I stifled tears this morning

Best buddies always... the two loves of my life!

There have been several firsts in the four decades I’ve been around here. Numerous occasions when I clutched my churning tummy, pasted a rehearsed smile and walked ahead.

This morning was one such. “Mama going…Cornflakes on the table…Please wake up on time.” I whispered into by baby’s ears, kissed her good luck before I left for work at 5.45am.

Mornings have been papa-daughter’s playfield since years, as I leave home around 5.30am. Today, as the husband is out of town and I can’t afford a day off, I sat my girl down for a chat last night.

“Hello, locking the door is not rocket science. Catching the school bus is not a marathon, either. Is that clear, mama,” chided my 14-year-old.

“I understand. But you are doing it for the first time, baby, don’t oversleep…you have your exams, and I can’t be returning from work to….”

“Chill, mama. I am not a kid,” my grandma threw in, hurt at being instructed.

I reset the morning alarm, re-ran the chores over in my head again. That is when I realised how much of my morning tasks the husband silently does without seeking a word of credit. All I do is pack lunch boxes and hop into the car. The kitchen is spic n span when I return at noon; the plants watered, the geezer and lights switched off, the beds made, laundry basket emptied, milk and essentials replenished…most importantly, our girl is in school on time.

As I pulled the covers over, she snuggled in to ask: “What time do you actually leave, like actually leave,” before quickly collecting herself, “O am just asking because I’ve never seen you go. I’ll be fine mama, don’t you worry, I’m an independent girl you see!”

Was my baby being strong? For me?

As a toddler, when I left her for the first time with a house help, she screeched her lungs out, flaying her arms at me. I vividly remember the moments that day. I plucked her off my bosom and into the maid’s arms and ran out without turning to take look, banged the door shut and plonked myself on the door mat. I sat outside the door for about 30 minutes, until she stopped crying and fell asleep before I left for work.

There was yet another first before that. The most painful to date. On the 56^th day after the Divine gifted us our beautiful baby, I had to leave her with my mom in India and take a flight to Dubai for lack of social support.

My baby’s first step, I didn’t see.

My baby’s first babbly word, I didn’t hear.

My baby’s first hug, I didn’t feel.

My baby’s first toothy smile, I didn’t see

My baby’s first solid food, I didn’t feed…

I was marching on to fetch a decent job that would allow our baby to legally stay with us – as a family. Even when well-meaning friends suggested I go back. I was determined not to. If it’s hard for a mother, isn’t it hard to the new father?

I’ve had colleagues ask, “If I had really given birth to her?”  A friend asked, “Are you a woman?”, “How can you stay away from your own child?”

I am. I am a woman, who chokes on words to forgive.

I am a mother, who stifles tears to smile.

I am a wife, who hides fears to let my man do his duties.

I am a woman who is proud to be an inspiration for my girl. I saw her last night – battling her fears to take another new step.

A humble request to all women folks – Stop cribbing. Now! 

You can never be courageous enough. Do only what you 'FEEL' is right.

And please! Never ever seek your worth and value in others!

Life must go on!

Courtesy: Hitavada

Recently when I changed my Whatsapp profile picture, one of my friends messaged: ‘U luk like Indian housewife.’

My mom’s damn sure of my dad and am crazily proud of my lineage and yes I'm a wife at home, I screamed into the mobile, when she pinged ‘let ur hair down, y clip it, u luk old…’ So I let her chuckle and replaced the picture with one where I sported sindhoor on my forehead.

Marriage has this uncanny nature of inadvertent compulsiveness. So for years I wore only pleated pants and skirts because I was made to believe that not all body parts of mine were matured in feminine proportion to hold form-fitting jeans. Until supermodels awakened me when they walked the ramp in my living room and I wondered aloud where their legs ended and hips began. For long I never wore leggings, too, for similar reasons after being made conscious of my disproportionate scrawny legs. Until our family friend, with well-rounded derriere in coloured capris, enrolled for Pilates classes for lean legs.

