Bye, little one.

Some people just come into your life like the light of day and brighten everything up as if there was never darkness there. Sure, they can be “JUST’ animals, they can be “JUST” strays. But they cant “JUST” leave without taking a piece of your heart with you.

I think we die because a piece of our hearts is taken away from us every time someone dies and finally we have no heart to survive. 

They bid you goodbye when you leave for office. They block your path when you choose to leave. They sometimes just bask in the sun and pretend that they don’t notice you, but they do. They close their eyes and they just lay there waiting for you to come pet them. But they’re there.

One such “SHE” was her.

She wouldn’t let me leave home or come back home without sniffing my feet. Its only “SHE” who taught me how animals can emote. Its only “SHE” who sat with me countless times when I forgot my keys or I was locked out of home, or I was upset or just plain, didn’t want to go home. “SHE” was always there, watching from the corner of her eye, pretending she didn’t see me. But as I walked closer, she’d kick up a storm, wagging her tail so hard !

She’d walk, run, limp, but she would come.

She always came. She always will. We’re worlds apart but I believe she’s around and she’s just a whistle away. 

I’ve given you all that I had, and you gave me whatever you had, which was more than I ever asked for. You’ll never know, but that’s perfectly alright.

You’ll always stay in my small, broken, then bandaged, then cemented and now resilient heart. 

-Love, (You know exactly who… ♥♥♥♥♥)

The Art of Silence (2 minute read)

In a world where there’s barely a span of 5 minutes your phone buzzes for Whatsapp, Facebook, Instagram, Pintrest, BigBasket, Myntra, Amazon, Flipkart, Jabong, SMS, Viber, Skype, Email, Text messages, downloads, Google Photos. Phew ! And there are 16 waking hours in a day. We’re so damn involved in the noise that we cant bear the quiet anymore. We’re addicted to the noise that we are so used to. Car horns, static or the phone. So we do the same with relationships and conversations. We fill the silences up, with static.

Learn to love silence. Why ? Because…

THE AMOEBA PEOPLE

Oh my God. I hate the New Year time! I’ve lived on this God damn planet for about three decades and I hate that EVERY! EVERY New Year’s Eve is full of stupid nonsensical people wanting to make New Year’s resolutions and later only to fall back on their bad habits. Finally, get frustrated about life and start drinking or go back to the exact same habit that they wanted to run away from in the first place.

Why the new humma humma sucks ! (2 minute read)

As I sat there with my 9 piece McNuggets, my medium size fries and coke, I saw the most treasured memory of my childhood burned and turned to ashes. This new movie Ok Jaanu and the Humma humma song. What !? Wasn’t it enough that Bollywood ruined “Deewana Tera” by making Arijit sing it ? You’ll argue Arijit has “sing” in his last name, literally. But hey ! So did Sonu Nigam.

What ! You didn’t know ? His real name is Nonu Singam. I mean…. Everyone knows that ! That’s why he’s such a great singer. People made fun of him. Like you’re laughing right now. Hence, he changed his name. Badshah remixed the song.

10 Bullshit conversations you will be forced to have because of this 500/1000 Rupee fiasco. (2 minute read)

 

Suddenly everyone has gone into panic mode. It’s like a mass power outage in everyone’s brains. Everyone is trying to be very logical about this and explain how it affects corruption but have you thought about the conversations you’ll have to have ?

On a side note, my friends and I thought of digging a mass grave to bury the local politicians and builders in the area (who will die of sudden and painful heart attacks) but then scrapped the plan because we didn’t have enough 100 Rs. notes to pay the daily wage workers.

The other side of Dassera. (5 minute read)

Happy Dassera, Dashehra, Vijayadashmi, or whatever else you may call it in your language.

Dassera signifies the triumph of Good over evil. When I was very young, naturally having very limited exposure to the outside world and having watched Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana on TV, I believed that Lanka was like Atlantis. I thought it only existed in stories and no one really ever corroborated the theory of its existence. But as I grew older I started becoming obsessed with geography, the Ram Setu, Sita’s caves in Maharashtra and so much more. I always wondered, when Hanuman lit Lanka on fire, what happened to the regular inhabitant of Lanka? Who weren’t ‘demons’? It their king was such a terrible tyrant, the subjects must also have suffered through the tyranny! Were they rescued? Or did they die meaningless deaths? My mother eventually assuaged my fears saying that “Maybe they were terrible people too? Maybe they were exiled into Lanka because they were killers or looters and bandits who caused havoc in the lives of good people?” I mean what do you really tell a 5 year old?

