A-Musing

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Image courtesy - Hinduphobe Purba Ray

With the advent of the great leader who can do no wrong but is always wronged, India’s timeline can now be divided into BAD (before acche din) days and SAD (super achhe din) days. During BAD days being a patriot was like being a blogger. Anybody could be one as long as you were Indian. It helped if you loved almost all things Indian, swore by Bollywood, supported the Indian cricket team by heckling Pakistani cricketers on field, looked for Indian restaurants (usually called Taj Mahal) when on a foreign trip and not complain when you ended up with diarrhoea the next day. Since we were governed by a corrupt dynasty, it was perfectly okay to fret about the country’s future which seemed to be wandering aimlessly like a cow in the city. We’d often critique the lawmakers who’d break laws with impunity and crack a few jokes at their expense even if it meant going to jail.

Despite all misgivings, candle marches and angry Facebook posts against all that we felt was wrong with our country, we could take her love for granted. It was a ‘tedha hai paar mera hai’ kind of love.

Not anymore. Now that our great leader has banished all evil with a flick of his finger and even taken selfies while doing it, we are living the SAD days. This is the golden era where everyone’s tolerant towards each other and their beliefs, debate is actively encouraged and we can express what we feel without getting lynched by trolls online. Yet, there’s a section of ungrateful citizens who think otherwise. They create controversies by finding faults in our faultless leaders, return awards that nobody’s heard of and write scathing articles questioning our elected, to spread dissent.

This cannot be tolerated, especially by proud Indians.

So, they have decided to take matter into their own capable hands and made patriotism the new Maggi. Like Maggi, patriotism has to pass stringent quality tests, but can still be declared suspect at the slightest slight that can be imagined as insulting to Mata B. The MSG is clear, Mata’s affection cannot be taken for granted. It now comes with terms and conditions. We have to prove our love again and again to not one but a rising number of hyper-nationalists who are crawling out like termites from woodwork.

Mata is now behaving like a bombshell who demands unquestioning devotion while you place her on the pedestal and worship her. Like any complete package, if you adore her, it is your duty to pay obeisance to her Daddies in saffron and her many pets who spend an awful lot of time barking. Dare you have reservations against her many Daddies, you are obviously a moronic Hinduphobe traitor.

Beam them to Pakistan, Scottie! Or is it Satyaveer now?

When it comes to expressing their heartfelt emotions, Mata enthusiasts are constantly breaking new ground. After all, how can the nation accept you if are not shouting from the rooftops, mouthing over the top declarations that border on jingoism, thumping your chest wildly and refusing to accept any point of view but yours? There can be no room for moderation. You can either be her ‘righteous’ defender, else you are an anti-national. It’s either BMKJ (Bharat Mata Ki Jai) or Off With Your Head. Ouch!

What’s more, you may be an anti-national and not be even aware of it. To add to your woes, there’s no compilation of anti-national activities in one helpful list that dutiful citizens can consult from time to time. The list keeps growing like Modi jee’s travel itinerary and any proud Indian is free to add their favourite activity to it. One day it’s being a secular, free-thinking, pseudo intellectual and the next day it’s Dalit students, Left intellectuals, human rights activists and before you can say hey Ram, its’ beef eating, anti-nuclear activists, non-haters of Pakistan. Phew! Why, just the other day doctors prescribing non ayurvedic medicine were declared anti-nationals by AYUSH minister Shripad Yesso Naik!

Interestingly, these missives come with riders. Eating cornflakes and noodles is anti-national until it is from Patanjali, a 100% patriotic business empire. Having sex is against our culture but not if you’re following Sakshi Maharaj’s directive and copulating for the purpose for reproducing a minimum of 4 Hindu babies. If the baby threatens to be a girl, Baba Ramdev’s herbs will make a penis grow magically. If the baby boy shows unhealthy interest in other baby boys, Baba Ramdev’s asanas will tie him up in knots till he begs for forgiveness. Your bank will strip you of all your belongings and send goons to your house if you fail to repay your modest loans on time. But you are allowed to strip the bank of all its funds with humongous loans if you have the right connections. Appropriating public funds for personal gain is an acceptable patriotic activity as long as the high priests of Mata B turn a blind eye.

Even as I am writing this blasphemous article, three more activities have just been added and you are not even aware of it. Distressing isn’t it, trying so hard to be a true patriot and failing again and again. It’s just like sitting for CA exams! Don’t we all want to be part of the PELT (Patriotic Elite) club who are allowed to issue as many diktats but follow none of them!

The government understands it is difficult to keep yourself constantly updated to be a 100% certified patriot and has decided to address your concerns by introducing the BMJK app. Once you install this helpful app, you will keep getting notifications for every new anti-national activity. The app also has the reward feature. Swabbing your floor with gomutra, supporting Anupam Kher in whatever and whoever he’s protesting against, abusing paid media online, beating up traitors as you scream BMKJ will earn you 500 reward points each. If you cut gobar cake on your birthday, you will get a bonus of 1500 points. If your cow has participated in a bovine beauty pageant, you will get direct entry into the PELT club. As you earn more reward points, you’ll start noticing subtle changes in your countenance. Your heart will start feeling heavier with nationalistic pride and righteousness. Your shoulders might start to stoop a little because you’re now bearing the burden of being the sole protector of your Mata’s pride. You might find yourself drawn to Patiala House by some invisible force.

You will know you have turned into a true patriot once you start deciding what’s best for others and dictate what they should be eating, reading, thinking and speaking, while furiously brandishing the BMKJ sword.

In these SAD times, the sword is mightier than the pen.

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Not so long ago the Indian Aunty discovered an unhindered, unclasped and drawstringless existence in her nightie. In this stifling world of patriarchy that’s constantly trying to suffocate her with its custom-made list of do’s and don’ts and only-meant-for-her morality, she found liberation in this one piece wonder garment. She boldly turned it into a cool daywear that smelt mostly of sweat and spices.

What the Indian woman does today, her male counterpart thinks of tomorrow. Even as she was outgrowing her fascination for this tent-like apparel and switching over to no-nonsense tracks and tee, the Indian man went ahead and found boxers. True, the lungi discovered him much earlier. But a garment that parts willingly at the slightest hint of a gust or lust can have hazardous consequences for the beholder, especially female. Unlike the male that gets excited at the slightest show of limb and imagines the rest of the anatomy, the female is more horrified than filled with desire as she espies upon his lush Amazonian foliage on his limbs and upwards.

The boxer in its cottony soft splendour is its perfect substitute. It comes with cute fly buttons that do a fairly competent job of containing his excitement. Unlike boring trousers, boxers come in bold colours, graffiti, floral and cartoon prints that let him express his naughty side. Its dangerously short length ensures it keeps the beholder’s pulse racing. You never know which part of his appendage will pop out this time.

Understandably, he fell for it hook, line and sinker and like his female counterpart set out to conquer the world in it. While mankind elsewhere continues to wear it as a roomy undergarment, the Bhartiya bhaisahab has turned it into a versatile pair of shorts that can fit into any role he wants. One day it’s a cool gym wear as he huffs and puffs on the treadmill in it. Never mind the incredulous look a certain lady named Purba running on the machine next to him continues to give. Perhaps he mistakes it for adoration. Ever since he was a baby boy his mother made him believe he was the best thing to have happened to womankind. And mothers are always right.

As he prowls around the gym constantly checking out his imaginary biceps and rotund belly, he realises the boxers need to travel more of the world with him. He turns it into resort wear, evening by the pool wear, ‘let me have breakfast in it at a public place’ wear. He knows his good looks and charms can turn even an ordinary chaddi into a fashion statement.

Don’t know why Adidas, Nike and their ilk spend millions on Climacool technology. The Indian man doesn’t need any technology sheknology. He can keep his cool in his boxers. No wonder he’s not scared of global warming. He’s ready to face it in his chaddis.

Once you’ve experienced its comfort you’ll know why he refuses to part with it. Like the elusive true love he has always dreamt of, his boxer is accommodating, always at his bidding, and accompanies him wherever he wants without a murmur of protest. Its love is unconditional regardless of his expanding girth, shrinking memory and cluelessness about ‘you don’t love me anymore’ outbursts. It definitely gives him more space than his relationship. What’s more, he can lovingly caress his posterior and scratch his interiors without hindrance.

Too bad he can’t wear it to office.

It has yet to occur to him that gambolling in public spaces in your underwear is highly ‘inappropriate’. And doesn’t the term ‘inappropriate clothing’ apply only to women! Ever since the dawn of humanity, womankind has been entrusted with the responsibility for men’s behaviour by mankind. So, when a man misbehaves with her, it’s obviously her fault. Especially when she’s attired skimpily. A woman who looks and dresses sexy is invariably looking for attention. When men, unable to control their excitement, leer and lunge at her, grab her butt and sometimes more, she obviously enjoys it. This is how the civilized male appreciates beauty and only a demented woman will reject his advances.

So, a man in his boxers is doing his bit for equality by dressing skimpily. Dear women, he’s begging for your attention. He wants you to appreciate him the way he appreciates your beauty and expects you to treat him like an object.

Unfortunately for us, try as we might, we are unable to return the favour. The specimens in boxers that really make our inner goddess do a salsa usually know what to wear and where. It’s a terrible tragedy for womankind that they are not around for public viewing. Unless you are their bai or partner who cohabits with him, there’s no way you can gaze longingly at his limbs and drool a bit for added effect.

The ones that wear boxers at the gym, pair knee-length socks with capris are gorgeous, handsome hunks but only according to their Moms. They are as sartorially challenged as they are lacking in the looks department. The only way you can appreciate them is by looking for their inner beauty.

No wonder an underwear brand’s tagline is ‘yeh andar ki baat’ hai. Rupa gave up on outer beauty long time back.

Image courtesy www.careerindia.com

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If you are a parent of a teen who has just appeared for her board exams, you will know exactly what it feels like when the results are about to be declared. It’s like waiting for your own results. Only this time, you are not a carefree teen but a worry-wart adult plagued by ifs and buts and what will the world and its aunt think if your child scores an abysmal 85%. Even Mrs Chatterjee’s useless son scored a 97%! Oh, the triumphant look in her eyes when she distributed sweets in the neighbourhood. Too bad she got the mithai from a third rate halwai.

The thing is, we all seem to think scoring in 90’s is a breeze, till it’s your own teen’s turn to appear for her boards. It’s then you find out how much pressure we put on our kids by making abnormally high scores the new normal. Fact is only those who score high share it on social media. The rest keep mum. Consider this. Out of a total of 1,067,900 candidates registered for this year for class 12 exam, 89,000 students scored more than 90% in aggregate. Which means only 8% managed to breach the 90’s barrier.

So, where does it leave the remaining 92%? Why don’t we talk about them? Why don’t newspapers follow their life journeys and come out with reassuring stories that scoring ‘low’ was not the end of their life? I wish more and more parents would tell their children that marks secured in exams do not define them. A child who obtains 78% may have a better grasp of a select few subjects and the ones who score a 99% may simply be able to memorise better. Many school teachers have mastered training their students in the art of answering correctly. Plus, the structure of the question papers is such that some students can work around the format and get high scores. Your exam score is certainly not the only indicator of your intelligence or the lack of it.

They will tell you high scores let you pick and choose the subject and college of your choice. Sadly this is not always true. When anyone who does reasonably well in exams opts for a handful of courses in a handful of premier colleges, there’s a mad scramble for their limited seats and not everyone manages to get in. It’s quite likely that after battling stress and anxiety and studying for 12 hours a day for months, you secure 95% and will still not get into the college of your choice.