However, I’m yet to hold a mirror to women. I was diagnosed as having a weak core by a self-obsessed friend, who never tired advising me the importance of gym, pranayams in the balcony and eating greens. “Salads are my meals… I hardly cook…,” she drawled at my dining table helping herself to butter chicken and dal makhani, saying, ‘this is why I loouve coming to your place…slurp’!

Just this morning a self-obsessed cousin took me by my hair. “Gosh this is so not done what the hell was she thinking and you just let her do this even the grocery sachets give better shades omy I need to take you to my stylist ohno this is so dirty red…” when she paused to breathe, I replied, “I'm happy with my new hairdo.” With a shrug, she said, “Whatever, I was on my way to Mrs Kapur. Our new villa interiors I want it Feng Shui proof…”

We continue on our ride thus, even when the tectonic plates choose to pull the plugs from under our feet at its whim. Millions in Nepal and India today couldn’t be bothered of calories on their plates or if their nails are painted. They would only be grateful to be alive, to be breathing, to be holding their kids, yearning to be able to sleep without nightmares.

Feigning ignorance of the fragility of our existence, we forget to let live and all the same profess ‘life must go on'. Whoever coined the quote should have been chronically self-obsessed a person. Time to Google its origin!

Embarrassing compliments

Okay, enough of brooding and sulking, I told myself yesterday, after more than a month in the dark hole attempting to get a grip of life skills.

I need to do everything convincingly, if not at least, symbolically. So I stood before the mirror and spoke to myself. After the self-pep talk, I immediately noticed the flaws in me, which is not because of a lack of self-motivation, rather because I am a WOMAN, wholesome at that! My nails felt like claws. I could grate carrot on my nose and the less said about my sole the better. 

BTW, I have this thing about my feet. My mom always says, "A woman’s feet speaks about her home. If a woman cannot keep her feet neat, how the hell can you expect her to keep her home clean?"

So, dinner could wait. Anyways, I need no reason in particular to keep away from the kitchen. The husband was happy as he saw me chirpy when he returned home and couldn’t care if he had to order food and our girl was the happiest that she could have her junk.

So I head to the parlour, dip my feet in warm water and hand over my head to another and my hands to a third. 

The girls got talking. The one handling my arms, exclaimed, "Maddaam you have nice arms. You can wear sleeveless without worry." It was a compliment that came my way in a long long while. I immediately felt buoyant like riding on a steep bridge at high speed, that I sat basking on which dress to choose to flaunt my freshly-massaged arms. 

I returned to their conversation mid-way when one of them asked me, “Where do you stay, maddaam?"

Giving the details, I queried, "Why do you ask?"  

The three girls resumed talking in their tongue, before one translated for me. "There is no Filipino supermarket near there maddaam."

"I don't shop in any of them, anyways,” I replied.

"No maddaam. You get Tawas stone. Your underarms dark no maddaam. The skin colour become fair..." I slid off the bridge in the same gear. "I get for you."

Later, I hit the gym. I was on a positive overstock. One of the trainers, who initially taught me how to walk right [http://bit.ly/1nR3PB6], came talking, while I was on the treadmill. Seeing him, I increased the speed, lest he assess my gait again. I was mentally preparing to ward off his suggestions, when I heard him say, “You have a well-maintained body..." Those words got me so light-headed that I lost him in between, “…like a sportsperson." 

“Really!” I asked.

“You doubt?” he countered.

Now, I was trying hard to check my cheeks, lest he catches me blushing. I was so thrilled that I jumped off the treadmill and climbed on the cross-trainer. Compliments can instantly increase your stamina, I realised. 

"Good, you've improved a lot," he said, following me and I peddled harder.

"Take two sessions; we can improve your core strength..."

"What?” so he was canvassing after all.

“But didn't you just say I have a sportspersons body!" I asked releasing my hand, in a show of expertise to quell any doubt he may harbour.