For many years that answer assuaged my fears and worries. But then my hands fell on a book called Asura. And, my life turned…

Dhoniven think about missing M.S.Dhoni ! (3 minute read)

On a rainy October morning I met someone who I never thought would be an inspiring image for anyone. He started off as someone who couldn’t speak English. A completely unkempt, skinny guy who just did some stuff well. Meh! So what? Anyone can do some stuff well. A terribly shabby, uninspired soul who just knew what he wanted to do. This time, when I met him, he was an entirely changed person. But….

The elusive philosopher’s stone. 7 minute read.

My dad told me a story once that there was a man who spent his whole life looking for the philosopher’s stone. A stone that could turn anything into gold. He became old and frail. A monk, who felt pity for him, told him to look for the stone on a certain path near the monastery. The priest said, “Carry a stone with you and touch every stone on this path to the stone in your hand. Whichever stone turns it to gold, is yours to take. I don’t have much to give you, but have some food and drink the refreshing water from my well before you leave. ” he said, as he motioned to the well behind him.

The old man was so happy that he finally had found his treasure, he dismissed the monk’s suggestion and started on his journey. He labored all day and night. Nothing happened. Another day came and another day went. Another day came and another day went. Days turned into nights and nights into day and finally, the path circled back to the monastery. The Old man threw the stone at the monk’s feet and said “You lied to me. There’s no stone like the philosopher’s stone”

Much to his surprise,

How to find a Marathi Brahmin in a crowd so that you can kidnap them.

1. Find a fair guy or girl with clear skin and a complexion to die for, with eyes that can melt the hearts of the stone-hearted. And then make eye contact. If they look at you like you killed their अण्णासाहेब, Bang on ! हेच ते ब्राह्मण ! (This happend because their minds are constantly engrossed)

2. Say it as it is

“आहो Shook shook ! मेरे डोळे का Surgery होनेका है. And रिक्षा साठी सुट्टे नाही आहेत. तुमच्या कडे पंचास Rupees आहेत काय ? I will be much obliged.”

Kidnap the first guy who takes out fifty bucks. Because no one else on the planet will follow this Hing-rathi-ish. See, it’s a requirement to be proficient in three or more languages. But only they are much too used to this language.

Rustom Nathi Dekhvanu, Majja ni life. (4 minute read)

So I bunked office one day and went to see my new found love. I mean, Akshay Kumar. Something about him just suddenly felt different.

The following events were warning signals that we shouldn’t have gone for the movie.

1. Reached late. Sprinted from parking to the cinema hall.
2. Took the lift pressed 2 and waited. And waited and waited and waited some more. And thought.

“Either we are moving very fast or we are not moving at all”. Realized that the button was not pressed and the couple behind us on the lift was completely oblivious of the fact that the lift was not moving. They were busy saying “Dekha baby ? I was saying na ? Let’s take the stairs ?”

“Aww baby, my baby, shweet baby, cute baby”.

I wanted to ask “Is your baby going to cry during the movie ?”

Just then I felt a tug at my hand. My partner in crime was giving me big eyes. Like, “Can we please get through one micro event in our lives without you not embarrassing me in public ? Just one ?”

I felt intense sympathy for him. So I gulped down my words and said “OKAY” my flaring my nostrils.

How to spot a Malayalee 6 minute read.

After the roaring success of How to find a Marathi Brahmin in a crowd, I bring to you, how to spot a Malayalee. I am cursed, I mean blessed with Malayalees all around me. My best friends, not one, not two, not even three. All of Kerala has been instructed to come to the north and find me.