It’s not your fault. You did your best. But so did 7,000 odd students who scored above 95%.

Interestingly, despite the mad number of students doing exceptionally well in class XII exams and getting through engineering and other top notch institutes, 47% of our graduates and a whopping 80% of engineeringgraduates are unemployable. According to the industry, poor communication and cognitive skills are to be blamed. And yet we have our kids believe that higher education is the only route to success. We are failing our student community, when we make them go through higher education irrespective of the fact whether they are cut out for the grind of higher studies.

It’s firmly ingrained in our psyche that those with exceptional results should go for engineering, medical studies, commerce or law. Most students end up choosing subjects not according to their aptitude but according to the marks they get and what their parents think is right. I mean that’s what an ideal child is meant to do - make her parents happy and relatives jealous!

Ridiculous, isn’t it?

Because medical and engineering have become the de-facto graduate degrees for a large chunk of students today and the competition to get into elite colleges is more fierce, there’s a huge demand for study centres. But when you put a bunch of kids through gruelling schedules, frequent tests and the unbearable stress of parents’ expectations to do well, many of them crumble under the burden. 73 students - including five this year - have taken their lives in Kota (famous for its coaching centres) in the past five years. A lot of them realise they do not have the aptitude for the subject but are afraid to tell their parents because they have invested huge sums of money despite financial constraints.

When did we stop listening to our children? When did we make them slaves to our own unfulfilled desires or fears?

Most youngsters at this stage have little or no idea what they want from their lives. As adults who have experienced the troughs and crests of life, learnt as much from our failures as we did from our triumphs, it becomes our duty as parents to become enablers to help them realize their dreams, instead of dictating their choices under the garb of ‘we know better’. This should stop, shouldn’t it? Our role as parents is to help them utilize their capabilities to their fullest and lead a good life as responsible members of society.

Of course the system sucks. There’s an urgent necessity of intervention at school and college levels for improving basic skills of students. I don’t understand why there’s no focus on imparting vocational training alongside theoretical learning that will make them employable.

I could go and on with what’s wrong with the system that doesn’t let a student flourish. It focuses more on making students slaves of the syllabus. The emphasis is on scoring than opening up minds or training them to explore, discover and seek answers on their own. Isn’t it the schools’ responsibility to equip pupils with life skills that prepare them for a life outside the safe confines of their homes? And now that we have the cow writing letters to primary students telling them why she’s such an awesome Mom and each ruling party busy rewriting history, I doubt things will change anytime soon.

Does that mean we should be mute spectators and indulge in blame game? Absolutely not.

Help your youngster understand herself. Each one of them has a gift, maybe a flair for languages, an intuitive ability to understand people or a natural affinity to visual arts. As a witness to her life, it’s you who understands her abilities the best. Don’t push her into a sea of mediocrity when she can excel in one. Let her explore and discover the choices she should be making for a fulfilling life. I know it’s tough to let go. But if you can’t trust your son or daughter to take the right decisions, how can you expect them to believe in themselves?

We cannot be bystanders to our teen’s life. They do need our guidance, if need be, a firm push in the right direction. They do need to know scoring well is the ticket to a good life. But what they don’t need is the unbearable pressure. Especially at this young age, when we all know this is just the beginning of a long arduous journey to seek a life of their choosing. If they face a burnout in high school, develop a deep aversion towards studying, suffer from depression because they are unable to cope, how will they survive the rest of their lives?

Think about it!

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Courtesy - www.mensxp.com

Indians often take flak for being among the least friendly. This disturbs me deeply because it’s far from being true. Granted, most of us would rather stare intently at our phone than make polite talk when in close proximity with strangers. If an unfamiliar person smiles at us, we immediately start speculating about their mental health. It’s more a genetic thing. Somebody forgot to tell us smiling is not taxable. Pushing, jostling and snarling come naturally to us. When we are driving, our middle finger is permanently raised and our cuss vocabulary will make even hardened criminals turn a deep shade of beetroot red. But in no way does it reflect our lack of friendliness. Okay, maybe not all of us are walking embodiments of congeniality. But our men more than make up for it with their friendly overtures towards the opposite sex.

Ask any woman and she will vouch for it. The time she made eye contact with her colleague as she laughed at his joke – and he promptly started making plans for their weekend getaway. Or the slightly tipsy woman at the pub who smiled at the wall and now it won’t stop pestering her for her number. Or the man she met at the party, enjoyed talking to him, even shared her number and now he texts her, ‘Sweeties, I miss you, lets meat!’ 55 times a day. Grrr!

Interestingly the not so single men she encounters are invariably the sweet ole chap victimised by the shrewish wife. By some strange miraculous coincidence ALL of them claim to be married to a woman who does not understand them at all. He’s just a lonely hardware looking for a software upgrade. Tch tch..

So now you know why the Indian woman is a tad grim-faced compared to her male counterpart. As a girl growing up, we felt the pinch of skewed sex ratio in crowded marketplaces, in the first bus we took, at the local tailoring outfit where our 13 year old self felt puzzled by the elderly darzi’s strange touch. Pretty soon we developed a snarl, a well-aimed shove with our elbow, a dead fish look to keep strange men’s unwanted advances under control. We discovered that the male has a strange manner of appreciating female beauty. When we walk on the road, we realise we are more effective than the traffic light at the intersection to make cars and scooters slow down. The helpful Samaritans they are, they offer us a ride not once but again and again. Dear Delhi police, I’m not sure why you’re wasting money on traffic lights, when all you need is a comely femme preferably in shorts, to bring traffic to a grinding halt. Some men become so consumed by passion that their grey cells trigger an avalanche of emotions and send furious signals to important body parts. Their hand reaches out for the motherboard, their genitals and they start scratching violently. Their mouth starts generating copious amounts of saliva which they respectfully direct at our feet. The vocal ones prefer making strange noises that closely resemble the mating call of chimpanzees. Good to know they are in no hurry to forget their ancestors! But this is also a highly evolved species that does not let a woman’s age, weight, skin colour, political leanings, dietary preferences, schooling, family background or the lack of it, hold them back. In fact they treat all of us with equal lust and are in turn treated by all of us with equal disgust.

Just like the worldwide network of online Romeos seeking love. Ask any woman and she’ll tell you about her enviable collection of lovesick chaps that reside in her ‘other inbox’ on FB. Thanks to the digital revolution, men old and young, recently wed or widowed, black and white, thin and fat, are ‘hello dearing her’, and losing control of their feelings as they gaze at her profile pic. This besides the 20 something eager greenhorn who wishes her ‘gud morning’ 15 times a day.

If you are looking to start a conversation with a group of women at a party, just say ‘I am a weirdo magnet’. You will be immediately surrounded by a chorus of ‘Me Too Me Too!” and stories of Hotguy21 and SaxyStud on WhatsApp admiring these women’s ‘lags’.

Every time my husband acts difficult, I show him my carefully curated list of enthusiastic lovers from Nicaragua, Kyrgyzstan, Burkina Faso and New York, serenading me with bad grammar and dishonourable intentions. Or the fella who got in touch with me after I wrote a post on Bengali woman’s love for sleeveless blouse. ‘I am a lover of hairy and sweaty armpit of womens. Would like to interact with you about this topic...do you have a Facebook account???’

‘See, how many amazing options I have!’ I scream at the husband.

Meanwhile I mumble a silent thanks to God for finally paying heed to my prayers. As a gawky teen I had often fantasised about hormonal boys dying to ‘make friendship’ with me. And now she has dropped a bumper bonanza of friendly men of all shapes and sizes in my lap. So what if she’s 25 years too late!

Dear men who think that in the struggle for equality, females always get an unfair advantage, you can count me in your team. Nothing screams inequality more than the disproportionate amount of attention an average Indian woman gets. While you’re still waiting to make eye contact with the pretty lady at the café, she’s already thumbed down half a dozen men, mostly undesirable. She understands it’s not their fault that they are uncouth and awkward. But it amazes her no end that they still think looking intently at her boobs and mumbling – you are hot, will make her dissolve in gratitude and surrender with a pair of handcuffs.

Of course, they are not to blame that their parents were so busy celebrating their fabulous luck in begetting a son that they forgot to teach him that a woman is not a cheez or maal that he can acquire with a snap of his entitled fingers.

Courtesy - Google images

The last few weeks my hair has been behaving like Salman Khan (and his many controversies). It simply refuses to settle down. On a good hair day I look like Sai Baba (the one who dazzled his devotees by fishing out gold chains from his armpits). On a bad hair day I look like I have been freshly electrocuted. In fact if I can perfect my roaring skills, I can be easily mistaken for Lion King.

Gurgaon weather has become a copycat. It has started mimicking Kolkata’s horrible humidity. The type where there’s so much moisture in the air that you start resembling an Amazonian forest in full bloom. Your back hasn’t seen a dry day since May and you alternate between taking a shower in salty water that your body generates and water from the showerhead. Even the tiniest physical activity like a walk to the neighbourhood veggie store makes your body weep and you leave behind not footprints but tiny puddles. Unfortunately, Gurgaon is yet to adopt Kolkata’s lack of work culture where everyone treats work with disdain and prefers engaging in heated debates about Spain’s economic crisis in between sips of chaa and leisurely naps.

The good thing is that this muggy weather has taken care of my vanity. I avoid looking at the mirror at all costs – don’t want to see a hair-framed glistening blob of oil staring back at me. I’m not exactly doing my heart a favour when I scream a loud nahiiiiiiiiin and it races faster than Usain Bolt. Sometimes I have so many oil deposits on my face that I fear the all new fearless America led by Trump will invade me.

It has also turned me deeply religious. I am either praying to the Rain gods to relent and wash us away with its bounties or turn me into a plant so that I can soak in the joys of humidity.

Even god prefers multiple options.

Since I have started resembling a leaky faucet, I have decided to put myself to good use. If I have to move furniture in the house, I simply sit on it and wait patiently for my sweat to start working its magic. Ten minutes later when I get up the chair is firmly stuck to me a like a baby kangaroo to its mom, ready to move to newer plains. If I spot stains on the glass windows of our 16th floor apartment, I hang upside down like a bat and start rubbing my back against it till it becomes squeaky clean. I no longer reach out for the salt shaker when I discover our cook has forgotten to season the dal yet again. I simply stir it with my little finger. I have offered my services to Moms who are looking to scare their kids for not listening to them. I discovered this hidden talent when I semi-glared at a kid who wouldn’t stop fiddling with the control buttons inside the lift. One look at me and he clung to his Mom like fungus, his eyes shut in fear.

Had I been a few inches taller, I could have easily replaced Bipasha Basu in the many paranormal movies she does these days.

Before you all start clucking in sympathy, let me tell you, it’s not all that bad. These days I no longer have to rely on makeup, strenuous workouts and a killer wardrobe to turn into a yummy Mummy. All I need to do spend an hour cooking and I emerge from the kitchen cooked to perfection in my perspiration and smelling of aromatic spices. Some days, I even imagine myself as Ursula Andress in Dr No emerging from the ocean. Only this time the desi Ms Andress is mumbling ‘kee gorom’ (it’s so hot) under her breath as she wrings out sweat from her dress.

It’s even better for men. They don’t have to rely on wit, a deep baritone and subtle flattery to make a woman go weak at her knees. All they have to do is raise their arms and their object of desire crumples in a heap at their feet. I have a feeling Shankar Mahadevan got the inspiration for ‘Breathless’ when he was travelling in a Mumbai local.

