out glowing cheeks and say you looked happy? Or just say nothing. You promise yourself to go running tomorrow, eat one chapati less and hope that Ms. Question Queen will be pleased with your weight loss. As if she is going to notice the 200 grams you have lost, but you will try. Oh yes you will. You will do what it takes….with tears in your eyes.

“Have you lost weight?”
Now surely this is a harmless question? Losing weight is great, isn’t it? We are all on that losing weight bandwagon. We all want to lose, lose, lose until we get into those impossibly stitched skinny jeans that make our thighs look like sausages and need scissors to take off . But that is another story!

So ‘Have you lost weight?” is a great question. Or is it? Hmmmm, why is it that this question is always asked to someone who is already slender and a little underweight anyway? Rubbing it in, tormenting- “haha you look thinner” is what it implies. Ask anyone who has problems gaining weight – believe it or not there are plenty of us grappling with weight issues on the other side of scale.

Putting on weight is not as easy as stuffing a samosa in the mouth. It takes years to pile on a few micrograms, but in those few seconds the questioner thinks nothing of it and rebukes you with a reminder of how thin you are, how imperfect, how inadequate.

Yup, you will go stuff yourself even if it makes you sick, you will gorge on ghee, wear a few extra layers, wear padding, maybe even go underground and hibernate… until the day you put on a few kilograms to appease Ms Perfect who is prowling around with a magnifying glass with a built-in weighing scale that weighs even the smallest of bacteria and advises them to put on more weight… aiming for perfection.

Is Ms. Perfect inviting you around to hers for breakfast, lunch or dinner, so she can feed you? Fat chance! Does it ever occur to Ms Perfect that there could be a medical reason for weight loss? If it does, you will get a free lecture on her hypothesis of the investigations,treatment, medication etc you should be on. Never mind that she has zero medical knowledge and even is she did, it matters little that it is unsolicited advice that she is freely and publicly doling out. Your medical history is up for public consumption, so get ready for being held up like an exhibit. This question makes you feel like a diseased liver specimen sitting in a formalin bottle in some smelly lab, watched in awe and disgust by medical students.

“Why are you looking tired?”
Another dreaded one. You just got ready, washed your hair, used new deo, fresh talcum powder. You put on that new dress. You make an effort. You step out for a breath of fresh air.You run into the lady in the lift. And then BOOM. “Why are you looking tired?” says one woman to another.

Whoah! Didn’t expect that! “Tired?” You ask. She clucks with glee in disapproval. “Yes, you have dark circles” Oops yes. You think of explanations, excuses, apologies. Your child’s viral fever last week – sleepless nights of worrying and placing damp cloths on a hot feverish forehead has obviously taken it’s toll. No, maybe it was that heavy period you had last month. Tired, tired, tired!

“Yes I look like a panda.” You try to joke weakly while Ms Question smirks and watches you crumble to pieces. Is she going to make you a cup of coffee to destress you? Is she going to give you a free massage coupon? Think not. Yet that one minute in the lift is all it took to make you dizzy and want to go back home, dark circles, under-eye bags in tow, while Ms Question exits the lift without looking back at you. By the way, does she even know your name?

“No brother? Only sisters?”
Whew! Who knew you would have pay for your parents’ inability to have that coveted male-offspring, 40 plus years after you were born? You feel sorry for your mother for the taunts she must have endured in her days and realise that the dinosaurs who taunted her are very much alive and kicking, asking those very same questions.

Ah! what a relief it must be to have a brother! Alas! you will never know what privileges it brings… But you do know the question, and the answer is usually is a simple yes. An apology for something that didn’t happen those many years ago. An admittance of what you missed in life, a life incomplete without a male sibling. (??!!)

“No son? Only daughter?”
This is similar to the above question except that this time you owe a better explanation for having no son. Are you able to provide an excuse? How could you stop at a daughter? Why didn’t you keep going until you produced a son?

You have to keep ‘trying’ whatever that means. Different positions? Certain days of the year more productive for male offspring, perhaps? A scientific discovery waiting to be made by you? Some magic potion that the begetters of sons know of and somehow you weren’t told of it?

And then what better way of reminding you that you have nobody in your old age to look after poor you and your husband, who obviously does not have anything to do with the male-female offspring equation!

