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/

 

 

PEER PRESSURE OF THE HANDBAG KIND

This article was first published in Womens Web.

Let us start with the basics: what is a handbag for? For me, a handbag has always been a practical carrier of my ‘stuff’.

Much as I pride myself on being a multi-tasker as I am expected to be, being a female, I cannot possibly carry multiple assorted items in my invisible multiple hands. That is where a handbag comes in, the one accessory I must carry at all times for possessions that need to be protected, objects of value like my money purse, for bits and pieces that I need through the day, for girlie gear that needs to be under wraps, for kiddie paraphernalia that needs to be lugged around and so on.

As long as a bag has plenty of pockets, inside out, a good quality zip and a sturdy strap, I am sold. That it is attractive, is a bonus, of course.

Thinking along these very logical lines, I have outlived several handbags in my lifetime. I mean, a handbag is an object after all and has a shelf life. Some bags survived longer than others, some were prettier than others. One fell victim to a pickpocket, a few yielded to zip malfunction, others managed to endure several years but eventually succumbed to wear and tear. Some refusing to wither away, were forced into retirement and now lie in the back of my closet.

Then of course, there were the impulsive buys; the ones where practicality took a back seat and I allowed the current trends to sway me into buying the latest offering in handbag fashion. Again, some of these fashionable bags lasted a few days as straps snapped, zips jammed and clasps loosened.

For some inexplicable reason some lasted months if not years. A lot depended on how I used them. If I used them lovingly, only pulling them out for special occasions, they lasted longer. If I used them everyday, lugged them along to work, stuffed groceries, toys, food into them, and plonked them about roughly they did not last long. But then again I had some handbags which defied logic. They could be the most inexpensively priced ones I bought off street stalls, the ones I practically lived in, the ones I never cared much for and yet they carried on and persisted, threatening to outlive me!

That is how it has always been over the years. When a handbag gets worn out or I have used it for too long and I’m tired of it, I go out to buy a new one. That’s it. The overriding thought is that it has to satisfy the criteria of being functionally efficient and it goes without saying that it must be reasonably priced.

Then a few years ago, a strange thing happened to me. I began to feel peer pressure of the handbag kind. Yes, something was happening around me and it was beginning to affect me. It wasn’t just pressure – it was temptation and an inexplicable mysterious curiosity. That a handbag could kindle these feelings in me was a revelation in itself.

In case you cannot fathom what I’m talking about, it is the somewhat recent trend of handbags that one has to be seen with. The glossy fashion magazines that I often browse through to amuse and put me to sleep, tell me that these handbags are a ‘must have’ in my wardrobe. Do I have the ‘It’ bag of the season? No? It is the bag that is photographed in enticingly close up detail, the bag that does not have a price disclosed or a price that is ‘available on request’, which is basically saying that the price runs into several thousand rupees.

I see these bags staring at me from the pages of these magazines, their buckles gleaming alluringly, luxurious looking material beckoning, the polished logo screaming for attention. But then, these very glossy pages also authoritatively tell me that I need to paint my eyelids a bright canary yellow this season. It is easy to brush aside suggestions that would make me look jaundiced this season, but it is not so easy to resist the lure of the ostentatious handbags on display.

It is easy to brush aside suggestions that would make me look jaundiced this season, but it is not so easy to resist the lure of the ostentatious handbags on display.
That is when peer pressure came into my life. Never did I think that in my forties, I would have to fight inwardly against pressure that had to with something as mundane and humdrum as a handbag. Yes, a few years ago, it so happened that I found myself meeting new women, new acquaintances in a new social circle, who I was compelled to mingle with due to a change in life circumstances. They were lovely women, friendly women, but from a different background, living a lifestyle that I had no exposure to.

I am not ashamed to admit that I was in awe of them; actually not of them, but of what they wore, to be specific. Here they were flaunting the very bags, shoes and sunglasses that I saw in those glossy magazines. I never thought that real women actually bought the bags that were shown in these magazines, but here was a full scale display of the latest ’It’ bags, a full blown parade of the trendiest footwear on perfectly pedicured feet and a competition of various logos on unabashed show.