I’m not sure but this is some kind of ritual. They whisper my name in the baby’s ears and then the baby rests only after finding me. Regardless…

1. Find a group of guys/girls around Matunga east or Malad Orlem. And carry an animal with you. Any animal. Dog, cat, rat, snake, rooster, elephant, camel, rhino, hippo. But where would you find a Hippo !? So adjust, take a dog. Set the dog free. The person whose feet this canine goes and licks…ask him “Sherri ?”. If he looks up, keednaaap that Malayaliaaa. They’re hypnotic SO under no circumstances are you to make eye contact with them. And if you don’t want to get beaten up, I would suggest, refrain from calling them “Mallus”.

An ode to a desert..

Hey, long time…

Let me tell you a story.

I once dated a guy who was stationed at Siachen glacier for thirteen months. We were one year old back then. The relationship was dead. But I had stuck through it for one year.Given the conditions that this guy was going through, I had to stick with him through this tough time. Once he’s back, I’ll finish it on mutually agreeable terms and leave.

The temperature on a daily basis was -20 in the summer which dropped to about -45 to -50 in the winters. I didnt have anyway of contacting him, so I wrote letters. There were days when the paper was so moist, the ink would run. Some days when the ink just vanished, the paper tore, the letters were misplaced. Sometimes, wrongly delivered. But mostly, they reached him.

When he reached the base camp, which was one step away from the final posting, he said he missed colour. The rugged terrain, the lack of vegetation, the silence, was bad enough, but colour was what he missed the most. The only thing he could see, was a hazy bright light everywhere. Yep, Siachen f**ks you up. It changes you. It breaks you and puts you back together like no one else can.

I wanted to do my part in holding his spirit alive. So I made it my business to bring back colour to his life. I poured my heart and soul into the letters I wrote to him. I wrote to him about warm orange sunrises on temperate summer days. I described the pink purple sunsets on the horizon in the evenings. I wrote to him of the bright sunshine that made the green grow greener. And the red roses I gifted myself from him on that Valentine’s Day that year. I told him about the blue sea water I saw at Trivandrum, when I was a kid and the deep chocolate browns of the new sofa we had ordered. I told him about the turquoise ring I bought. I explained to him how Magenta differed from Mauve and how orchids were not just purple and white. I told him how I learned that the human eyes could differentiate between the maximum numbers of shades of green, more than any other colour on the spectrum. I told him how the golden borders glowed, on the portraits of the British viceroy in Shimla, where I spent a few days with my family. And I told him how I had learned new hues of colour while writing to him. Thirteen months go by quickly when you immerse yourself into these beautiful colours. I decided I would tell him the truth when he met me. I would confess about the breakup thoughts and apologize. What the hell was I thinking !? Everyday between 4 and 5 was reserved for letter writing. I had learned to start loving this….

A few days before he left from there, he called me. He said over the telephone, in the calmest of manners possible,
“We are done”
SILENCE
“ I think its best we break up. We’ve been together so long and I don’t feel the same as I did two years ago.”

“B..b..bb…but why ?” I stammered like a fucking idiot.

“I don’t feel the excitement in this relationship anymore. You are very dull and unromantic. I think you’re a bit too immature for me.”

“And you couldn’t say this when we met ? After a month ? I have finals next month…And…”, I begged and sobbed like a moron.

“Please try and understand I cant spend another day in this relationship. I feel suffocated. I have jumped through too many hoops to be with you. My family doesn’t like you too much, but I went against them for it. Now I am done”, he declared. The only words I could utter were “Why now ?”

“I was relieved a few minutes ago. There was a blizzard last week that killed my fellow officer. We dispatched his body yesterday. You stopped writing to me….I was devastated. You have no idea how much I needed you at the time. Your letters kept me alive. And just when I needed them the most, they stopped coming. How selfish could you be?”

“Please reconsider this” I begged.

“I have made my decision. I am travelling back to base camp. It’ll take three days. I’ll call when I am home. Then, we will never speak again”

And just like that, all the colours were gone. Vanished into thin air. Everything was grey.Three weeks after the fateful day, he called again. Like a moron, I received the call.

“I was handed 3 small jute bags full of my letters today. They were back at base because of the blizzard. I got 47 of yours and 3 that mom sent. One belated birthday card from January. They prioritized food over mail for a month when they knew the weather was going bad. So I didn’t get them. I got our anniversary card today. I got the sunshine card you made. I got the glitter box you sent. “

Now it was his turn to stammer…..”I…I…Ii..I really don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I cant take back the pain I have caused you. I think I was so disillusioned from the experience and (fellow officer’s name)’s  death and we were so badly snowed in. We had no way of getting through to the world.”