“Has your daughter started her periods?”
Shocking! But true. Subtlety is extinct, manners were never there. Imagine being asked this question by educated women in a concerned tone, as if something terrible has happened – a calamity to be dealt with calm.

You think to yourself – how clever these women are. Diagnosing puberty just like that and then having the audacity to actually ask details. They would never ask if your daughter started algebra in school or if she plays badminton in the evenings. But then none of it is as interesting as starting periods, is it? You reel from the shock of that question and then a few days later, think of clever retorts. You plan revenge – you will ask about her daughter too, then admonish yourself for stooping so low. You plan vendetta- you will ask if her son has reached puberty… in a few years. That is revolting – you tell yourself. You sigh in resignation. Life has become an open book – whether you like it or not. If you don’t want questions, migrate to the moon, or to Mars.

“Why are you not wearing your mangalsutra or bindi or dupatta or whatever?”
Nothing puts you on the defensive like this one. Who ever thought that in this day and age, women younger than you could pull you up for not wearing the symbols of wedlock. You can understand older, traditional women asking those questions. But when modern women check you out and ask why your Indian outfit is not paired with a bindi, you wonder who makes these rules of what goes with what. I think of it as a decorative sticker not a symbol of anything. Anyone who wishes to wear it should and anyone who doesn’t, why should anyone care?

But hey, this question comes out of the blue, just when you are glowing from compliments of how pretty you look in a new salwar kameez, someone goes really green and spots that blank patch on your forehead and reminds you that you are incomplete. Point taken. Something is missing… Dot, dot dot, dot…

“Are you pregnant?”
Now this is different from the first question. This is when someone looks straight at your tummy before you have a chance to suck it in and fires that salvo. Hello, you want to say – Just think. I’ve had this tummy fat for at least two years or more. Is pregnancy the only thing a rotund tummy can be?

You swear to get rid of the tight T-shirt you are wearing and start wearing long tent-like baggy shirts. But you never know- Ms Question will still diagnose a pregnancy through and through it. You just cannot win. You have to live with the glory of being omni-pregnant for the rest of your life or at least until you figure out a way to avoid Ms Question and her X-ray eyes.

“Have you done planning?”
“Yes I have planned our next vacation”.
“No, no, ‘planning’”
“Yes, I have planned lunch-box menus for the whole week”.
“No, no ‘planning”‘.

Then you figure that ‘planning’ is planning the map of your life as in ‘planning’ your reproductive life. C’mon, how can you get this answer wrong? Planning is family planning and there is no hush-hush secret way to go about it. You need to reveal the micro details – pill or copper coil, tubes tied or something else. Other women have a right to know what your plans are and you can stop stammering and just get on with it matter-of-factly! Your gynaec history is up for scrutiny and there are several women out there who want the juicy details.

“You have made only ______ for dinner?”
Oh no, now the secret is out. You made Maggi for dinner and that will just not do. How can you? Aren’t you supposed to dish out four-course meals, year after year after year, through sickness and all? Didn’t you order a takeaway the other night? Is that what you are feeding your husband?

Oh, this question is loaded, demanding a full blown explanation and it better be good. Wait till they find out you buy ready-made chapatis and are too lazy to make your own dahi. You can almost hear the sniggers. Who cares if you juggle a family and career? Round, soft chapatis are a must, not the papads that you pass off as chapatis!

“Why are you not breastfeeding?”
Now, this is a really private activity not for public discussion. But some women love to play lactation counsellor and what better way than to make enquiries into whether you are breastfeeding or not?

Much as we would like to believe that breastfeeding is and can be done by all women, it remains a fact that there are medical reasons as to why some women just cannot even if they want to. But let other women get a whiff of the fact that you cannot breastfeed and you are in for some real bashing.

So instead of putting aside the trauma of not being able to breastfeed and looking at the alternatives, you force-feed yourself some milk-inducing fenugreek seeds, pull out the torturous contraption called breast pump in the vain hope of it extracting a few drops of dried breastmilk from your tired body and hope it shuts up the woman who questions your ability as a good mother to feed her baby. Several painful, fruitless attempts later, you go back to the powdered milk, dry your eyes and get back to nourishing your baby – all the while envying the women who have free flow milk in excess and secretly make plans to steal the bottles that they fill effortlessly every hour. So low does your spirit go when another of your ilk asks this question and actually wants to know the gory details of all that nature deprived you of!