I hid my own modest handbag just as I tried to conceal the chipped nail polish on my toes. Here were these women, casually carrying around several dollars worth of bags, toting them about, changing them often, replacing them with newer bags of the new season. Sometimes, a bag would be left open unconcernedly to reveal the inner lining to all, so that one was left in no doubt about it being the ‘designer’ brand that it was. One could tell from the checkered or monogrammed lining what brand it was. Soon I could recognize the ‘brands’ and sometimes I did not have to guess at all. The shining logo said it all, the glitzy initials pronounced it all, the emblazoned symbol asserted it all- above all, these icons screamed out the price tag, loudly.

A bag to flaunt, a bag that wouldn’t just carry my belongings , but one that would carry my self esteem to new highs.
It was this pressure to blend in with the new crowd that had me seriously thinking of going out and buying a ‘designer’ bag. A bag to flaunt, a bag that wouldn’t just carry my belongings , but one that would carry my self esteem to new highs. A bag that wouldn’t just be an accessory, but one that would accord me a status. Yes, now I understand, I wanted a status symbol. A certain something to proclaim that I had ‘arrived’! So that I could be part of this group of women.

So after a huge debate with myself, a brief discussion with my husband who agreed to go along with what made me happy, I set about buying for myself a bag. A bag to make me happy. Yes, it would make a huge dent in our collective pockets but I was ready for this.

I stood outside the designer store, strong-willed and ready to make the purchase of my lifetime. As I looked inside the glamorous store, I saw expensively dressed women being shown various equally glamorous handbags by gloved, haughty looking, expensively dressed shop assistants. The way they were handling the bags, one would think they were handling gold or diamond jewellery or platinum. I don’t think they were bargaining, but I think they were discussing the luxury features of the bag. By the way, even the window displays did not have any prices displayed on the bags.

Call it my middle class upbringing, call it my practical mind taking over or call me old or just plain miserly, I am proud to report that I did not even step inside the store.

At that moment, nothing or nobody could have convinced me that I needed that bag. Yes, I had wanted it, but did I need it? No. At that price, I began to calculate the other things I could buy. The result was shocking. At the price of such a handbag, I could feed an entire village in India for a month or more. At that price, I could fund a child’s education including my own. At that price, I could arrange an operation for someone who desperately needed it. Above everything, at that moment outside that shop, I thought of the sweat and toil that my husband and me had put in to make that money. Was it worth just a bag?

Why was I so desperate to buy something that was ‘arm candy’, but would cost an arm and a leg?

Why did I want to hang a bag on my elbow so that I could wear my status on my sleeve?

It was a proud moment to do a full U-turn at the door of the store and never ever think of buying a bag that shook the shackles of the earth for me.

It made me really think of myself and how I want to appear to people and also about what makes me happy. Call me old fashioned, but I know that if I’d bought the ‘It’ bag, I would feel guilty forever, I honestly would. I still haven’t heard a convincing enough argument that would make me buy a bag that costs the earth.

People say the quality is impeccable, the luxury factor is something else. Well, perhaps they are right, the bag will last forever. But do I want to lug the same bag forever? Besides any object when used will show wear and tear, so in theory, can it really last forever? Yes some of the bags come with a glamorous looking lock. But you could still get burgled for the bag itself, wouldn’t you? My argument is that the cost of the ‘It’ bag is always going to be more than the actual contents of my bag. Also I have a question: if do buy this kind of bag, am I allowed to wear ordinary shoes, clothes and watch with it? Is that allowed? Maybe I need to refer to my magazines again.

I think I’m going to be the practical person that I am with a little bling thrown in for some fun.
I think I’m going to be the practical person that I am with a little bling thrown in for some fun. Fashion and trends are all very well, but not at the cost of my peace of mind.