Subramanian Swamy is right. Not just ministers, all Indian men including waiters should switch to Indian attires. It’s no fun sweating in suffocating shirts and trousers and raising a stink when they can experience the joys of cross-ventilation in a dhoti!

Monsoons may tend to behave like a VIP guest who thinks it’s beneath their dignity to turn up on time. It may not be raining outside, but trust me, all of us are, inside our homes and offices. It’s as if we have turned into nimbus clouds dense with vapour, walking around like zombies. Swimming, guzzling cold drinks and snacking on fruits are only temporary solutions to combat humidity. I appeal to Ms Universe contestants to give up on world peace. Dearies, try eradicating humidity instead!

And till that happens, I shall sweat my way to greatness. Wasn’t it Edison who said, genius is 99% perspiration? Well, I am just 1% away from being a genius.

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Residents of Gurgaon took to social media to vent their anger after the city and its millions cars came to a grinding halt to a gridlock that lasted 20 hours. Triggered by heavy rains followed by flooding, WhatsApp, Twitter and Facebook were full of horrifying accounts of thirsty, hungry and angry commuters stuck in an ocean of muddy water and bumper to bumper traffic.

Predictably everyone donned their Grrgroan avatar and took to blaming civic bodies and the Khattar led government of happening Haryana. Haryana government took instant action and promptly blamed Kejriwal government for its watery woes. The CM went a step ahead and announced 1812 projects, that he has no intentions of implementing, to make Gurgaon great again. The civic authorities as usual had no clue what they were being blamed for. Especially when a lot of them are supposed to be doing the same job yet no one has a clear idea about the exact nature of their responsibilities. The sweet fellas they are, they promised they will make sure this will never happen again, like they did in 2015, 2014, 2013, 2012…..

What’s perplexing is this lashing from the public. It’s not as if the city that fancies itself as millennial hasn’t sunk in murky waters before. It’s not as if countless articles have not been written about a nightmare called Gurgaon and promptly forgotten the next day. It’s not as if promises have not been made and then broken. In fact we love this predictable pattern so much, we make sure we repeat it year after year. Who doesn’t love driving gingerly through swirling waters and miles of honking traffic in the company of irate drivers with murder in their minds after a stressful day at office! It gives an adrenalin rush that no bungee jumping can match.

This time though was slightly different though. The traffic refused to budge, like concrete with more cement than sand. But what is shocking is that Gurgaon residents who are still not sure whether they live in Gurgaon or Gurugram expect accountability from those supposedly in charge. They felt let-down when they saw no help in sight. Silly people, all you had to do was call a cow helpline and say moo and the gau-rakshak squad would have appeared miraculously and given a sound thrashing to everyone responsible for your plight!

Or better still, followed the traffic police advisory offering a simple solution to Millennium city’s woes - ‘Don’t come to Gurgaon.’ If you are unfortunate enough to be in Gurgaon, don’t step out, dammit!

Do you really have to come out of your offices like rats deserting a sinking ship every time it rains in the evening, only to realise everyone had the same effing idea! Practise doing a few asanas instead so that you can make it to the cover of the India Today cover in your loin cloth. Or better still, ditch your car and start running homewards. See, if you can wake up at 4 in the morning to participate in marathons and post pics of you in running gear on Facebook, why not this? You get to save on fuel and the money you save can be used for treatment for your lungs that’ll give up after inhaling toxic fumes for months.

It is with a reason Gurgaon was renamed to Gurugram. Thanks to the government’s relentless twiddling of thumbs, we are moonwalking back to our rural roots. Potholes are lovingly nurtured on streets so that they can turn into ponds during monsoon. Roads have not been repaired for years so that they resemble dirt tracks that existed in Guru Dronacharya’s gram. Residents are often left fumbling in the dark, just like the olden times. If rumours are to be believed, the city will soon have Mercedes Bhains showrooms that’ll offer four-wheeled drives that run on bhains power.

Yet some ungrateful citizens continue to complain about lack of basic amenities like uninterrupted power supply and water, drainage, smooth roads and security when the city offers so many thrilling activities. I request UNESCO to declare Gurgaon as the world’s best amusement park. Gulf Course and Ronaa Road offer the grand spectacle of sewage miraculously oozing out of nowhere and mixing with rainwater to form Olympic sized pools for us to swim in. Ashant Lok and What the eff city are dotted with potholes where we can look for exotic species as we wade through knee deep muddy waters in. Traffic snarls are facilitated at IFFCO and Hero Honda Choke so that we can amuse ourselves by exchanging the choicest expletives and greet each other with our middle finger raised.

While in Disneyworld you may to have wait for decades to be eaten alive by an alligator at one of their resorts, in Gurgaon you have the choice of getting shot by angry jaat or getting run over.

Where else will you get to wonder why lakes, waterbodies and natural drains are being destroyed through collusion and wilful negligence while the CM of the state is spending hundreds of crores looking for the mythical Saraswati river believed to have gone underground! Now that he claims to have found it, Khattar jee plans to artificially recharge it while doing nothing to stop the encroachment of catchments and rainwater being allowed to be run off. Just like our taxes.

It’ll be Gurgaon’s tax-money that’ll bring these grandiose plans to fruition. After all we contribute more than half to the state exchequer which is then used to fill greedy pockets and nurture favourite constituencies of netas. It’s time we accepted that we are the proverbial Kamdhenu that nurtures an ungrateful state while Gurgaon is milked dry. “WANTED” – gau rakshaks for saving this holy cow?

Pfft, Khattar jee, if only you had spent a fraction of your grandiose budget looking for the missing drains of Gurgaon, we would have felt less cheated! And now that we have watched the promos of Mohenjo Daro, we know that even 8000 years back our ancestors lived in cleaner settlements with better drainage and town-planning than us.

The only thing we do better than them is laughing at WhatAp forwards that make fun of our plight.

Growing up as a girl is tough. We have to fend off leery advances from unknown men in public spaces even though we don't fully understand what's going on. We are expected to be paragons of virtue because someone somewhere decided without even consulting us that women are meant to be the pride of the family. On top of that we have to face a battalion of aunties who constantly judge us as if we are part of a beauty pageant. God forbid if you're not fair and lovely, you are constantly reminded of it, as if it was your damn fault! They could be fat, ugly themselves but that doesn’t stop those aunties from passing snarky comments about your appearance.

Interestingly the boys are spared this agony. They could be gangly, pimply, with a hook nose, yet they were handsome princes according to their Moms. We had no such luck.

As you would have guessed by now, I was thin, dark, gawky and not conventionally “good looking” as a child through her teens. I hated the shape of my nose. My brother would often make sketches to illustrate what exactly was wrong with it. I wish I had thinner lips and would often experiment with ‘pursed lips’ look hoping it would make me look pretty. Everyone around me seemed prettier. Unfortunately I was not even spectacularly good in academics to make up for my lack of comely charms.

I had a mirror at home. I knew exactly how I looked and tried not to be too bothered about it. In fact I was a pretty happy child. It seemed it bothered others a lot. I had no dearth of concerned aunts who’d fret about how tanned I had become and how beautiful my Mom was and then glance at me in meaningful silence. Since this was a yearly ritual, I tried my best to turn into carbon. People often ask me where and how I got my sense of humour. Well, it’s time to reveal it all. I developed it at a very young age as a defence tactic. I used it to counter hurt. When on a sunny lazy vacation afternoon an aunt told me that I’d get married only because I had beautiful feet, I told her I’ll ask a burqa to adopt me and make sure the world wouldn’t have to see the rest of me. She of course didn’t get the joke.

As a gawky adolescent still hungry for approval from strangers, I believed every single one of them. Each snarky comment disguised as concern stung like hell. But I made sure I never gave anyone the satisfaction of knowing that they had managed to dent my self-esteem. Sometimes I felt there was a contest going on amongst Moms, each trying convince others that their child was the best thing to have happened to humanity by putting the rest of us down. As usual, we kids were caught in the crossfire. So, when a colleague of my Mom would rue about my lack of height, ma would enrol me for swimming or make me hang from a cold iron rod first thing in the morning, hoping I’d stretch like chewing gum. I spent most of my time at the pool chatting with hot didis lamenting about their voluptuous thighs. I refused to hang like a baboon from that rod after the first day.

When some odd person did say something nice about the way I looked, I refused to believe them.

As I grew older, I became confident in my own skin. You could say I have gotten so old it doesn’t matter. Whatever. My pug nose no longer bothers me. I snap at the salon lady when insists I go for a skin brightening treatment. I am as comfortable in heels as I am in flats and nobody in this world can make me feel bad about myself. I am not claiming harsh words do not affect me but I brush them off like dandruff.

It took me over two decades to accept that I am not all that ugly. It helped that I am married to a man who thinks I am the most beautiful woman on Earth (well, almost) and makes me test my ability to step out of my comfort zone. It is now I know how shallow individuals are, who judge others based solely on their looks. That it requires extremely low self-esteem to feel good about yourself by making others feel bad. That when you are not astonishingly beautiful, people seek you and love you for who you are.

And now that I am on social media, I am everything I ever wanted to be – beautiful, talented, oh mee gawd hawt and I don’t let that self-congratulatory feeling linger for long, just like the unpleasant remarks.

The other day while with friends we somehow got talking about our growing-up years and I was surprised to discover that so many of us had similar stories to share – being made to feel bad for plain looks or dark complexion or slanty eyes. And some of these callous remarks from our own Moms!

At an age where insecurities are omnipresent and rife, overcoming self-doubt is a daily battle. Teens are constantly trying to benchmark their worth against one another and the last thing they want to put up with is unflattering comparisons. They face pressure from a multitude of sources, self-inflicted, peer, parental, and societal. This, compounded by hormonal changes, continuously cuts the ground from under their feet and feeds into their insecurities. So it’s a miracle to have emerged to be confident and content women. Maybe the barbs and taunts helped us become stronger. We defined success, strived harder to be better human beings and didn’t let frivolous remarks mess with our self-esteem.

These days when I see an unsure gawky girl with her gorgeous mother or a far prettier sibling carrying the burden of comparison on her shoulder, my heart goes out for her. I want to run up to her and hug her and tell her, stop believing those women who have nothing better to do with their lives than comment about others. Don’t let anyone contaminate you with their insecurities. The outside world is a harsh place, especially for women, created by women. You’ll never be able to rid yourself of people who will try their best to bring you down by ridiculing you for how you look and what you wear. The higher you go, the lower the barbs will get. Should you let that bother you, you are simply handing over the keys to happiness to them.

And please don’t wait for two decades to realise that beauty has very little to do with the way you look. It has more to do with how you make others feel. It’s beyond almond shaped eyes, an aquiline nose, smooth skin and cascading hair – things that are just a biological by-product that nobody consulted you on. True beauty is about the sparkle in your eyes, the kindness of your smile, the confidence in your stride and your head held high.

Image Courtesy - www.independent.co.uk

Till a few days back I was madly applauding the ban on Burkini imposed by France on its beaches in the Riviera. Since I fancy myself as more of a doer than a talker, I quickly started compiling a rather long list of unwearables that our junta insists on turning into beachwear that should be banned. For too long I have been traumatised by the sight of portly men flaunting their hairy selves in striped kachhas, snug boxers and demure women taking a dip in the ocean in their saris that promptly turn into parachutes. In fact, on my last visit to Hardwar which was a few decades back, I saw so many ladies bathing in just their petticoats tied over their ample bosoms that I exclaimed ‘Hey Ram’ and died. Haunted, I never went back for another pilgrimage.