Now, it was his turn to beg…” I am sorry. Please forgive me for all that I said that day. I was disillusioned with the mess. I was in shock. I will be home in 48 hours. I’ll call back then. But I am sorry for my behavior. I have no excuses and I will take any punishment you wish to met out.” Click and then there was static….

The colour was back. But I pushed it back again into the same corner where it had imploded itself into, after that phone call. I was used to the white, the murky black, the dull drab silvery grey that I related to, only very comfortably. I remembered the days when he just hung up on me, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to call back. The days I waited up till 3 A.M. just to speak to him. The days I spent, writing to him. The days I spent alone with no reply. The days I was ridiculed by him, his parents for not doing enough for him. The days I spent waiting in agony.

And there as I stood in the middle of a garden. Surrounded by as many colours the eyes can see and the mind can imagine, I became the grey block I know myself to be today. I went home and saw all the pictures from the time we had spent together. It melted my heart. I saw all the cards he had sent.
He called back.
“Hey, I’m home. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said enthusiastically.

I cut him short and said, “ Hey,I was going through the envelope. The one in which I keep your letters and your cards. I went through all of it.”

“And you decided to give me a second chance ?” he interrupted.

“Yes. I realized that I sent you three jute bag worth of letters. Hand written, well worded, preciously crafted and tediously moulded letters. Some had tear stains on them because I missed you so much.

I have sent you 467 letters over the past three years and 323 having been just in the last 13 months. You got 47 of them later on…You have at least thirty bags full of letters in your house.

So much so, that your bed storage is so full, your mattress is getting dented. I have one giant envelope, which has a few letters, cards, one autographed picture and your cigarette lighter. The envelope is so small, I misplace it a million times. Or should I say, WAS so small. I burned all those memories…..people say that’s how you can forgive the ones who hurt you. So I burned them. I burned a flame on the lighter for thirty minutes straight and then tossed it in the Arabian sea. I didn’t wait to see if it came back. I walked away.”

He asked with his boyish charm that I loved so much, “ So can we please start afresh ? Give our hope a new opportunity and learn to love again ? “ (he was quoting a song I had loved all my life)

“Babe, It’s your second chance at love alright. JUST.NOT.WITH. ME.” The colour was coming back again.

“I cant live without you. I will kill myself” he threatened me.

“You wont.” I laughed.

“I will !” he cried.

HE GOT MARRIED, IN FEBRUARY THE NEXT YEAR (THREE MONTHS AFTER WE PARTED WAYS). HE NOW HAS A GORGEOUS CHILD.… (He stole the name from me)

He called me to tell me he named her Narayani and asked forgiveness for everything and confessed that he still loved me.

He called me again, after six months, piss drunk, and told me, “She doesnt write to me J. She says she cant find the right words. I long to read words poured from the heart. ” I hung up and went out on an amazing date.

It took five years for the wound to heal for me. And now, I can faintly smile at the memory of a distinct scar on my left hand where a blade went gushing through the skin while I was trying to sharpen a colour pencil. That song doesn’t hurt anymore. The sight of an inland letter doesn’t send my heart racing anymore. That took another 2 years. An Armed forces truck doesn’t pinch my chest anymore.

So, I take credit for the sanity of ONE officer for ONE term at SIACHEN…

So, dear Siachen, my letters came to you then. I wrote to you again today, centuries worth of experiences later. Probably one last time. Your name, will never be sacred. You will never stop hurting even though everything else has.

Our paths will meet again, in an Army related post on facebook or the national anthem being played in a theatre or some guy in the food mall talking about how tough it was to stay there in solitude and loneliness. You may pride yourself at being the highest military base in the world, but you took something precious from me. No wonder you are cold and barren.

You don’t know me, you didn’t know my story. So I thought I’d tell you.

You owe me, ONE, LOVE…

Until we meet again…

Shenanigans of the middle class ! Part 1

If you’ve grown up in a middle class household in the late 90’s, you’ll relate to this article. As a child in a middle class family, we got everything and nothing, everything that we needed and nothing that we wanted. Of course, we got some grit, some determination and a lot of love. And you want to read about that crap, this is not the place.