“When are you taking another chance?”
“I am not into gambling, you know.”
“Arey ‘chance’ yaar.”

You still don’t understand.

Not one to give up, Ms Q persists with- “You know, ‘chance’ – when are you having another issue?”
“Issue with what?”
Ms Q gets to the point – “When are you giving the next good news?”
“Oh, but didn’t I give the good news 10 months ago?”
“Yes, but you have only one child and that too a daughter!”

If someone could monitor your blood pressure at this point, it has reached an epic high. Chances are the B.P. machine will explode as you work out this new ‘chance’ you must take in your life in the near future so that Ms Q and others like her are happy. The question is, is Ms. Q going to help you out with your pregnancy, delivery or in bringing up your ‘issue’? Not a chance.

“You are only a housewiiiiiiiiiiiiife?”
Said like a question, but a statement in itself. Implying that all you do all day long is sweat in the kitchen, pack tiffins, watch TV serials, gossip and sleep in the afternoon. A sad life indeed!

You try to defend yourself, you tell her it’s your choice, you tell her you enjoy it – Nope, you have to justify all those hours you are at home to this stranger you just met at a party who demands to know exactly what you’ve achieved by staying at home and wasting your time all these years. “Being a housewife is not a job, you know” – she is probably thinking and you just want to scream and tell her “Yes it is. It is a full-time, year round duty!”

Anyone who has a house has to keep it tidy and running for people to live in it. It is your job looking after your house and you work hard at keeping it the way it is. And you love it. Do you think Ms Q wants to know? She has made her statement and is now glazing over, gloating over her own ‘achievements’ while you figure why you gave up your paying 9 to 5 job to become a ‘housewife’ and be answerable to random ladies who are free to punch you with it from time to time. You swear to go home and start looking for part-time jobs even if it means going to the other end of town to do it.

“You don’t do dusting everyday?”
“Well, I have a shower everyday.”

Hmmmm…in the ‘good housewife manual’, it says ‘She’ must dust her house – shelves, corners, behind furniture, undersides of tables, between fan blades, on tops of cupboards – every single day. Oops, you’ve never known such places existed! Do you dare tell the questioning lady that you don’t bother dusting the vents of the air-conditioner, ever? That would be sacrilege – you would be banished from their club.

You want to tell them that a little dust is a good thing and even dust mites take time to adjust to new dusty surroundings before they do their nasty jobs. You hope they don’t find out that you didn’t change the bedsheets twice a week as they expect you to. So you just lie. “Yes, yes, I dust every day, even after the maid has done it – just to be sure that every evil speck of dust is removed. I have a spotless house”

(“Just warn me before you come home – in, fact tell me two days in advance and I will call the cleaning company before you inspect my house!”)

“What happened to your hair?”
This smacks you in the face and makes you want to pull your hair out, just that there isn’t much left of it.

It true, it’s sad. There is nothing like hair loss to make you feel down and out. When you see your precious hair go down the drain and that patch of untanned scalp starts showing through, you just want to hide from humanity.

Just when you shake off that fear, someone notices the thinning of your hair and BAM! ‘She’ wants to know what happened to your hair. You want the earth to swallow you up, you want to be reborn with a head full of hair, you start envying anyone with a thick mane of hair, even a hairy man, you look at girls with plaits the thickness of heavy-duty ropes and feel like cutting them off (Yes, it brings out the devil in you), you look at your hair on the floor and wonder if anyone tried making wigs with fallen hair, you feel like transplanting hair from your legs onto your head, you obsess about hair so much that you end up with more hair loss. More pain. That is what this question does…

“Are you going through menopause?”
Just when you thought you’d heard everything the cruel world had to say to you, this question starts hitting you in your 40s. You are sweating (it is a 40 degrees C summer, after all) and someone puts two and two together and makes it 40. Yes, these are hot flushes.

“Definitely”. They pronounce. “Are you going through menopause?” Without waiting for a response, they expertly pick that one symptom and the verdict is ‘menopause’. A gynaecologist would learn a thing or two from these ladies. “Your youth is over, lady”- that is the message and hope you are listening. Your pleas of “Oh but I have regular periods” or some such weak evidence is rubbished aside. Hot flushes it is. 40 equals middle age. Stop wearing those jeans and behave like an aunty at least now!