Unfortunately my burkini ban euphoria did not last long. The ban was suspended by France's highest administrative court that’ll rather uphold fundamental freedoms than let the government go by its whims. Tcchh…had it been India, these men in wigs would have been charged with sedition and declared anti-nationals. Don’t they know it’s the state that gets to decide what should offend us? It’s pretty simple - what offends them should offend us and if that offends you, GO TO HELL, YOU SCUMBAGS! Oh, and the state also gets to decide what and where hell is.

After I was done with outraging, I changed sides since I prefer remaining on the right side of political correctness. The world is a stage and of what use are my acting skills if I can’t flip my emotions like an omelette on a pan. So, right now I am busy yayying for the French courts for acting in favour of liberty and equality. Why should only men get to decide that we are better off when covered up! Also, if women feel they should be free to expose without inviting judgement, they should also be free to slip into a garment that the world had no idea about till a ban was imposed on it. So, if certain femmes want to wear bikinis at hill stations, I will support their right even it means freezing to death. Don’t Delhi women dress in tiny summery dresses in biting winters and live to tell the tale? Or prefer death by sweating in black tights under a black dress in searing summers to save themselves from the ogle fest every time they step out?

Needless to say, this landmark judgement has come as a huge relief to a certain section of men who have always believed that an ideal woman should dress in a shroud to live a long uneventful life. Women who dress in flimsy, fashionable clothing deliberately provoke men into harassing them, who sometimes insert rods inside their vaginas and butcher their bodies for fun. So it is only natural that men protect themselves by banning women from their sight. Look what happened at Haji Ali. Women with breasts were deliberately bending over while praying, forcing men into having unholy thoughts and distracting them from their destined path of greatness.

What I don’t get is, if men are so fascinated by breasts, why don’t they try growing a pair of their own!

Had Dipa Karmakar attempted the death defying Produnova vault in a demure salwar-kameez and not that shameful one piece garment, she would have felt more comfortable winning a bronze. Had PV Sindhu smashed her way to the Badminton finals in a sari, and not that tiny skirt, she would have done our rich Indian culture proud. Does Sakshi know that by flaunting those amazing biceps, she has closed doors on lucrative matrimonial offers! Who will marry her now? Worse still, who will risk arguing with her? Tell tell!

So please instead of shooing off devout Muslim women in their Burkinis from beaches, let them feel comfortable covered from head to toe!

The question we need to ask ourselves is, why do women feel so comfortable being covered up even at a beach that demands dressing down to your basics to facilitate ease of movement? Or why certain Muslim women find the hijab liberating and not a tool of oppression!

I think they are seeking emancipation from the prying gaze that’s always judging for showing too little or too much of skin. So what’s a little discomfort if it means freedom to do what you want without inviting censure! Sadly our choice of attire continues to define us as a person, regardless of our achievements and triumphs. If we dress for comfort, we are frumpy. If we dress fashionable, we must be frivolous and vain. If we wear too little, we are begging for attention and if we are wearing too much, we are slaves to patriarchy.

The sad truth is, whether it’s a bikini or a burkini, we continue to be reduced to a mere object who carries the burden of expectations on her shoulders. We don’t dress for ourselves but for others and the reactions it may evoke. We have to worry about what the cabbie might think if he sees us in shorts or that tiny dress. Women at workplaces would rather choose androgynous attires to be taken seriously and avoid unwanted attention.

Our bodies are in a constant tug war between custodians of morality and champions of modernity.

So let’s not be too hasty in celebrating the lifting of burkini ban as a triumph for womankind. Because dressing up or dressing down is never really our choice to make.

Not so dear all,

Till a few days back I was just a Baigan, sitting on a rack, waiting for you to take me home, mash me, pulp me and devour me with relish. I suffered in silence even when you rubbed me with oil and put me on fire to roast in my own juices. I even put up with smelly onion and too-much-blusher-tomato because I wanted you to like me the way you like that squishy paneer. Oh, don’t you for a moment think I didn’t notice the look of tenderness when you picked her up and surveyed her lovingly, your drool moistening your lips! Yet, I looked on stoically, with a stone placed on my heart.

I know I am no superfood. I’m dark, plump and a veggie with many names – aubergine, eggplant, brinjal, baigan, begoon… But tell me, what did I do to deserve to become the butt of your merciless jokes and bad puns!

Mind it, I will never forgive Durex for besmirching my spotless reputation by announcing ‘spicy baigan’ flavoured condoms. Just as Mother Teresa’s Holy Spirit was getting canonised at the Vatican and demonised by the republic of Twitter, Durex got this brainwave to sexify me.

Durex, do you even realize that this mindless sexification of the baigan in pursuit of fame and riches has ruined my life forever! Had I been an American I would have sued you for millions of dollars for emotional distress. My besties Tinda, Tauri and Lauki have stopped talking to me after my new found notoriety. The other day when I accidently brushed against Tinds, she spat out – Who do you think you are, Sunny Leone! My sweetie pie, potato no longer responds to my loving overtures. Not even when I croon, aloo, is it me you’re looking for? *Please insert a plaintive wail here for added effect* Heartbroken, I tried line-maroing cauilflower who I had bro-zoned recently. When I whispered 'gobhi gobhi mere dil mein khayal ataa hai', he pretended to de deaf. Only that luchha lafanga Karela sent me a sext that read – aati kya Khandala! Like any sanskari baigan I proceeded to feel cheap and washed myself in Dettol twice.

Now even Kela and Kheera won’t talk to me for stealing their limelight. Le sigh!

Don’t even get me started on the sleepless nights I spent worrying if I’ll be replaced by a stupid condom claiming to taste like me. Why will anyone slave in the kitchen for hours to make stuffed baigan when all one has to do is slip it on your object of desire! *insert a plaintive wail here*

Dear Durex, had you fools done your survey properly, you’d discovered that’s it’s not some random veggie but chulbuili imli, teekha golgappa and khatta-meetha aam papad that makes women scream ‘more more more!’ If you had even a fraction of Baba Ramdev’s business acumen, you’d come out with churan flavoured condoms. See, even I know more than your overpaid MBAs.

And now you jokers are claiming it was just a fun prank? I’m sorry, I refuse to take this humiliation lying down, like some abla naari victimised by this patriarchal society. You thought you could play around with the egg in my plant and then walk away like a boss! Let me tell you, careless gags like these, if employed too often, will render you limp that no Viagra can help rise to the occasion. I refuse to let baigons be baigons. Like any proud, senti-mental Indian waiting to get hurt, I shall file a plea in the court against you for hurting my religious sentiments.

So you thought only men wearing thin wispy dotted condoms had feelings? Ha, now you’ll know!

We Indians love noise as much as we love our gais and demonstrate our dogged devotion to both by driving others mad. Why, we are even ready to kill if someone refuses to share our fervour for our object of affection with the same passion! Wasn’t it in Vasant Kunj where a gym owner killed his neighbour because he complained of the loud music playing at his gym?

One man’s headache maybe another man’s music but how dare he point that out and spoil the fun!

Well, I’ve often felt like killing myself at the gym instead of waiting for some irate Jaat to do the honours. Especially when I’ve heard ‘clap your hands now, you motherfucker’! at least 5 times during my workout interspersed with grunts from the hulk next to me trying to lift weights double his own. Thanks to this elevating experience, I’ve mastered my Nagin look, the same one that Sridevi gave Amrish Puri.

Google Images

But only after I’ve whined about the limited, unimaginative playlist to the management. They as usual have no clue as to what I’m talking about. I’m often brushed off as a pesky fly.

The scary bit is that the same playlist is shared by the world and its aunt. So, you get to hear Honey Singh woo his kudi namkeenaa, ambraan di queenaa, at the Pub, club, blaring from the water-park in the vicinity, neighbourhood shaadi sharing their joy via loudspeakers, and the party hosted by a dear friend. Sometimes I get so confused that I actually jiggle my hips in a drunken stupor at the gym and try to do push-ups at the hottest new brewery playing stale hits. By the end of the year, I’ve intimate knowledge of Mr Singh’s weird notion of romance that entails meeting kudi namkeena’s daddy so that his future son-in-law can tell him ‘Bas jitna aapki beti ek mahine mein udati hai, ek hafte me meri gaadi utna tel khaati hai!’ (keep your daughter away from me because I’m an asshole) Wow, how can any woman resist this charmer!

But isn’t that the beauty of music that catches the public’s fancy. It’s not a superhit till it drives you to the brink of lunacy. The first time you hear it, you nod your head with approval, much like a Kathakali dancer. The next few times you enjoy it and even try humming along with it. But when it starts stalking you wherever you go, whatever you do, you scream nahiiiin like a Bollywood Mom of yore who has lost her sons at a mela.

Google images

A musical hit is like bad karma that follows you birth after birth till you start begging God to have you reborn as a lizard with no ears.

Look what they did to Rang Barse! Your Holi celebration is incomplete till you’ve gone into a trance hearing Big B turn Gori’s hubby to cinders by regaling him with her yaar’s antics, in a loop. Or tried drowning yourself in the nearest pothole when you saw a drunk uncle swaying to Anu Mallik’s ‘Do me a favour, let’s play Holeyyy! Are you even a true patriot if you don’t shed the same amount of tears on hearing Mahendra Kapoor sing mere desh ke dhartee eeee eeee eeee, all through your childhood, teens and adulthood?

And just as a festive occasion is of no consequence till Myntra and Jabong offer never before discounts on their entire range yet again, no celebration is complete till we’ve played music so loud that all neighbouring eardrums convulse like Baba Ramdev’s abs. If we manage to shoot a guest or two at the wedding party, even better. The joy in our celebrations can be measured in decibel levels. The happier we are, the louder the music is.

No wonder restaurants these days prefer playing music at levels so high, it is impossible to have an intelligent conversation. After talking for hours in sign language, imagining the lively conversation and laughing at jokes we could not hear, we go back with a throbbing head and an illusion of an evening well-spent. These days I’m terrified of walking into a restaurant so silent that I’ll be forced to actually have a conversation, share my views on politics, all things sundry AND sound funny and intelligent. Who wants that pressure!

Funnily, the ones who prefer music at window shattering levels care little about melody. Maybe the noise prevents them from the torturous chore of thinking. Or they are afraid that the silence will unmute their inner voice that sounds eerily like their nagging Mom! What if they’ve turned deaf and don’t know it yet! Or maybe the problem is you because it’s only effing you that has a problem with loud music!

Funnier thing happens when you move to a new country. At first you can’t stop marvelling at the quietness that surrounds you, cinemagoers who can actually watch a movie without conversing loudly on their phone. You want to run up to drivers and kiss them for not using the horn as a weapon of mass destruction. You sigh to the sounds of swishing winds and the river splashing nearby. A few weeks later the same quietness starts sounding like death. You wonder if you have neighbours because you’ve yet to hear them. You start craving the chaos, sounds of laughter, babies crying and seek crowded spaces to feel alive. The noise starts making its presence felt through its absence. And then one day you pump up the volume of your music player because you can’t bear it anymore and pray that your neighbours don’t complain.

The only thing missing is a gai to love and kill for. Damn it, have they eaten them all!

It’s complicated – the relationship between Bharat-Bhushan and Pak Begum. It’s been over 67 years since BaaP broke up, yet Begum Pee continues to behave like a jilted ex. Guess, Pee never forgave Bharat for getting custody of their beti, Kishmish even though it was she who chose to stay with Pitajee. You can call them the original Brangelina, all jaanu-shaanu when together and throwing bartans and belans at each after they went their separate ways.