So, as a child in a middle class family, I was used to chaos and confusion reigning over everyone’s life on a daily basis. This is the story of how my family’s middle class inadequacies became the center of my life. And how these, made me realize the “True” purpose of life. There are 10 things here under this listicle, and if you can tick off all of them, you truly belong to a middle class family from India.

1. Tell me if I am wrong. Every middle class family has a plastic bag full of bags. Well, not in Mumbai now because, you know, the government decided that after all our middle class black money and gold has been “expunged” from the system, let’s also flush out the second most valuable thing in the homes of the middle class household.
2. Then of course, there’s that chair that is the step child of all the household furniture that bears the brunt of “have worn it but didn’t sweat much, so no need to wash it” pile of clothes. Or a plastic basket instead of the chair.
3. Of course, there is a spoon/stirrer/spork/chopstick collection in the “kitchen ka kachra” drawer which is mom or dad’s EMERGENCY FALLBACK collection in case of a CUTLERY apocalypse as in, if Thanos decides that he wants to take on the subject of over-abuse of steel resources in the next movie.
4. But wait; if you dig deeper in the drawer, there definitely is one AIR INDIA spoon/butter knife from the year you took your first flight to wherever. Why our parents want to remember the times we puked on strangers due to air sickness is a sentiment that evades me even today. The real reason why AIR INDIA is going out of business is us.
5. Moving to the fridge, we have an assortment of Soya sauce, Chilli sauce, expired Oregano packets that quite literally died waiting for the day when “Main isko omlette mein dalungi”. A collection that is so well maintained, that it could put Mainland China’s sourcing team to shame.
6. Then there’s the dramatic ceramic collection. Mom’s reasoning begins with.

“I must forego the other 5 cups in this set of 6 because one of them was broken by the maid”

And ends with

“FML, MY OFFICE FRIENDS ARE COMING TOMORROW, I DON’T HAVE EVEN TWO CUPS OF THE SAME COLOR. AND TO JUSTIFY IT, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PRONOUNCE ‘ECLECTIC ENSEMBLE’.”

7. Everything is not so boring though. There is a lot of thrill. Like when you’re staring at an old black house wear T-shirt and think to yourself “Did I use this to mop up the rainwater last week or does it still have a couple of days to go”.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to a Brand new season of FEAR FACTOR: POCHA KE NO POCHA

8. There is the fancy shoe rack that’s empty, because no one ever keeps shoes in it.
9. The giant multicoloured clothespins (CHIMTAS)pile in the window that honestly, is compromising the structural integrity of the balcony. And yet, when the clothes are washed, not being able to find a single one which leads to the most embarrassing question in the world from the Watchman “Whose bra is this” (Jerry Seinfeld said this, not me)
10. And finally, that art of bragging about your possessions subtly. “We can’t keep our new car in the building parking because our parking lot has a leak in it”

We moved into a plush new society with white walls and everything! (There’s that subtle art of bragging) And yet, our shameless middleclassness doesn’t release us from its claws.

So, coming back to the point, after reading so much shitty literature, you need the Moral of the story. Sorry to disappoint you, there’s no moral, there’s that salt and pepper shaker which we put on the dining table, which never has any salt or pepper, there’s the unnecessary “newspaper” pile that never gets given away,

there are the gift wrapping papers that are under my mattress that never get used, the endless USB chords that if put together can connect data transfer modules between the earth and the Sun!

Don’t ask my haisiyat, just see my middle classiyat.

Eid Mubarak…

​On the auspicious occasion of Eid, let me tell you a small story.When people in the country are killing men for possession of beef and other menial reasons, there is a very true, inclusive side to every community that we don’t have the time to see when we are blinded with prejudice. 

A close friend was bereaved and we were navigating the extremely crowded, claustrophobic streets of Mumbai Central. The entire feeling was that of gloom given the impending condolence meet and the whole cloudy monsoonish feeling that felt like dementors were on their way to suck my soul. 