So, no logos, designer brands, signs, crests, monograms or symbols for me. I certainly don’t need any emblems of status to add to my personality. It’s enough if I have an invisible stamp of ‘VJ’ on myself, my clothes and my accessories. I

LIFE IN A HOSTEL: FOOD ON A BUDGET

Living in a hostel was all about being on a budget. Of spending within limits, of finding the cheap shops, eating joints and bargain shopping. Our favourite eating places were the restaurants around the hostel. Eat-all-you-can ones were high on the list. These are some of our much-loved hangouts, in no particular order:

• SHIVALA : That I actually remembered this name is testimony to the fact that this Udipi restaurant was very popular amongst us. It had all our favourite South Indian delights plus fruit juices of all kinds including Ganga- Yamuna [orange and mosambi combination]. We never wasted anything and had absolutely no qualms about sharing from one plate, tearing and sharing a common dosa, sipping from a communal glass and finishing off each other’s leftovers!
• WAIKIKI: When we craved Chinese food [which was often], this was where we headed. In the rainy season, watching the rain and sipping hot sweet corn chicken soup with plenty of soy sauce was simply divine. One day, the guy charged us extra because we had helped ourselves to too much soy sauce. They also had Parsi specialities of all kinds. How can I forget the Frankies- to die for especially the mutton one.
• KAMATS: This was just next-door and our veggie friends went there while we went to Waikiki. A hot favourite was their tomato omlette- a besan pancake with tomatoes! Oh and their cold coffee with ice cream and their thali. The list goes on……….
• MONGINIS : to grab a quick slice of cake or a humungous black forest pastry, this was our dessert place. So also was the ‘halwai’ in Bora bazaar…. cannot remember the name.
• BHAT THALI: this was the eat-all you–can, unlimited thali place. For the princely sum of Rs 30, you could eat all you could stuff and scoff, without bursting. Rajasthani/ Gujarati food- a full thali experience, with waiters who came in rotation murmuring ‘ Rotla’, ‘Rotla’, Rotla’ or something similar. We starved ourselves before coming here, not just to keep the stomach empty, but also to save up for the Rs 30. Yet we always felt we could not do full justice to the price we paid for it. Rs 30 was a big deal back then.
• CANON PAV BHAJI: As we ‘xeroxed’ our copious notes, a favourite pastime was devouring the  spicy pav bhaji, eating it standing at the counters by the roadside, watching Mumbaikars passing by.
• TOASTED SANDWICHES: OOOOOh! How good can a sandwich be? Well, you have to eat this one to know. Fresh bread slathered with butter, green chutney, tomatoes, boiled potatoes all toasted and then generously lavished with a special white butter of some sort and more of the green chutney…..all from a roadside vendor with a makeshift setup, opposite VT.Blissful! and definitely competing with the Canon Pav bhaji.
• ST GEORGE”S MESS: This was for food better than our hostel canteen. The dal fry and special dal fry [with a huge dollop of butter floating on top] with hot chapatis within the ambience of the hospital [past stretchers, police ‘mamas’ in the Emergency department] was a special outing.If I remember correctly they even had 2 gulab jamuns with their special thali!

• AAREY MILK COLONY COUNTER: This was the place to have ice cold flavoured milk from little glass bottles. A must for last minute top up of nutrients just before exam time, it was a pleasure standing at the wooden kiosk and slurping away watching the activities around the VT area.
• VT CANTEEN: A late discovery. It was the place where tea was served in a silver tea set  with a touch of the British Raj days.

There were some places that we always wished to go to. Alas, one place has remained an unfulfilled dream. Bade Miya kebabs: how we longed to go there. But often told that it wasn’t a place for unescorted females like us, this remained out of bounds. Some places were out of question as they were out of our budget. But when we started internship and got our first pay, it was time to pay a visit to Gaylord’s –the place to be. Feeling rich with Rs 1200 in the pocket, we decided to treat ourselves to dessert at Gaylord’s, near Marine Drive. We sat outdoors as apparently there was an extra charge to sit indoors. One friend ordered an ice-cream costing all of Rs 40 which was the most expensive on the menu and when it came it was a tiny bowl of the sweet stuff which she ate relishing every mouthful. Of course there were plenty of other little foodie delights – eating toasted bhutta [corn on the cob] and chana jor garam at Marine drive, masala peanuts from the newspaper cone, chaat at Chowpaty, missal from the college canteen, tea from a glass tumbler in the canteen…………Of course we ogled at the nocturnal stalls that cropped up in the lane leading from VT. The pavbhaji vendor hacking away at his bhaji and reducing it to a pulp, the egg bhurji wala slashing away with his metal spatula and making that clanging sound on his tawa inviting us to sample his wares. These were definitely out of range even for our seasoned immune systems. Eating on a budget had a charm of its own. It was being together with the group of friends, talking and sharing over food that we loved. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t exactly gourmet food, but for me it will always be one of my favourite things and a cherished memory.