Bharat’s ex has made it her life’s mission to raise his BP to Himalayan heights by engaging in a bitter custody battle over their love child Kishmish, each accusing the other of abuse and neglect. Interestingly when they meet they behave as if they’ll patch-up any minute, going mwah mwah, singing ‘aman ki aasha’ in dulcet tones. But the moment Bharat turns his back, Pee turns into a demented chudail, constantly orchestrating covert attacks and creating pressure in BB’s nose (naak mein dum). B Bhushan responds with lots of angry condemnations and running to Uncle Sam to complain. It’s the same story every time. Pee continues to attack Bharat and his brood grievously while he’s all kadhi ninda and no action. These days Begum has become even more daring with the backing of her new boyfriend, Mr Chin Chin. Even Kishmish has also been acting all angsty like a pimply teen and constantly throws tantrums because she wants azadi. Kids, I tell you!

Sadly for Pak, the same story decided enough is enough and refused to repeat itself. This unusual occurrence was triggered by yet another behind the back, sneaky assault that had Bharat’s brood led by Angry Goswami (his favourite son) and social media warriors baying for her blood. Fierce battles were fought on Twitter and Facebook. Cunning war strategies were formulated on Facebook walls, nuclear submarines were deployed and fighter aircrafts roared out of hangars on Twitter timelines and brutal jokes were made to shame Begum Pee once and for all.

Bharat Bhushan goaded by the bloodcurdling cries of netizens FINALLY decided to retaliate with a stinging counter-attack that’s so covert that even his bacchas are not aware of it.

Only the writer of this post was cunning enough to sniff it out. She blames her fish-eating Bengali genes. Now before I astonish you with stunning revelations, let me add, the seeds of this covert operation were planted long time back. It started off as shedding our British legacy by getting rid of the silly names they had given our cities that sound good only if you sound like Piers Morgan. So Cawnpore became Kanpur and Jubbulpore became Jabalpur and so on. Somewhere down the line, a wily bunch of netas hit upon the brainwave of renaming almost all our cities. Madras became Chennai, Bombay became Mumbai, Trivandrum became a city than no one can spell. And now people are so confused, they often call Kolkata, Colkutta, which is the sound you make when you’re just about to vomit. Banking upon this growing confusion, Bharat’s new caretaker BJ :p has taken this renaming business to new lows and is giving his Dil a makeover by renaming its arteries. First Aurangzeb became Abdul Kalam, giving both these deceased gentlemen an identity crisis. Last week after the yet another fatal blow by Pee, BJ :p launched a stinging counter-offensive and changed Racecourse Rd, Dil’s most hallowed address to Intercourse road. Oops, sorry! Copulation is against Indian culture but Lok Kalyan is not. So yeah, Racecourse road is now Lok Kalyan Road.

Speculation is rife that Jor Bagh will now be called Kamjor Bagh, Greater Kailash - Hurr hurr Mahadev and Deer Park – Gau Udyaan. Dil will also acquire a new name, Jhuggi because that’s what it looks like these days since Kejriwal took over.

Now you’ll ask me, what the eff does it have to do countering Begum Pee’s terrorising ways? See, with all this renaming business, if an average resident of Dil can get hopelessly lost in a maze of new sanskari names, how can you expect Pee sponsored terrorists to reach the correct address given by their bosses in Islamabad! This, compounded by our autowallas who only say yes to a passenger who wears pink on full moon nights, commuters in Metros who try their best to suffocate you and Ola drivers who keep cancelling your rides, will drive any terrorist to self-detonate himself in the nearest dustbin!

Isn’t this the best thing since Gandhi jee’s Satyagraha for countering unprovoked violence with non-violence? Now if only we can rename Kishmish to Kaju, Pak may not want it anymore. And in a few years, when we have driven all beef eaters, pseudo intellectuals, Barkha Dutt, liberals, jhola, loving JNU students to ‘God knows where’ Bharat can finally call itself Haahaastan and nobody will be able to find Bharat on the world map! We will become like Airtel’s signal – dhoondte reh jaaoge.

With no Bharat in sight, Pee will start focussing on holistic pursuits, join Yoga classes and become an all new improved woman who believes in world peace and eats only shoots and leaves.

I hereby request UNESCO to declare our war strategy the best in the world.

Image courtesy - SantaBanta

It’s that time of the yaar again when sweaty Bengalis converge under makeshift tents and try to clog their arteries with cholesterol from Moglai porotas, kobirajis, cutlets and bhaja bhuji fried in oil as old as the dinosaurs. Since it’s strictly for religious purposes, they expect Maa Durga to vanquish acidity, loose motion and clogged arteries just like that dark-skinned Mahisashura. As you daintily nibble off the meat from the kosha mangsho, you can feast your eyes on sombre looking men sashaying in panjabis embellished with smiling owls and boudis in stunning dhakais and blouses as deep as the Grand Canyon.

Durga Pujo is a Bangali’s own Woodstock. It’s a non-stop 4 day binge-fest where you sleep little, eat lots and hop from one pandal to another like a Duracell charged bunny. While evenings are a happy mishmash of hogging, ogling, lovingly pushing each other to get a closer look of the protima, soaking in calchaar as you tap your feet to latest hits by Miss Jojo and doing adda till the wee hours, mornings are serious business when you actually offer prayers to the Goddess. Also, this is when you get to observe the Bangali Maa (BAM) unleash the Durga(the warrior goddess) in her as she puts the chomchom of her eyes on the stage, where he can stun his paraa(neighbourhood) with his many talents.

We Bangalis are not content with being good at just one thing and this is firmly ingrained in us right from the time we are born. As a toddler if you loved tearing pages of the books from the shelves, you were promptly declared a Tagore in the making. Your baby gibberish was unlike anything your parents had before – it had a haunting lyrical quality to it. Your Thamma had the gut feeling that you’ll be as graceful as Ananda Shankar as she bounced you on her tummy while chanting dhei dhei nachhe nachhe. By the time you picked up the pen on your annaprashan, it was a forgone conclusion that you’ll be a world renowned scholar. Then they name you ‘Hablee’ ‘Godon’ ‘Natoo’ ‘Goga’ and you have no choice but develop a sense of humour to survive this cruel world.

How long can you hold back this child prodigy who can paint like Jamini Roy and lisps the most profound observations about life! So, he takes his first baby steps dressed as a clock for the fancy dress competition on shoshtee during Pujo. His Mom who spent days foraging for cardboard and turning into a grandfather clock is an anxious wreck as she watches her Hablee recite tic toc, aami clock that she composed especially for him. She’s always known he’s the best. It’s time the world accepted it as well. Just like her own Mom had known. She spent her growing up years proving her right, bent pensively on stage as Chandalika, reciting Nazrool’s poetry in a quivering voice and won the first prize for it.

Now here lies the catch. All BAMs are convinced that the chomchom of their eyes deserves to win a prize if not the first. After all she has been preparing him for months! By the time Hablee finally learns chronicles of Hatimatimtim by heart, the whole house including Cecelia, their hired help from Jharkhand can recite it in her sleep. If you dare deny his Mom the coveted prize, you risk having her do a surgical strike, her eyes flaming with unbridled fury, her back glistening with sweat from the exertion of having to push so many women to grab the second prize at musical chairs. The last time Rana Chatterjee, cultural secretary of Pujo committee tried to reason with her, he saw her explode like Samsung Galaxy Note 7 right before his eyes. He could sleep normally only after several visits to his therapist.

Singed, the Pujo committee people smartened up and came up with as many contests as possible to give Hablee a chance to win. If he still didn’t manage to bag a prize for recitation, painting, one-legged race, nritya natika, Hablee was given a Camlin colouring set for serving bhog with a smile.

Meeting a Bangali without a history of participating and winning prizes at the many talent contests held at their local Pujo is as rare as meeting a bhodromohila who hasn’t put up with ‘Bai god, Bong women are so hot!’ From age 3-16, we are engaged in the arduous task of proving our non-Bengali brethren right who insist ‘yaar, you Bengalis are so talented and bright. It must be because of all the machhi you have.’ By the time we are grown-ups, we have a formidable collection of Nazrul geeti or Robindro shongeet up our kurta sleeve for every occasion and mood. It’s not unusual to come across a bunch of Bongs having a perfectly normal conversation and then break into a soulful rendition of ‘Purano sei diner kotha’ without even batting an eyelid.

But then that’s the beauty of Durga Pujo celebrations, especially the ones that are celebrated outside of Bengal. It’s one of the rare occasions when the Probashi gets to assert his/her ‘Bangaliness’ that gets lost in the cosmopolitan khichdi. We dress in our finest of handlooms including violently coloured Panjabis and assert our foodie supremacy by hogging non-stop. Since we talk culture, walk culture, laugh culture, no revelry is complete without its generous phoron (tempering). And it’s up to the Bangali Maa to shoulder this responsibility. Just before Pujo she sprouts ten arms. She multitasks between scripting and directing a play for paraa kids, frying shingaras for the hungry parents who land up for rehearsals (read adda) and then rushes off for rehearsals for the play where she plays Chitrangada. Of course, who plays the leading role has a lot to do with your proximity to the powerful’uns of the Pujo committee.

This is how she stakes her claim to divahood. Her paraa is her domain, where she and her chhanaas(kids) get to assert their supremacy. Who’s Rana Chatterjee to say otherwise? Pujo committees may come and go, but the BAM will be there forever. From her sprightly youthful days, svelte in her sleeveless blouse, to her senior years, amply proportioned, blouse crying for some coverage, she continues to reign supreme.

Image courtesy - Google images

Dear kids (PS - anyone younger than me qualifies), did you know when we were growing up, the only forwards we got on Diwali were Milton jugs and casseroles? If we prayed hard enough, the set of 6 melamine cups in cream and pink that Mom had gifted Mrs Ahuja 4 years back would land at our doorstep, just like a long lost forward. But Mom far from weeping like Nirupa Roy while hugging the cups close to her chest would get an eye twitch like Lalita Pawar (if you are unfamiliar with these names, just ask Siri).

As a reciprocal gesture, Mrs Ahuja was gifted a box of kaju katli that was only a month old.

In case you did not know, casseroles, thermos, tea-sets of yesteryears were the Soan Papdi of gifting. Nobody wanted them yet everybody gifted them. But those were simpler times. We would start bursting crackers weeks before Diwali without feeling guilty for fouling up the air. If we were chased by a jhadoo wielding Pammi Aunty for disturbing her afternoon siesta, we extracted revenge by bursting our stash of bombs in front of her house till Christmas. Festivities were more about stuffing our faces with sweets more colourful than Govinda’s wardrobe, and less about ‘OMG, I have put on weight! Now I will punish myself and have only lauki soup for a month.’ Phones were actually used to make calls. And one had to visit friends and family to exchange festive greetings. On the eve of Diwali, I was religiously sent off to our neighbours with a thali full of mithais, covered with a cloth napkin. And the celebrations would conclude with coughing all night from all that smoke.

You kids are lucky. You’re growing up in an age where you get more forwards than gifts on Diwali, unless you’re the son of the baap who owns the road you drive on. Nothing warms the cockles of my heart more than a forwarded forward that goes round and round like unclaimed baggage on the luggage carousel. In the age of HBD and thnx, only a moron will bother typing festive wishes. Since the flavour of the season is animated gifs, by the end of Diwali week I had collected enough to fill the Milky Way with flickering Diyas and animated Lakshmi jees showering me with blessings and teen patti winnings.

And I don’t even play cards!