We walked for over 40 minutes searching for the house. The narrow lanes were getting narrower because of the Eid and as prayer time grew closer, the narrow lanes were lit brightly with steaming hot halogen bulbs which reflected across from the green and golden decorations in every shop. Stalls propped up out of nowhere. And tables full of iftari sweets and savouries appeared out of thin air. The streets bustled with activity and everyone was joyous.It was almost Namaaz time when we walked into a building to ask for the address. Just then the melodious azaan rang through the shanties and the high rises alike. 

Although it sounded very serene, so much religious fastidiousness would be over whelming for the three of us friends who are fairly omnireligious if not blasphemous already. We were a little taken back by the silence that fell over the lanes that just seconds were bustling with activity and sellers defeaningly announcing their wares. 

So, we walked into the building just in time to ask the address of the friends building. The Watchman understood the urgency of the situation and took us into the building. We were literally the only people on the road. And I have never felt so alone in my entire life in Mumbai. You can walk across the road at 3 am and you’ll find at least a milk man or a flower seller. Here, NO ONE. We were scared, to say the least and lost, to add to the fear.

While we waited patiently for the person to tell us where the said address was, the gentleman very graciously said, ” Aapne Roza rakhkha hai kya ? Toh aa jao “… Inviting us so lovingly into their prayer room and at their dinner table. 

Ask yourself ! Would you invite a stranger into your home for a meal without knowing who they are, where they come from, what they do ? 

It seemed like nothing for a few seconds. But would you invite a stranger to join you for Christmas mass ? Would you invite a stranger to join you for a pooja in your house ? The sincerity of the invite was so refreshing ! And just like that, all the apprehensions were gone. We didn’t feel alone, we didn’t feel out of place. Even though we were amidst strangers it didn’t seem strange anymore.

If that doesn’t warm your heart, I don’t know what will. Eid Mubarak to everyone, especially the non believers, pessimists, and the ones who are holding on to a single shred of hope. 

#ChooseFaith

#ChooseHumanity 

#HatersUnwelcome

HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY !

I am officially exhausted from the eve of Women’s Day. All this pink around me is genuinely giving me pink eye. I feel like I am in Barbieland for God’s sake. I don’t really know who associated pink with women and or feminism. But whoever did it, deserves to be beaten in a public square with a pink leash.

Regardless, let me quickly get to the point. So, on the eve of Women’s day, I decided to conduct a little experiment of my own. I set out of home on the 7^th of March to see what exactly happens to women on days before and after women’s day. I stepped out of home thinking, it’s going to be a regular day. Shockingly, it wasn’t.

While stepping out of my building, I instructed my neighbor “Hey, could you please park a little bit ahead ? My car blocks our gate otherwise, it could really lead to a problem in an emergency”. She smiled and nodded at me. “Phew ! That was easy”.

I called the watchman, who looked at me like the arrogant, good-for-nothing, “aawaara” woman that I am, and asked delightfully rudely “KYA HUA MAIDUM !” I thought “MAI-DUM hi hu ! To have spoken to talk to him this morning !?”.

“Bhaiyya, please take an Amazon parcel for me”… His eyes went wide with surprise as he asked me “AUR EK ?…” and mumbled something under his breath. When I asked him to repeat what he said, he said, “Too many parcels coming in.. I cannot accept them”..Yeah, I am the small minded, character less woman who arrives home at 2 am and sees the night watchman asleep, happily snoring at the front gate in broad street light.I click a picture and send it to my secretary who is a woman, who fires that watchman and hires a new one. If my parcel goes back, I’ll kill you you little shit.

Women na, I tell you, they’re so dumb.– All the building’s night watchemen organisation.

Moving on. As I got out of my lane trying to hail a rickshaw, I saw one giant poster, a relic from the recent elections, “Congratulations to wife of Mr. X for the blah blah blah” ha ? Achcha ? She doesn’t have a name ! I feel so bad.

I realized I was being ultra bitchy and thought, hey, I should calm down. Maybe visit some kind of spiritual place…what’s that called again ? TEMPLE ! Yeah ! I’ll go to a temple, which is literally two steps away from that hoarding. Instantly, my mind went to the thought “Is it that time of the month ?” as if, it were drilled into my head. As if on cue, there it was, written in bold letters,

“WOMEN HAVING THEIR PERIODS CANNOT ENTER THE TEMPLE.PREGNANT WOMEN BELOW 4 MONTHS CANNOT ENTER THE TEMPLE”.—- All the “we have a dick, we make the rules”holy baba people. 