Finally, you resign to your fate. Bring on the menopause.

“Why isn’t your daughter married?”
It is nobody’s business asking you a private question such as this. Yet, how many times women ask this outright, demanding question to know the exact reasons? As if it is their right to ask as custodians of our perfect society which lays down the age at which a woman should be married, for she must be married at any cost.

Only a parent can feel the pain that such a question inflicts. Why? Why? Why? The world wants to know. Not because they can set it ‘right’ but because they want new fodder for gossip at a kitty party. A question such as this deserves no excuse, no apology, no explanation – no answer. It is nobody’s business. Period.

“Why is your child so thin?”
This ones makes you sad and angry at the same time. Sad because you try your best to fatten your child to reach the ‘ideal’ chubby body weight that society lays down as the gold standard of perfection. Never mind what the paediatrician says.

Ms Q throws a cursory glance at your child and pronounces her/him less than perfect. It is all your fault – you don’t cook right, feed right or do anything right. It is all your mother’s fault for not teaching you. You fume and froth at the mouth because this woman cannot see anything else in your child and compliment it. What is wrong with being thin anyway? You see, when it come to children, thin is unacceptable, fat, sorry ‘healthy’ is great. Touch wood! People like roly-poly kids. Now go force-feed your thin child…

“Hey, what have you got on your chin? HAIR?”
Ladies of a certain vintage will know exactly what I’m talking about. At a certain age, the hair on your head starts falling and as you wonder what happened to it (other than falling in the drain and on the floor), you realise that the naughty hormones decided to transplant this hair onto your chin! As if this whole process of chin hair sprouting by the dozens is not heart-wrenching enough, someone actually spots the hair and rubs it in with this nasty question.

Okay, you admit, it is there, it is only hair and it really hurts to have it threaded or plucked. But it really hurts even more when someone keeps looking at your chin as you as they talk to you and pops this question which is far from tongue-in-cheek!

“Why don’t you colour your hair?”
You don’t realise your roots are showing until someone shoots this at you. How did you forget that you are expected to be at your perfect best at all times? Grey roots showing are a no-no and flaunting them is blasphemy! You go on the back foot, start blabbering excuses – no time, couldn’t get the right shade, it’s not your fault, it is premature greying – defective genes, you know.

Too late- you’ve been caught out and even if you have a cold, you go buy some hair colour and slap it on those hideous roots.

Why oh why do women hurl these ‘harmless’ darts at other women? Do men ask women these questions? Doubt it.

Don’t we women belong to a sisterhood? Then why are such ‘harmless’ questions which have no answers floating around so freely and ‘innocently’?

 

 

First published on womensweb:

http://www.womensweb.in/2017/09/21-intrusive-questions-nosy-women-ask/

 

 

Why we must stop asking ‘When is the good news?’………….

“When is the good news?”

Every Indian woman, at some time, is probably asked this seemingly harmless question.

A casual question that is addressed to a woman, generally in public, within earshot of all present, and meant in all innocence. For those who don’t know, the “good news” is not an update of passing an examination, a new job or a promotion. No, nobody really wants that kind of information. For a woman, specifically an Indian woman, the “good news” can be only one of two options. Number one: When is the D-day, the wedding day? Number two: If you are married, when are you telling us that you are pregnant?

Yes, it’s true, “when is the good news?” is a loaded question.

Question one: When are you getting married?
Question number one starts being asked soon after a girl turns 18. Maybe even sooner. “ When is the good news?” is addressed to her family, and sometimes to her, and is a not-so-subtle way of prodding, hinting,and taunting to continuously remind that getting married is one of the 2 things in life that an Indian woman is expected to do, no matter what. It is a way of questioning the parents about their duty, admonishing them for slacking and not getting all worked up to get their daughter married off.

“ When is the good news?” is like an alarm that goes off at social gatherings at the sight of a girl who is of marriageable age.

What is one supposed to say to “ when is the good news?”?