Anyway, this Diwali, gripped with nostalgia of bygone days, I decided to visit our neighbours to wish them personally. When I rang their bell, they took such a long time to open the door, I was convinced they’ve mistaken me for one of the staff asking for baksheesh. They looked more stunned than pleasantly surprised when they realised their neighbour was so jobless that she had decided to drop in with her husband for a visit. The silence was so awkward that I finished an entire bowl of cashews to put them at ease. When that didn’t help, I asked the lady of the house for her number and promptly sent her a glittery Diwali forwarded forward. As expected, it worked like magic. Her face lit up like a made in China electrical diya. The ice between us melted so fast, we actually thought we were responsible for global warming.

We are now besties. We keep in touch by spamming each other with recycled jokes and only communicate using emojis. The other day when I met her in the lift and tried sticking my tongue out and winking at the same time, just like my favourite emoji, the kid from the 9th floor started crying and wouldn’t let go of his Mom.

Pfft…He’s obviously not part of any WhatsApp group!

I’m telling you, these forwards and morning motivational quotes help us upgrade to a sleeker, better version of ourselves. If it weren’t for them, we’d end up with too much time to make real conversations and pretend to be interested in each other’s lives. Plus, it’s so much easier to express our caring and sharing sentiments through lolz, super-like and too good, yaar! There’s nothing more heartening than opening WhatsApp and discovering 855 unread messages in your school group, all of them forwards. The smart lady I am, I save all of them, following my Ma’s philosophy on hoarding junk. God knows, when I might need them? What if in the future the only way we communicate is through forwards and emojis? Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a library suited for any occasion and emotion! Since I am such a lovely person, I’ll happily share them all so that you aren’t tongue-tied.

Of course, there’s a section, most of them snarky and a blot on humanity, that thinks forwards are a mindless waste of time. Idiots. Do they know, besides keeping us informed about new style robberies on highways and airports, UNESCO awards for our national flag, anthem and PM, Amma’s deteriorating health, they are like wonder-bras for our moods. All you need to read is yet another misogynistic joke created by the ‘distressed husbands society’ that has been denied sex for years by their heartless wives, and you are rolling on the floor with laughter! Plus it’s a wonderful platform to hone your rumour spreading skills. If you do your job really well, you get to boost your spirit by spending time behind bars.

WhatsApp forwards are like friends we never had. They motivate us with quotes, make us feel proud to be Indians (especially around Independence and Republic Day), share health advisories and how diseases can be prevented by drinking dewdrops from grass. We can claim to be well-read without even picking up a book and feel productive without even lifting our butt from the chair.

It unites us in agony, nationalistic pride, laughter and keeps us happily occupied and content. Hey UNESCO, where’s the forward announcing WhatsApp forwards as the most influential non-person of the year?

Till a fortnight back my life was as directionless and meaningless as Rahul Gandhi’s speeches. I was appalled by the lack of purpose in my life and couldn’t stop berating myself for not doing enough to stop the Polar caps from melting, bombing ISIS camps and stopping Trump from getting elected. Not anymore. My life feels like a Jan Dhan account suddenly flush from someone else’s desperation. And I have Modi jee to thank for this sudden turn of events.

I am ashamed to admit, when he dropped the D-bomb on us, it took me an inordinately long time to acknowledge his genius in smoking out black-money. Alas, my heart was busy feeling wretched for the unfair treatment being meted out to black money that chose to stay in the country instead of flying off to Honduras, Cayman or Panama and become an NRBM (nor resident black money). I cried buckets when I read reports about wads of patriotic notes that had said no whitening being abandoned near dustbins and drowned in river. This is how we treat our girl child and not ghar ki Lakshmi, dammit!

With 500 and 1000 Re notes declared invalid, I was feeling like a penniless pauper for no fault of my own. With demonetization, Modi Jee first rendered us cashless and then helpless with not enough new notes to replace the old lot. It felt like we were being dragged back to our bachhe dins when we had to last an entire month on a meagre sum because this was our parent’s fabulous idea of teaching us the value of money!

Just last week when I told the beggars at red-light ‘paise nahin hai, baba’, they nodded in sympathy. A few kind souls even offered to lend me a few notes from their booty!

I cried, yet again.

Before I could turn into Nirupe ‘Roye’ with my endless rona-dhona, one fine morning at the fitness centre I heard a dear friend (whose name I have yet to ask) whine about the terrible losses her family had to bear because of demonetization. I am telling you, my tears dried up immediately and my heart started doing bhangra!

Nothing eases your pain faster than knowing scores of others are going through a plight worse than yours.

As part of the honest 1% that pays its taxes diligently and yet manages to feel foolish because so many choose to evade taxes and get away with it, it felt good to see them get hammered and feel the same pain. And it’s all thanks to Modi jee flexing his muscles to make India’s money white again and punish the rich.

We wanted change and he gave it to us, in denominations of 50’s and 100’s.

These days when I stand in a queue for hours to withdraw cash that may or may not exist, my chest expands to 56 inches. When was the last time everyone irrespective of their riches, background, ideology, caste and Baap connections got screwed in a queue?

By God, if this is not achhe din, then what is!

ATMs with serpentine queues make me shiver with ecstasy. I have lost count of the number of times I have screamed STOP, RIGHT NOW and jumped off the car just to experience the joy of standing in a queue as long as the wall of China. It has become an addiction now. This weekend I woke up early just so that I could stand in a queue outside my bank. It was like a real life enactment of ‘kindly wait, your call is important to us.’ By the time my turn came to feel important, Mrs Sharma had returned from an inter-galactic voyage, 3 year Chintu had turned into an irritating teen and the bank had run out of cash.

But did it bother me? Naah! Nothing gives me more satisfaction than running around town looking for currency, clutching an ATM card and a cheque book. I know when I stand for hours in a line, I am doing it for a better India where the elected listen to you and not question your integrity and love for the country when you dare question them.

My life has finally found its purpose!

Now I am so stoked about standing in queues, I am even willing to do it on behalf of others. After I finish writing this post, I will immediately enrol myself at www.bookmychotu.com I am looking forward to stewing in queues on behalf of unpatriotic Indians unwilling to make the supreme sacrifice for their motherland. This is how I’m getting to remove corruption, terrorism and helping make black money the new untouchables. Modi Jee is even better than Surf Excel, cleaning India’s tainted money in just one wash. The least I can do is become his trusted stain remover.

A few small establishments breathing their last, vegetables rotting at mandis, farmers not having money to buy seeds and daily wagers starving because of cash crunch is but a small price to pay. Shame on those who had the temerity to die of heatstroke, heart-stroke or some flimsy excuse while standing in long queues outside banks contradicting claims made on social media that everything’s been smooth sailing. With great transformational change, comes greater pain. On the contrary, demonetisation has been saving lives. With no money to buy cartridges for revolvers, drunk Mamas and Chachas are unable to accidently shoot guests at weddings. Delhiites have stopped buying cigarettes and prefer breathing deeply to fill their lungs with toxins. Women are suddenly feeling safe since men who can’t keep it in their pants are either busy queuing up, counting their notes or sharing demonetization jokes. So much so that India now ranks among the lowest 4 nations in rape cases. Unbelievable isn’t it?

If the current crisis continues long enough, Delhi will no longer be the most polluted city in the world. With no crops to burn what will the farmers and Punjab burn, haan? With no bribes to take, the police might end up sending criminals and not innocents to jail. With protection money drying up, politicians might favour the deserving and not the corrupt. Harassment will not be part of a tax-official’s job profile. Files at sarkari offices may brush the dust off their shoulders and start moving. Chai paani may actually mean chai paani. And maybe just maybe, the honest, law abiding citizen has the satisfaction of knowing that his tax-money is not used to line some greedy middleman’s pockets and finance his foreign jaunts.

I am telling you, this D-bomb is like that powerful pesticide that exterminates all the pests in just one go! So what, if it kills a few crops that it was meant to protect! Isn’t this is what patriotic crops do, die for a good cause?

Every time a space mission is announced and I am invited to be part of it because I am so funny, I have to turn it down with a heavy heart. Knowing that I can never be part of a mission to Mars makes my heart sink faster than the Titanic. Just as our spacecraft has crossed the 10 millionth mile, I’ll be seized by a doubt so terrible that I’ll insist we turn back immediately. The niggling doubt would have crept in on day 50 of the galactic journey but I’ll try brushing it off as irrational. But doubts are like faithful stalkers and refuse to leave your side. In fact they become nastier and more persistent with time.

By day 150 I will be a nervous wreck with ‘Did I lock the main door when I left my house’ echoing in my head in full Dolby fidelity. Of course I did, is how I will try to console myself. I am after all a responsible woman. I will replay the scene just when I am about to leave the house. I will recall locking all the balcony doors, checking the gas-stove for the 25th time, running upstairs to see if I had really switched off the iron.

The iron bit is really important. On our last trip to Kazakhstan I was a total wreck because I just couldn’t remember switching it off after I had ironed my favourite shirt that I wanted to wear on the flight. I spent the next week imagining our house being burnt to cinders, my 200 pairs of lovingly collected shoes gone. My saris that I never wear burnt to ashes, my measly 499 grams of gold melted. My lovely pair of jeans that makes my butt look like a million bucks charred beyond recognition. Damn it, I should have carried it with me! Will I ever recover from the debilitating guilt of rendering my family homeless! What if I can never laugh again? As I sat on the hop on and hop off bus trying my best to soak in the sights, all I could do was wipe my tears imagining our homeless, penniless rest of our lives. The stupid guide mistook it for tears of happiness. Idiot!

When I suggested to the husband that we take an earlier flight back home because the weather wasn’t suiting me, he gave me that knowing look. What is it this time that you think you forgot to switch off, my darling? The darling bit was dripping with sarcasm. I think this sarcasm thing is contagious. When we got married he was perfectly normal.

I don’t blame him. Initially he did indulge me. Like the time when we were watching a play and I turned to him in panic and said, I think I left the gas on. He drove his bike so fast, by the time we reached home, our hair was looking like The Leaning Tower of Pisa. And the gas was turned off.

Phew!

Strangely he did not share my relief.

Of course experience has made me wiser. These days I prefer taking the lift up and down at least half a dozen times to check whether all appliances are switched off, the inner door of the kitchen firmly locked, before we finally leave. In fact this is such a good cardio workout, I recommend it for all.

But the Mars mission will be different. I will be too busy tweeting about the historic moment and how proud I am of myself. I will have to post my selfies on Instagram where I am pouting and trying to look serious at the same time with captions like - #excited #WohooMarsHereIcome #IamTheBest #DoesMarsHaveMalls? Then I will have to reply to all the 197 comments on Facebook congratulating me and wishing I never come back.

With so much to do, the last thing on my mind will be taking care of mundane stuff such as locking the door. It’s much much later, it’ll occur to me I should have asked my husband to take care of it. But he hasn’t been speaking to me for the last six months and has moved in with his parents.

Which dutiful wife leaves her man behind and takes off for another planet that’s not even hers to occupy! Mars is for men and Venus is where the women are meant to be headed for.

Anyway, once the excitement subsides and I am without Wifi with nothing to keep me entertained but my own thoughts is when I will realize – Oh my god, did I actually lock the door of my house!

It’s so much easier when you wake up in the middle of the night, tumble down the stairs and break a few teeth on your way down to check if you have locked the main door. Funnily despite all this maniacal diligence, we have still managed to sleep with the door unlocked, only to be woken up by our building’s guard and given a friendly rebuke. Once I even left the keys hanging on the outside of the door. Since we were the only residents with a single car, no driver and only two hired helps, we were not deemed worthy of being robbed.