OMG THESE DUMB WOMEN GOING INTO TEMPLES AND ENDANGERING LIFE AS WE KNOW IT ON PLANET EARTH

Of course, not in these “blatant” words but they seemed quite blatant to me. What I did next, might hurt quite a few religious sentiments, but considering that I wasn’t struck by lightning, wasn’t killed by a half man-half animal being or wasn’t crushed by a falling tree and did not summon the apocalypse on my overly urbanized city, I thought it was quite okay. Besides, what’s happening inside my body is not your problem unless it’s growing teeth and gnawing at your face. That’s called a baby.

A very subtle lordly,” HOLY” man once told me the true reason why women are not allowed in temples during their period (Did you cringe? Because if you did, stop reading right now). He said, there’s a radiance about women during these days, so if they do go outdoors, they lose their radiance.

YO, MR. BABA, FIRSTLY, I CAN BUY RADIANCE IN A 20ML BOTTLE AT A CHEMIST’S SHOP. ITS CALLED AN ANTI AGEING CREAM.

AND SECONDLY, RADIANCE? WHAT RADIANCE? WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD A SUDDEN A VIOLENT DROP IN HORMONES MAKE ME MORE RADIANT!? HEH? IF AT ALL, IT TAKES AWAY THE BACHA KUCHA RADIANCE AND ABOUT 600 STRANDS OF HAIR EVERYDAY. AND OF COURSE IT’S LIKE A BATTLEFFIELD BECAUSE THERE IS LITERALLY A RIVER OF BLOOD (I told you to stop reading if you cringed).

Well, myth busted, I am still alive, no flaming asteroids making their way towards Earth yet…I’ll keep you posted.

GET A RICKSHAW IN MUMBAI

You beg, bribe or threaten the rickshaw. The rickshaw walas in Mumbai are like the puberty stricken teens. They don’t want to go anywhere, they don’t want to do anything and they’re always moody. One Rickshawala stopped. Maybe it was my “radiance” that blinded him to a halt. “EAST ?” I asked him.

One quick, not so subtle glance at my chest area and he said yes. Does he do that to men too? I mean, stare at their chests? Or any other area of their bodies?

You are wearing jeans and tshirt which are not figure hugging. Why are you not trying harder to please me– All tharki men on the road hoping to catch a peek, of something. 

Yeah… Not kidding. I had never really realized or bothered about this. Besides, to protect my radiance that day, I had covered my face and neck with a scarf which was obviously oversized enough to cover everything until my stomach. I was wearing a worn out Captain America Tshirt and a decent pair of jeans with a backpack that could rival Everest climber’s rucksacks.

After this very enlightening experience, I couldn’t wait to get off and go to work where I knew I was surrounded by educated people. Or so I thought…

As soon as I entered, I had apparently interrupted a very important “Women’s DAY” celebration meeting which was why I was instantly pulled into a whirlpool of discussions about what “what games to play during office hours”. Yeeeeiiiiiiiishhhh.

Eeeeekkkkk khikhikhikhi, hehehehehhehe, huhuhuhuhhu, ahhahhhhhha, awwwww, so cute — all women planning an exciting get together. 

My exact expressions in that very moment

I asked the office-wala Bhaiyya for Chai, who mindlessly nodded his head but handed me my tea only after I had asked him the 6^th time. So much for “PAYING ATTENTION”.

Ugh ! These women want attention all the time. They dress up so that we can look at them. Bah !—- Official chai wala statement

After being welcomed by this unnervingly lovable Chai-wala, someone yelled,“ALL THE PRETTY LADIES IN HOUSE, <name>’s HERE SO LOOSEN  UP YOUR BLOUSE”

MY MIND WAS SCREAMING“HEY <name> IN THE HOUSE…NO ONE’S LOOSENING THEIR BLOUSECUZ YOU’RE A BIG SCHMUCK ….AND WE DON’T GIVE A …..RAT’S ASS.”

I don’t know, I am not the best at rapping.

IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN

Just after 4.30, I thought “Okay, one more hour and you can leave”. Just then a colleague barged in and said,

HE : “Happy Women’s Day”

ME : Th..