LIFE IN A HOSTEL : PART II

Life is about moments and memories. Celebrations in a hostel are the most unique and unforgettable of life’s moments. I have skipped straight to these because these were some of the most exhilarating experiences in life and nothing can recreate them.

Birthdays in the hostel were events in more ways than one. Especially in the early years. If Enid Blyton captured the essence of boarding school through St Claire’s and Malory Towers, hostel life was all about living those kinds of dreams.

A birthday was always celebrated at midnight. Bleary-eyed friends trudged up to your room and woke you up just before the clock struck 12 and Voila! There was a cake complete with bright, iced flowers in multicolour, candles to blow out and strains of ‘Happy Birthday to you’ reverberating through the corridors. Birthday bumps were followed by the most boisterous and enthusiastic singing, with overturned buckets doubling up as drums. The rest of the hostel slept soundly like nothing was going on!

Holi in the hostel was like no other. Coloured water entered the rooms and filled the corridors. Buckets of water were splashed all over the walls and there was total mayhem.

Dahi- handi and Ganpati processions were celebrated outdoors by boys and men dancing and having a good time. But for the girls it meant being indoors and watching enviously through the windows. Dancing to the loud, upbeat music on the streets was definitely a male bastion. But the music was such that the girls always wished they could dance to it. It was invigorating and energetic with a beat that invited you to get up and do a jig. Finally one year, it got a bit much for some girls in the hostel, who could not contain their longing to let their hair down. So when the music played, these spirited girls just gave vent to their heart’s desire. In the landing between two flights of stairs, they danced as the deafening music outside got louder and more frenetic. We cheered, clapped, whistled [another male territory] and laughed hysterically as we gathered around them and egged them on. Tying dupattas on their heads as bandanas they looked like boys themselves and never have I seen such passionate ‘tapori’ dancing or such dance steps!

There was no dearth of entertainment in the hostel. There was only one television set in one room in the entire hostel. The common room had one but one had to make special efforts to go down to see it. No mobiles of course. Some radios. But what we lacked in electronic devices we made up for in more ways than one. Talking over a cup of chai was one. We could talk endlessly, gossip tirelessly, share jokes mindlessly and laugh uninhibitedly. Sitting on our cozy beds in our comfy gowns there was nothing as pleasurable at the end of a tiring day at college. There was a kind of sisterhood that slowly developed between us that just cannot happen when one does not live in a hostel. There was a comfort level that you usually felt only with family members and that steadily increased as the years rolled by. A lifetime bond formed uniting to memories of shared experiences……………………….

WHY IS THERE NO ‘MEN’S DAY’?

Try finding ‘Eve teasing’ in the dictionary. Growing up as a female in India, it is a terrifying familiarity ingrained in one’s mind.A derogatory term associated with disrespect and contempt for women.The Oxford English dictionary states ‘Eve teasing ‘ as being a term having its origin in India!

Wikipedia states the meaning of ‘eve teasing’ as a euphemism used in India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bhutan for public sexual harassment or molestation of women by men.

Isn’t it shocking that this term which is so familiar to us in India is only limited to a few countries and unheard of in other countries?

From an early age, every Indian woman learns to be on guard and on high alert to this menace.

Whistles, rude remarks, obscene gestures, lewd songs, touching, pinching, groping in crowded places .If you are a female in India, you have seen or experienced this countless times.

It is not just the ‘roadside Romeo’ or the vagrant ‘mavali ‘ sitting aimlessly by the side of the road who indulges in this activity.

I have seen and experienced on innumerable occasions, seemingly normal college going youngsters give vent to their frustrations by participating in this loathsome misdemeanor. Usually in groups or in pairs! Rarely alone!

Safety in numbers, perhaps!

Herds of boys or men huddled together who start whispering and hissing out profanities at the sight of a woman. All too common. Almost accepted practice!

I know of a certain lecturer in my college who brazenly used lecherous signals and made indecent noises to the women’s compartment of the local train opposite to his! Not once, but often. Unabashedly, in full view of the girls from our college.