I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time I was a carefree young girl. I think I was in college when the fetish for straightening bedsheets discovered me. I was so obsessed with it that sometimes I’d start pulling and tugging at the sheet even when we had guests sitting on the bed. Once I managed to topple them all so that I could do a good job of it. Soon I graduated to returning from the bus-stop just to check if I had really switched off the iron and missing my college-special.

They say phobia is irrational fear. But tell me, what’s irrational about making doubly, triply sure that you have done something right! Rather this is the hallmark of a perfectionist. Also with great responsibilities comes the worry that you’ll mess up. So that makes me a responsible perfectionist.

The only way I can get rid of my phobias is by moving to an uninhabited place, with no electricity and just caves to hide in. Just like Tora Bora in Afghanistan, Taliban’s hiding place where they hatch plots to kill the infidels.

Maybe I will. The journey will be much shorter than the one to Mars.

It’s time I moved on to new phobias. I’ve been faithful to the old ones for too long.

Image courtesy - DragoArt.com

Mitron,

Of late you’ve accused me of so many sexual crimes I have yet to commit, I’m contemplating suicide so that I can be reborn as a petticoat. I get it, my lack of length makes you deranged and you end up doing bad bad things. But must you always transfer the blame for your misdeeds on me, you nincompoops?

There was a time I used to fancy myself as just a skirt, hanging in front of a girl, asking her to love me. Fall in love she did, hook, hemline and zipper. Our love was as perfect as described in Hallmark cards and as deep as a Bengali boudi’s neckline. I fancied myself as the wind beneath her legs, goading her to own her body and embrace her sexuality. She often whispered to me how liberated I made her feel. I hugged her tight, fluttered around her waist, as she set out to conquer the world, looking like a million bucks. It was a smooth ride for us till some dick-head with no control of his dick pounced on her and then conveniently claimed it was me that beckoned him. At first I dismissed as a joke. A single male of the species with limited intelligence refusing to take responsibility for his pawing ways. I was so wrong. Before I could say STFU, it became a chorus with repeat performances year after year. It cut across demographic barriers uniting men and men alike, hell bent on absolving the molestor, the rapist, the sexual aggressor who needed to resort to violence to feel like a man. I have borne the burden of their blame for so long, my shoulders are stooping lower than these men’s self-esteem. These days I feel like Ganga whose sole purpose in life is to wash off the sins of these paapis.

Hey Ram, beam me up, will ya?

After much introspection I have arrived at this conclusion; my biggest crime is being born a skirt. And I am never allowed to forget that. I was told that the only way I can hope to lead a long unfruitful life is by covering myself with layers of plastic and shutting myself in the cupboard and wait for death. In the meantime, I was free to do whatever others wanted me to do. The rules set for my impeccable conduct by upholders of my morality read longer than the terms and conditions that no one reads but clicks on ‘I agree’ anyway. Interestingly, the rules apply only to me and not the ones who set them. While my male ‘counterpant’ is encouraged to be whatever he wants to be – loose character or a tight assed aggressive prick who demands, raises his voice, pushes, shoves, to climb the ladder of success, dare I do the same, I am promptly labelled as a bitch.

Her colours are too loud, she shines too bright. Is she trying to be a slut? She argues too much, has opinions that clash with my ego – my god, she needs to get laid!

Alas, I am that black sheep skirt that refused to conform and reached for the knees and settled somewhere near the thighs. Since I’m obviously up to no good, I must be taught a lesson. And what better way to do than trample all over my dignity and soil me with the filth that resides in your head! Yet, you try to justify it by labelling me as the mini nymph that messed up your poor innocent head.

You have long convinced yourself that you’re the helpless victim of the girl in heels who flaunts her curves, sways her hips as she walks. She does it to catch your attention. So, if you pinch her butt, grope her breasts and tear her clothes off, she should collapse at your feet with gratitude.

I mean, isn’t this what every woman wants, despite men claiming they have no idea what she wants.

She simply wants his attention, dammit! Yes she does, you moron, but the one who is man enough to appreciate her sensuality. And definitely not the one that leers and jeers and treats her as a plaything who will entertain him.

What perplexes you is when she rejects your advances! You just cannot believe that the woman who looks sexy and beautiful just so that she can ensnare you has the audacity to kick you in your groin and push you away. You fume – the jalebi of your mother’s eyes, the prince whose wishes can never been denied. You are after all the realiser of your parent’s dream, their insurance for old age, who will be sold off to the highest bidder in the dowry market. In the meantime you decide to show these pesky women their real place.

How brave.

It unsettles you that she defies the many diktats you set for her good conduct. The more you threaten her with violence, the more determined she gets to fight you back. It scares you that it is your stiff resistance to let her surge that fuels her determination to succeed. The more you shame her for voicing her sentiments, the louder her voice becomes. Sometimes she becomes shrill, her ways militant. But after trying to silence her voice for centuries, can you blame her? She’s not asking you to pick up cudgels for her. Learn to listen, empathise and accept that there’s something deeply wrong the way women are treated instead of fighting her with whataboutery! Instead of telling her she needs to change to keep herself self safe, change that thinking of yours.

And you know what, I have made up my mind. I do not want to be pants, petticoat, salwar or whatever shit you want me to be. I am proud to be who I am.

Cheers,

Proud to be a short skirt.

Nobody names their kid Neha anymore. Yet, if I were to stand at the Rajiv Metro Chowk station and scream Nehaaaaaaaa, at least 67 women of all shapes and sizes will turn around and come running towards me. Add Mamta, Sanjay, Vineet, Preeti to that list. They are all part of a generation whose parents didn’t break into a sweat while naming their offspring. The ones that fancied themselves as ‘modern’, preferred Silky, Tina, Sunny, Honey, Bunny. The sanskari ones left the onus on the grandparents, who in turn would consult their family pandit, astrological charts and name the unsuspecting baby after their favourite God. So, if you had a Janardana, Bhavamochani, Dayanidhi in your class, you knew who to blame for their lifelong misery.

New age parents are different. Not only do they start reading up books on all the possible diseases their yet to be born baby can get, the mother prefers going on a gluten free, seed only diet to birth a conscientious future citizen of the world. Wiser from their own experience of being part of a flock, the Sameers, Sonias and Vineetas flick through pages and pages of ‘Unusual baby names’. Because their worldview transcends cultural and geographical barriers, Zeus it is for their baby who’s meant to rule the world. Once Zeus Chopra waddles to playschool, he meets Awesome Khare who loves peeing in his pants, much to the chagrin of the school ayah, Baby. Then there is Key-nah, who he is petrified of. The last time he tried to sneak a biscuit from her tiffin box, she knocked two of his milk teeth off. Muffin Malhotra has a constantly running nose that he loves wiping on an unsuspecting shoulder.

Interestingly, this penchant for giving their babies WTF names was once limited to snooty, good for nothing Bengalis. So, it’s not unusual run into a Canopy Chowdhury or Renaissance Roy at the local Durga Pujo and a Missile Dutta who you played ludo with when you were all of 10. Their pet names are even worse. The kind you can blackmail them with to extract state secrets and nuclear codes. So, if a Bongshell in a moment of tenderness confides in you that her parents call her Punchkee, it’s time for you to start looking for a ring.

Not anymore. This obsession for giving strange names is now a worldwide epidemic. Bengalis can yet again claim what Bengal thinks yesterday, the world does today.

A baby’s name is no longer about cute sounding and being easy on the tongue. Hell no. In fact the tougher it is to remember, the better it is. My niece is now 7 years old and I still can’t recall her bhaalo naam (the formal name meant for the school roll). It’s another story the final one was chosen after 47554 rejections and epic battles between grand-parents and parents.

The name selecting business is no longer a mundane job meant to be completed while you are switching channels. It requires careful deliberation and argument worthy of Newshour. It’s like thinking of a label for your designer baby. The kind that carries with it a whiff of class. It should instantly transport you to the world of clipped accents, bistros in Paris and hallowed corridors of Ivy League colleges. Something like Qabir – exotic yet perfectly suited to your multi-lingual, global citizen of the world child who earns in dollars and sips tea from Wedgewood crockery.

Naming follows an interesting hierarchy. While the BMW (Bartan majne waali) prefers Bobby, Pinky, Sonu, her upwardly mobile world-travelled Memsahib prefers Kaira, Shyra or a Shanaya. Meanwhile the celebrity class that needs to stand miles apart from the hoi-polloi thinks of NorthWest, Taimur or Bronx-Mowgli that no cattle class in their un-coked frame of mind will dare come up with.

The millennial city-bred parent abhors being part of the crowd. They equate conformity with boring and dull. Unlike their parents who were content with Beltek TV, Vimal Saris and boating at India Gate, the current set exposed to global cinema, art and trends, thinks big. No one wants their child to be another brick in the wall.

Sorry, Aartis and Amits: your reign is over. It’s time to give way to Kaira and Raisha and Wrohits. But here’s another funny fact. If I were to scream Mishaaa at the local creche, I’m sure at least 6 babies in chic frocks will turn around and drool.

Dear Mommies and Daddies, is it possible that the Divas, Vians and Kians are the new Neha!

But when there are millions parents are engaged in their quest to be unique, how much different can they be? Rather they unwittingly end up being part of the herd.

Didn’t someone wise once say, the more you try to be different, the more you end up being the same!

Maybe it’s time you started thinking extra-terrestrial. Are Aeryn, Kagin already taken?

Bhansali bends backwards just like Ramdev.

Image courtesy - google.com

Protests over the movie “Padmavati” took a new turn with Rajput groups coming up with fresh demands of title change. It may be recalled that Karni Sena distressed over a script they had yet to read and a movie that’s yet to be made, beat up Sanjay Leela Bhansali, the director and vandalised the set. The incident drew sharp condemnations from the political community. Union Minister Giriraj Singh accused Bhansali of showing Rani Padma in a bad light just because she was a Hindu. BJP leader, Khandelwal went a step ahead and announced a reward of Rs 10,000 to anyone who hurls a shoe at the director. His fatwa is now being sponsored by Bata.

State President of Karni Sena, Mr Maarkaat Seeng expressing his displeasure said, “The film is deviating from facts about Padmavati presented in Amar Chitra Katha comics. In a WhatsApp rumour circulated in our community group, it has come to our notice that the honour of a queen who’s as fictitious as our outrage, is at stake. We as a community take our comics as seriously as we do rumours and will not tolerate any distortions. Since women can’t seem to make decisions for themselves and always need saving, the Karni Sena was just doing their duty.”

Sanjay Leela Bhansali wasted no time in appeasing the distressed sainiks who had thrashed him mercilessly. Sporting the same shirt lovingly torn by the protestors, he assured them that the romantic dream sequence will have Khilji touching Padmavati’s feet, after which he’ll scream Bharat Mata ki Jai.

The demand for title change was raised at a joint press conference convened by Rajput Sabha to announce that Bhansali needs to grovel some more to seek their permission to make the movie.

Bhansali, was quick to respond before they could take further offence and make his life hell. In a statement issued to the press he said “I’d like to assure the Rajput community, I am extremely sensitive to their sensitive feelings. I am trying my best to make my creative license die of natural causes. My team is in consultation with Salman Khan and his legal team. Mr Khan has assured me, he will run it over with his SUV and make his driver take the blame.”