HE: How are you
ME : Fi..
HE : That day I saw your facebook post

ME :H..

HE : So hilarious

ME : B.. (At this point I was really lucky to even sneak in a monosyllabic grunt. Like Mmmmmmmm…or Oooooo… or Ppppppppp…. I think he saw me experimenting with these grunts and promptly asked)

HE : Are you not feeling well ?

ME : *Waited till he had finished saying all that he was saying and very gently, without spooking him away, said* YES.

Y U NO LET ME TALK YOU BUFFOON

I was prouder of myself in that moment more than Sindhu or Sakshi or Dipa must have been after they got worldwide recognition for their sport. Because I had made myself heard.

One rickshaw ride and another boob stare later, I was home. And that god damn neighbour’s car was still there. *Sigh* Why the hell do i even try !?

Thats when I found out that  my fuul jaisi nazuk kali housemaid had decided to not come to work because her husband decided to leave her or she decided to leave him or my mom decided to leave her or something like that. The shock of it all make me forget the details. Maybe she left because I went to the temple when I was menstruating.

NOW EVERYTHING MAKES SENSE !

Just then I received a text from an old colleague.

THE INEVITABLE HAD BEGAN. “HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY. I salute your…” Nowadays whatsapp has become a very convenient way of stalking people in the digital universe whether it yields true or false info is another matter entirely.

Oh good Lord in the blue heaven let there be lava rain tomorrow and let the rain kill me so that I dont have to listen to this A grade crap anymore. Please God I beg you. If I have to see one more message about women empowerment, I will staple their fingers to each other and glue their mouth shut.

In the same text he also asked me, “YOU LOOK THINNER IN YOUR DP, DID YOU LOSE WEIGHT ? AND WHO ARE THESE CUTE BABIES IN YOUR DP ? YOUR BABIES ? GOOD NEWS ?”

NO, I BOUGHT THESE BABIES. FROM AMAZON. 50 RUPEES PER KILO. BUT I GOT THE WOMEN’S DAY BOGO OFFER. EK PE EK FREE.24 HOURS PRIME DELIVERY. 100 RUPEES EXTRA FOR DELIVERY. YOU WANT ONE ?

GOOD NEWS IS, I AM STARTING A POOP FACTORY. ORGANIC POOP. FROM THESE TWO BABIES. TO BE FLUNG AT FACES LIKE YOURS. TUJHE KYA KARNA HAI KISKA BABIES HAI !? DUKKAR KE PILLE ? 

WHY ARE YOU GETTING SO WORKED UP ?

On the morning of the 8th, I just couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed. EVERYBODY ON THE PLANET WANTED TO SUDDENLY WISH ME “Happy women’s Day” while I was busy toiling away sweeping, cleaning, scrubbing, then typing, working, emailing and finally travelling, menstruating, waiting to die.

MOST WOMEN DID THIS TODAY. WELCOME, TO ONE DAY IN A WOMAN’S LIFE. THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO BE CELEBRATED ABOUT UNTIL THE DAY A WOMAN CAN SIT ON A CHAIR WITH HER FEET UP SIPPING HER VODKA IN HER UNDIES WITHOUT HAVING A HUSBAND OR IN LAWS OR SOCIETY BREATHING DOWN HER NECK TO DRESS PROPERLY AND DRINK RESPONSIBLY AND SETTLE DOWN !

ARRRGH ! I DONT WANT EMPOWERMENT/FAITH/LOVE/CARE/UNDERSTANDING/POWER/GRIT/DEDICATION/ EQUALITY/ROYAL TREATMENT/SPA TREATMENTS/HEAD MASSAGES/PIMPLE CREAM/FOOT CREAM/SAVINGS SCHEME/FERTILITY TREATMENT/DISCOUNTED CLOTHES/ SHOES. AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, I DON’T WANT YOUR SYMPATHY OR YOUR PITY.

Sure, I’m proud of being a woman. But there are plenty of reasons why I am shown how inappropriate and weak I am everyday, by men who need me desperately.

I WANT FREEDOM FROM ALL OF THEM. I WANT MYSELF.

We’ve come a long way and we have a long way to go before its a Happy Fucking Women’s Day !

 

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