So, what is it that gives an Indian man the preposterous idea that he can impose on a woman and her dignity? What makes him think that it is his birthright to inflict his absurd beliefs of romance on a woman? What gives him pleasure in joining in such a revolting act?

I used to think that wearing western clothes like skirts and jeans was an invitation to be harassed. No, not even the most conservative, loose salwar kameez clad woman is spared. Whether one is young or old, single or not, pretty or plain, rich or poor, if you are an Indian woman in India, you have seen it all.

What makes a monster out of some Indian men when in certain situations?

Do they behave in the same manner when they are with their family? Do they behave similarly on foreign soil?

Can we blame our society for this? Is it not our society which places women inferior to men? Telling us time and again that women have a lower status on the social ladder.

Or shall we blame our Bollywood films where the hero, a demi-god, boldly and shamelessly pursues an initially reluctant heroine relentlessly .He teases her, stalks her and serenades her with explicit lyrics until she finally gives in. Numerous films have been based entirely on this theme, glorifying it and glamourizing it.

All in good fun they say.

Well, ask any woman who has been at the receiving end of catcalls, hoots, whistles, jeering comments, humiliating songs and she will tell you that a person who does this is not a hero by any stroke of imagination.

A coward, yes!

Some Indian men use a convenient excuse. It’s all a pastime, a form of entertainment. Didn’t some of our gods in mythology indulge in flirtatious playfulness with their women?

Well, yes. But this is real life. If you have to emulate the gods why not their virtuous deeds.

Our mythology and legends deify women, worship women as ‘devis’. Why is this not remembered?

Is ‘eve teasing’ a sign of pent up frustrations and a repressive society where boys and girls, men and women, do not socialize freely? Perhaps, it’s the hormones playing up. Maybe.

But justification for this offence, absolutely not!

The 8th of March is celebrated as Women’s day all around the world.

So, like every year we see plenty of programmes to improve the lot of women, empowering women and other such clichés.

But is anything going to change as far as the ‘eve teasing’ scene is concerned. I doubt it.

Why do we women need alteration, improvement, upgrading and change?

Social media has come up with a day to celebrate just about everything.

Why is there no ‘Men’s day’?

It’s time we had one. To celebrate the men who respect women,

who have the maturity to accept a woman’s right to her dignity, her right to accept or decline, her freedom to dress and travel as she desires, her right to live without fear of being derided and degraded all because she is a woman.

And, of course, we need to use ‘Men’s day’ for those men who need to be educated, advised, counselled, cautioned, reprimanded, admonished or thrashed as required.

It’s not an easy task. But to all those Indian men out there who have or will involve themselves in this hideous misdeed, I advise that the next time they feel the urge to

prove their masculinity in this way, they should think twice.

Why not use all that surging testosterone to do something productive? Go win a medal for India in the Olympics. Take on some one in a fair fight in full public view.

Why not use all your energy to pick up a broom and clean your street.

You will win adulation and the love of many a woman’s heart.

If you have so much pent up frustration and anger, why not turn it into something positive? Go join the armed forces, the police, defend the country, show your courage and you will win the praise and respect of the entire nation.

There are many ways to show you are macho. Flexing your muscles is fine, but assert your virility by revering women, proclaim your manliness by valuing women.

As any woman will tell you, the most attractive part of a man’s body is his brain.

Daily Prompt : Work? Optional………………. LADY OF LEISURE [LOL]