Are you supposed to predict the date of your wedding when you haven’t met Mr. Right yet? Are you supposed to give them the low down and details of all the men you have seen in the typical arranged marriage scenario and why it hasn’t worked out yet? Or are you just supposed to squirm uncomfortably in embarrassment and let the painful expression on your face do all the talking? Are you supposed to accept the question as your failure in finding yourself a match in marriage? Or do you just develop a thick skin and ignore the question as just one of the many remarks that people make in ignorance and insensitivity?

Either way, there is no denying the fact that this supposedly good-natured enquiry starts making the rounds from well-meaning people once you cross a certain age. It comes from people who don’t know much about you (except that you are unmarried), from people you have just met, from distant relatives intending to have a little fun at your expense, and most ironically, it invariably comes from other women.

Yes, I am sorry, but it is women who make it their life’s duty to inflict this hurtful question, this upsetting query at other women. Women like aunts, married cousins, neighbours, women you have known for about 5 minutes of your life at some social gathering who think nothing of nudging, digging, punching you with this line. They do not want to know what you do for a living, what your hobbies are or what your opinions are. No.

It is almost like at that instant all that matters about your existence is whether you are married or not. It is like all the other things you have done in your life – your education, your achievements – don’t matter.
It is as if the only thing that really defines you is your ability to acquire a partner in marriage. In the utterance of the questioner, lies the insecurity that is behind such an enquiry. These few words sum up the thinking of the asker who is probably, smugly ‘married’. Happily or unhappily is not the question. But married, yes!

Yes, we know, men are subject to this to this question as well. But the same question “When is the good news?” has a different connotation for a man. It does have the same mocking tone, the teasing tenor or the biting sarcasm as it does for a woman. It does not question his masculinity, his worth, or the purpose of his existence.

Question Two: When are you getting pregnant?
Questions for “Good News – Number Two” start a few months after marriage.

Again, sadly, it is other women who make it their life’s mission to make sure that they taunt and haunt women who have not yet had a baby to get down to business. To prove her worth, to redeem her existence, to establish her femininity. Again, questions about how you are adjusting in your marriage are irrelevant and immaterial. What you are doing in other areas of your life is inconsequential. It is whether you can deliver the ‘good news’ or not. If you can, welcome to the club, if not, face the scoffing, the derision, and the ostracism.

“ When is the good news?” they ask.

Of course, expecting a baby is great news in a woman’s life. There is absolutely no denying that it is a wonderful, magical moment knowing that you are pregnant. However, all the events leading up to finding out about the pregnancy and declaring it are private moments; only for yourself, your partner and whoever you wish to involve in your life.

Then why do random women – even those who don’t even know your name to those who have never spoken more than two sentences with you – make it a point to hurl this question at you? Without a thought, and without a care.

Does it ever occur to them that they are asking the most intrusive, private question that a woman can ask another?
Or a man can ask another.If you wanted the world to know, they would find out, isn’t it? Then why do other women go out of their way to ask this question? In that one question they are questioning her fertility, her worth, and making it sound like her existence is only complete if she can pronounce the good news.

What is one supposed to answer to the question? Give the due date of the baby’s arrival? Tell them details about your fertility treatment? Cry about the fact that you have been trying for 5 years? Shock them with your ‘family planning’ details for the next 10 years? or just brush the question aside?

What answer do we expect when we ask the question ‘when is the good news?’? To an unmarried woman, however thick a hide she has acquired, there can be no answer she can give without feeling hurt and insulted. To a woman yet to bear a child, however well she is doing in life, however happily married, the question is always going to make her feel inadequate as it is meant to be.

So, please ladies [and gents], the next time you want to ask someone that question, spare a moment to think. Before you innocuously blurt out “So, when is the good news? ” just like ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’- just pause to consider that you could be unknowingly saying it to someone who is in silent pain from a break-up or a miscarriage.

First wrote this for Womensweb
http://www.womensweb.in/2014/12/marriage-and-pregnancy/

EATING SOLO- WHAT STOPS WOMEN FROM DOING IT?

EATING SOLO- what stops women from doing it?