He further went on to apologise for blatantly distorting the fictitious tale of Rani Padmini and Alauddin Khilji. Khilji, despite having considerable accomplishments to his credit, is only remembered for his unholy lust for someone else’s wife. Padmavati, instead of first bhai-zoning and then blocking him, chose to take her life and made sure her companions did the same. ~~Bitch.~~

Mr Bhansali is now in talks with everybody who may have an objection to his script and is rewriting to make it objectionless.

It is reported the movie will now be called ‘Mayawati’ and she will be shot in Uttar Pradesh. Immolation is too last century.

The news was celebrated by Karni Sena by hurling shoes at passersby. Mr Khandelwal has yet to reward them.

"Unlike Padmawati, Mayawati will be a much feared queen not known for her beauty. Her only weakness is handbags and elephants. A fearless feminist, she makes her deputies clean her shoes while they are bending to touch her feet."

" We are trying to present her courageous nature and will incorporate many wresting scenes.” Shobha Klaant, CEO of the Bhansali Productions said.

“In the new, improved, 5 X stronger, 5688 X more sensitive to anyone’s sensitivity waiting to get offended, Mayawati will be called Behen by everyone including the hero. Khilji’s character will be portrayed as an anti-national who refuses to stand up for the national anthem. He gets beaten up by everyone, including himself. I assure you, our film will make the country proud of Behen Mayawati.”

“In fact, we are thinking of completely doing away with the script and will keep adding and deleting scenes depending on the feelings waiting to getting offended. It will be reviewed from time to time by those who claim to be custodians of our culture but have scant knowledge about it.”

The real Mayawati was unavailable for comments. But it is learnt from reliable sources that the Yadav community may get offended by the title.

“We are now expecting the movie to be never completed. But this is the least we can do for the sake of our culture.” Is what Mr Sanjay Lila Bhansali had to say.

Story of a woman on a quest for that special one who can make her heart race faster

Let’s take a hypothetical character – a woman, plumpish of appearance, she spends a lot of time sharing and staring at her once upon a time slim pics. Even though she’d rather believe her Facebook friends who insist she’s gorgeous right after she calls them smoking hot, she doesn’t like what she sees in the mirror. Her state of mind is like a pendulum – swinging between proud to be me and dissatisfaction with her extra-large curves. But her pesky little inner voice keeps telling her she’s lazy and too mortified to take the big step. Till one day she can’t bear the burden of her procrastinations anymore. After much self- loathing and soul-searching deliberations, she walks into a commitment that she thinks will change her life.

She approaches him gingerly because she knows it’s she who has to make the first move. She notices he’s bulky, his muscles rippling, his eyes red from whatever he’s been taking. She really doesn’t care. With a lot of good, comes a little bad and she’s ready to embrace it all. She takes a deep breath before she croaks – main badi ass leke aaee hoon apke pass. He turns around, sizes her up and replies with a smile – don’t worry, madam. Together will make it smaller.

Thus begins their journey of turning her bhains into tight-ass. He is now her dartboard because she has pinned all her hopes on him. She’s convinced that her knight with his shining dumbbells will rescue her from her large sized jeans and squeeze her into size small. She has already dreamt of the looks of envy her friends will give her once she sashays in her skinnies that cling to her like fungus.

It’s not as rosy as she’s imagined it to be although she always ends up looking like an over-heated tomato, her hair in disarray once he’s done with her. The first few days she can’t even walk straight.

Sick bastard, she mutters to herself.

It’s a love hate relationship. He’s so brutal with her! Makes her carry weights, swing kettle-bells, run for her life, jump up and down while he sits like a lord and master ordering her around.

Some days when she’s grunting, screaming obscenities because it’s so painful, sweat trickling into her eyes from her eyebrows, and the brute who has promised to transform her screams WATER BREAK, she’s afraid she’ll actually pop out a baby.

Dammit, this is worse than labour. At least the original one had the good sense to stop after 12 hours. But this one keeps getting even more painful with each passing day and what’s more, I keep coming back for more!

What’s wrong with me! Is this my fifty shades of grey? She can’t help looking for saws hidden in the corners and velvety handcuffs tucked under the bench while stifling her giggles.

Her reverie is broken by Jags rough voice commanding her to do three sets of burpees followed by jump squats.

As she wipes sweat from all her crevices in the changing room, she can’t help notice how her once snug track-pants now hang loose like pyjamas. She stares at herself a little longer at the mirror, her eyes caressing her newly discovered curves.

Initially, she’d be a little embarrassed by the dudes pumping iron all day at the gym, who’d look at her lovingly, a slight smile playing on their lips. Then she realized they were simply looking at their reflection in the mirror.

So this is what self-love feels like. Hmm.

These days as she strides in confidently, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, her badi ass chiselled to perfection, she can actually smell the testosterone. She looks around at the hall filled with men and women grunting together, breathing heavily, their eyes closed in ecstasy as their flip monster tyres, their muscles knotted as they do push-ups– she’s struck by an epiphany.

Whoa, working out is like sex! We warm up to the act with a foreplay of stretches, the act takes the wind out of our lungs and once we are done, we are filled with euphoria even though exhausted like hell. No wonder all of us keep coming again and again like addicts, despite the sweat and pain.

Oh, wait a minute. I think it’s EVEN BETTER THAN SEX!

I can do it any time I want, unlike sex that requires a willing partner and favourable planetary alignment. And with as many men or women and still not be called a whore, but just a fitness addict. The handstand definitely feels better than a one night stand even though my blood vessels threaten to erupt any moment. Why, I don’t even have to take my clothes off!

Now this is where hypothetical character number 2 steps in – me, dying to give gyaan because I feel she’s running out of reasons.

Darling, I whisper in her ears – it’s even better when you’re single. You don’t even need a partner to do it, unlike ordinary mortals who need to go through a series of bad Tinder dates to settle for the least obnoxious. And for those incapable of finding any, this is the most huffy-puffy you can get. What’s more, unlike the real deal, this can last for hours. Why do you think marathoners get up at 4 even on a Sunday morning to just do it?

Look around you, girl. This place is jammed with tinders – Satinder, Jatinder, Ravinder….

The only protection you’ll ever need is a blocked nose to prevent you from swooning from their body odour. Your performance is rated by a machine with no emotions and the result is definitely not a wailing baby that poops and pees all the time. Damn, you can even watch an exercise video to get new ideas to make your workout more exciting and not have to delete history. Why, you don’t have to be in a monogamous relation with your regime – in fact the more the merrier.

At this point, both of us, plant our behinds delicately on the Swiss ball, start doing crunches and orgasm together.

In between panting hard and trying not to choke on my spit, I do manage to tell her – look, sex is a great workout too. According to urban legend, a good session burns up to 1800 calories but I have sinking feeling you have to be an Olympic level athlete to achieve it.

You think, I should take to celibacy, she pants back? Of course not, I say, while more sex may not motivate you to pump harder but gymming hard will definitely make you the insatiable sexy siren that your man has often dreamt of. Thanks to all the gruelling sessions, you can now twist and turn, stand on one leg and give him such a complex, he’ll have no option but to start working as hard to keep up with your moves. Pretty soon, he will read my article again. And instead of feeling like killing me, he will nod his head in agreement, just like a Kathakali dancer.

Do you think those characters on the walls of the Khajuraho temple were all avid gymmers?

Pic courtesy - Google.com

Courtesy - Google images

The beauty industry capitalizes on our insecurities because we let them.

My monthly visit to the salon plays like a typical saas-bahu saga that blares on telly every evening. The pedicure guy takes one look at my feet and starts weeping. With sad strains of violin playing in the background he looks up at me with sorrowful eyes and croaks – yeh kyaa haal banaya hai? I look shamefully at my calloused feet and croak back – that’s why I have come to you, you dickhead! If I am in a mood to severely disappoint many more, I get a hair-spa and sometimes a facial. The hair-spa guy runs his fingers through my hair, shakes his head in slow motion and before he can open his mouth I say no, I will not go for the ‘schizophrenia soaked in rare oils mined from Russia and then ground to fine paste with hibiscus and tiger testicles’ package. He looks heartbroken but I keep shaking my head like an autowallah who says no before you even say ‘bhaiyya?’ A lot depends on my no. If I let the facial lady have her way, she’ll will pull off the outer layer of my facial skin to reveal baby soft bleeding skin. She looks appalled when I tell her with a smug smile, I’m perfectly happy with my tanned skin and won’t do a thing to change it. Yet she tries to change my mind, every single time.

It’s a bit of a dilemma for me. On one hand I am constantly being told by my Facebook friends who I haven’t met about my gorgeousness. Then there are Twitter majnus who insist I’m the hottest thing to have happened since global-warming. And I believe every single one of them. So, you can imagine my consternation when I am told everything about me is sub-standard.

What, are you kidding me!

I get it, it is the salon’s job to make me feel miserable about myself. But it is my right to ask them to fuck off. Especially when I’m told they only way to beauty nirvana is a treatment that costs a king’s ransom.

The beauty industry, has built its fortune equating youth with beauty, slimness with desirability and dark skin tone that banishes you to a future as hopeless as Abhishekh Bachchan’s career. We are told, ageing is the gravest crime we can commit. Though Mr Pahlaj Nihalani who is dead against ladies indulging in unlady like fantasies may disagree. Therefore we must spend hours staring at the mirror, searching for fine lines, crow’s feet, dark spots and then arrest them immediately by mummifying ourselves with anti-ageing lotions, potions and serums. It works mostly, the guilt I mean. Many of us start believing in the magical powers of fairness in a tube, eternal youth in a pretty little jar and salon perfect hair in a plastic bottle.

What doesn’t work is this - the tall claims. In fact they are as false as the nationalism being used as a stick to rein in dissent. If the claims did work, we’d end up in a world comprising of assembly line beauties with smooth skin and glossy hair that swishes around like a horse’s tail. It’s my crooked teeth, frown lines, greys at my temples that make me who I am. Also, imagine the confusion for the men if we all looked the same. They wouldn’t know who to love, lust or hurt?

Somewhere down the line we seem to have forgotten that creams, potions and scrubs are just convenience stored in jars that can bought off the shelf. Even though it’s nice reading about DIY masks, conditioners, scrubs and soaps, not many of us are inclined towards pureeing, grinding our way to beauty. Especially at a time when women have discovered careers, a vibrant social life outside of their homes.

Also, what exactly is beauty? How does one really define it? As far as my limited intelligence goes, beauty has less to do with how you look and more to do with how you make others feel. It reflects through kindness, a cheerful smile and eyes that sparkle with life. No shampoo in the world can change your hair type from curly to silky straight. No lotion can change your skin tone and make you radiate like a 40W bulb. It’s more to do with what you were born with, what you eat and how you live.

Damn, I’m sounding like my own Mom!

By all means, splurge, indulge yourself in that skin brightener infused with patchouli and 4546 rare herbs. But keep in mind, this industry’s biggest nightmare is a woman content with her looks and who flaunts her daag, dhabbey, sagging skin like a badge of honour. Don’t let the beauty industry dictate how to feel about yourself!

It’s perfectly okay to look your age. Being called an aunty is not an insult even though the nincompoop who called you that may have meant it as one. Frizz is not something that you need to drown in gallons of conditioner. Freckles are cute. For God’s sake, don’t go on a punishing diet to get that perfect bikini body in just 15 days, because the miraculous tips are as fictitious as the photshopped beauties your favourite magazine promotes.

If you have money and time are on your side, explore the world, discover new interests, make new friends instead. Believe me, nothing makes you feel more beautiful than a happy and content heart.

And till you start believing in the power of you, you have no idea what you are capable of.

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