LADY OF LEISURE
Well, what is work? To different people, ‘work’ has a different meaning.
Ask a physicist and he or she will tell you that work is the displacement of the point of application in the direction of the force. In English, this means if something is made to move from one place to another with a force, that is work. So in theory, if you lifted a suitcase off a floor, that is work.
Ask a housewife and she will tell you that work is what she does in the house all day long, year round, cooking, cleaning, looking after the family.
Ask her housewife neighbour and she would not call this ‘ work’ but just her duty. Ask another housewife and she would not call this work but a ‘labour of love’
Ask their husbands and they may or may not call their wives’ efforts ‘work’!
Ask a critic and work to him/ her is to find fault with others’ work.
Yes, WORK means different things.
But ‘work’ loosely means anything you do for a living or essentially to make money to fill your stomach, to have a roof over your head and protect yourself from the forces of nature.
So if money were not in the picture, if money grew on trees, what would I do? It’s hard to imagine that because I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth.
But if I were a Lady of Leisure, what would I do?
To work or not to work is the question.
Would I do anything at all? Would I lift a finger? [That by the way, would be ‘work’ as per physics’] or would I just lounge around doing nothing?
Say, if I ‘worked’ out in the gym, would that be work?
If I ‘worked’ my new designer dress at a rocking party, would that be work?
If I worked at being glamourous and fashionable, would that mean I work?
No? You are right. All play and no real ‘work’ would make me a dull person.
So,Yes! I would work those brain cells [though it wouldn’t be ‘work’ in physics]. I would try to work out what works for me. And once I’ve found the answer, I would definitely work in the real sense, whatever that is. As I said ‘work’ for everyone means something different, but we all probably agree that an empty mind is a devil’s ‘work’shop and I certainly wouldn’t want my cranial ‘work’space to be that.

GREY MATTER

                                                           GREY MATTER   ‘Hair Dye’: Two words that to me have signified a mask of sorts. A cover up, a pretence, a need to stop the inevitable. An urge to appear what one is not. A fight against nature! An unnatural defiance to halt what is meant to be! I have always had a few grey hair since my early twenties and every time I saw these little silvery shiny strands in my thick black mane of hair, I would deftly snip them to the ground, cut them to their roots and keep hacking at the tiny stumps that grew back as stubborn spikes. Over the years, the whites grew in numbers until it was hard to keep up with their growth. I mean how much grey hair can you keep cutting down. Especially the ones at the back. Eventually, I accepted the grisly fact that hair ‘dye’ was the answer. Everyone was doing it and it wasn’t even called dye anymore. Hair colour it is………..which sounds so much more glamorous, fun and most of all YOUNG! And, it comes in virtually all the colours of the rainbow. I was spoilt for choice. Do I choose a chocolate, walnut, mocha, cinnamon or chestnut brown? Sounds like a coffee shop menu! Perhaps, I should spice up my life and go in for a honey copper or a deep plum or soft cherry? Or should I up the ante and opt for a little more adventure with flaming henna red or a hot mahogany? What goes with my personality? Am I a demure dark coffee or a vivacious burgundy? What goes with my Indian skin tone? Is blonde and platinum out of bounds? ‘Midnight blue’ sounds exciting too. No, too outrageous! How about highlights and lowlights? That would mean going to a salon. I was going to do it at home. After much deliberation, I decided that I would stay safe and stick to something that matched my own hair colour or what it used to be. But mind you, no jet black for me. That was how the ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles ‘in my childhood dyed their hair. So unnaturally blazing black, that one could spot a hair dye job from yards away. So natural darkest brown it was for me. Safe, not boring! Conservative, not orthodox! Month after month, year after year it became a routine. The gloves, the brushes, the mess in the bathroom, the stray stain on my ears, and of course the disgusting odour of ammonia and peroxide for a few days and nights afterwards. But it was worth the trouble. All the greys were swiftly coloured as soon as they poked their way out of their follicles. Concealed from view and wiped away from my memory. As soon as they raised their ugly grey heads above ground, I painted away their existence. This would continue if it wasn’t for the time I was compelled to stop colouring my tresses, a few months ago. Yes, I stopped. I did the unthinkable. I went au naturale; I paused for a break. I gave my hair the chance to emerge out of its synthetic refuge. In its full crowning glory, just as nature intended it to be! It must have been a shock for people to see me without my disguise. To me, it was just I, the person without any embellishment. Me, minus any pretence. Me, with all my imperfections on show, no holds barred. To my own surprise, there was no shame, no embarrassment. In fact, it was a relief at not having to constantly hide what is very much a part of my personality. Perhaps it’s part of growing up, not just growing older. Of getting wiser not just being clever. Here I am in all my splendour displaying my light and dark locks, without a care in the world about what others think of me. It’s amazing to see how comfortable I am in my own skin or should I say with own hair! Perhaps, the best hair colour for me is ‘sensuous salt and pepper’. I’ll save the ‘midnight blue’ for another day!