I love food and one of the things I absolutely love doing is sitting in a public place- a café or an eatery, munching on my food leisurely and watch the world go by. I do not always find company- either my husband or my friends are not available or I just find myself in a place where I don’t know people and need to grab a bite. So I just go solo, find a table, get myself something to eat and enjoy my own company happily- ruminating, alone with my thoughts or simply enjoying the food and looking around, taking in the sights.
This sounds idyllic, but it is hasn’t always been this way and even now, it isn’t always this easy.
Eating out alone in a public space was not something I could do this effortlessly.
In fact, through my college days, although I travelled alone, lived in a hostel and was fiercely independent, I do not remember a single instance of sitting alone in a canteen and having a meal or even a tumbler of tea on my own. As a girl, there was safety and comfort in numbers. Had I been a boy, would I have been bothered about something as simple as sitting and sipping a beverage alone? Would anyone have given me a second look, had I been a solitary male sitting for hours in the college canteen, enjoying a full meal wholeheartedly in a relaxed manner?
But there is just something about being a girl that did not even allow me to consider the thought of doing something like this.
What would people think? Would they think I was waiting for someone, when I wasn’t? Would they make fun of me? Would I get ‘eve teased’? Would someone come and approach me or sit down next to me? Eating solo was simply unthinkable. If one was hungry, one just waited for friends or if desperate, bought something easy to eat and gobbled it on the go or in a ‘safe’ place away from glaring eyes and judgemental faces. This was going back 20 years and when I lived in India.
On moving to the UK, in my early days I found myself in desperate need of a cup of warm beverage to stave off the cold. Entering a doughnut shop I began to harbour ‘bold’ thoughts of sitting inside the cozy café by myself to enjoy a cup of coffee and a doughnut.
So far I had not encountered any ‘eve teasing’ in the UK and hence my bold stance. I still remember being absolutely petrified and thinking all eyes were on me. I was the only Indian face in the place and felt terribly conscious of doing something as basic as feeding myself. With all my bravery, I ordered an exotic coffee that I had never tried before and willed myself to sit down. No one looked and no one really cared, but I was so uncomfortable with what I was doing that I just gulped down the scathing hot coffee, wrapped up the doughnut in a paper napkin to be eaten later and hurried out as fast as I could.
A few such experiences and I got bolder and bolder- trying out new places, sitting sometimes in pavement cafes and more crowded places. Perhaps it was because I knew that there was no threat of eve teasing. Perhaps it was because it is considered normal in western society for a woman to be eating alone- it helped me shed my phobia of eating alone in a public place.
It can still be hard sometimes- I do have to clutch on to my mobile phone and pretend to be busy. I do sometimes have to avoid looking around in case someone gets the wrong message, when all I am doing is casually admiring the décor, how people are dressed, what they are eating, wondering when my order is coming and so on. Some women I’ve seen eating alone, use a book or newspaper as companion and that makes it easy to avoid looking at people and simply look busy. Some just resort to mindless texting or games on their cellphones.
Would a man need any of these aids to eat alone? Why does a women feel the need to have a comforting accessory when all she wants is to enjoy the food and view? Like a man would do…….
Eating alone as a woman can be a challenge anywhere in the world as I recently discovered. Sitting in a fast food restaurant in Singapore on my own I found to my horror a man sitting across from me pointing his camera phone in my direction and taking pictures! I wish I had confronted him but instead chose the easy option which was to wolf my food down with a downward gaze and rush out speedily.
On another recent occasion, I was on my own in Malaysia and ordered a fruit juice at a restaurant that had a bar too. I could just feel the eyes of the male waiters on me as I sipped the drink. Was it because I was a woman? Was it because I was an Indian woman sitting alone in a restaurant? I just felt very cautious and the need to be alert. It just goes to show that as a woman wherever in the world you go it can be hard to fully relax and dine or drink alone the way a man would do.
One day I wish to eat alone in a public space in India. One day I wish I can unabashedly and uninhibitedly dig into a dosa and slurp a masala chai on my own anywhere in India. Not because I won’t find company because purely because I have not done it before. Without fear of being judged, without embarrassment, minus guilt and without being pressured to pretend that I am waiting for someone.
One day, I wish I can eat alone anywhere in the world the way a man can- without gulping, without swallowing large bites and without causing myself heartburn or indigestion. One day I wish I don’t have to think twice before indulging in this solitary pleasure of dining alone because I am a woman. Eating solo is just one of the many male bastions that needs to be stormed before I think I have become free of the shackles that come with being a woman.

FIRST PUBLISHED IN WOMENSWEB