He laughed loud and clarified, "You didn’t hear me right. I said, you can have a well-maintained body, if you work with me, in fact, we can make it a sportsperson's…"

I stepped down, stretched like a cat and gulped half-a-bottle of water in one go as if that would wash away my embarrassment for the day.

Of sarees, women and me

Survived a dampener of a weekend that saw me as usual rev up my hopes to fit the bill, only to unwind wondering when I will at last do it. Rev up the self, all by myself. And let go. Go by myself…to where I always saw myself with a care to the tongues…

All set for the women-only affair

After more than a decade in this glamorous city, I draped the nine yards for a Hindu ritual, and felt honoured to be invited. Felt beautiful, too. A saree makes one feel so! It hides your flaws and moods as well!

But when I soon learnt it was an exclusively all-women evening and bitterly let the better-half wander around, I was once again reminded I am one less on the feminine gene. Like a square peg in the round hole I endured the chatter, banter, howls and squeals of married women until I thanked the host and sneaked out after a respected show of guest etiquette.

Some women never grow up!

There’s nothing a sound sleep can’t fix. But, soon I was again reminded that feminine ego is just one oo..aaw! that can’t be lullabied. I willingly endured more of the I-am-the-best stuff. Everything from kids’ education to TV soaps and how to breathe right, the importance of each topic can be correctly ascertained only by my ilk. Even my man who tires people with his details fails on this count!

Some women never give up!

Well, here I stand after my weekend sucking my toes and nails up until the sole that I feel my feet in my epiglottis.

I am SUFFOCATING!

Every weekend I rev myself up, all by myself. And decide to let go. Go by myself…to where I always saw myself with a care to the tongues…And then…

The week begins, yet again. I survive it the same way yet again.

Bloody, it’s time I grew up and garnered the courage to just give up!

I am a woman, too!

I am SUFFOCATING!

Hello! Are you Miss, Ms or Mrs?

Interestingly, it is one of my male friends whom I have to thank for this column. A cartoon he shared on this page was titled - 'Oh she's not working. She's a housewife'.

We have mortals who believe women who do not earn a living do no work. Changing their rusted mindset would be a herculean task. So how about a change in addressing women instead?

If a married woman who stays at home is called a housewife, then one who goes out to work should have the name of the organisation prefixed to her name. Fair enough?

A married woman employee should be called AppleTech wife, Vidya Bhavan wife, Munu’s Auto Garage wife, Hotel Chin Chu wife…

It has more than one advantage. If you do not like your spouse’s name or are tired of your family name, voila! you get a new name. You can change it each time you switch your job. What more, you would come up on internet search engines more often. Easier way to virtual fame, too.

Now, if you aren’t comfortable with numerous others sharing your nomenclature, then you may zero it down to the unit of work in the organisation and vet it down further for more specific names. For instance, if a married woman employee of, say, AppleTech finds it too general, she can opt for Software Development wife and if she finds that widely used as well, then settle for Boss wife! Mr Stephan wife! Dr Shinde wife… or Ms Savitha wife, Ms Meera wife…

How ludicrous! Hello, I am married to Sachin and am Mr Stephan wife! Or Hello, I’m married to John and am Ms Rachael wife!” I'd love this one the best..."Hello, She is my wife and Mr D'Souza wife."

Ewww! Let me stop lest your imagination runs wild.

Least of all, revising a woman's title will certainly cause cultural shocks, as we are used to boys being called Master and when they grow up addressed as Mr, while a female starts off being a Miss then a Mrs followed by being a Ms.

If a man can be called Mr irrespective of his marital status, why should a woman be Mrs?

Now, think of this, a woman in a relationship with a married man is called his 'mistress', while that male will still be a Mr. The suggestion I got when I bounced the thought off was to call such men her 'mattress'.

Blame it on women for the addresses. Why feel insecure about your marital status after you've taken the plunge? If its age-related perks that you fear, sorry women folks, our hands and eyes do give us away, however, we wish to think otherwise. Botox and tucks and lifts cannot hold them in place for long. Give that money to charity and hold your self-esteem high instead.

May I suggest, in the best interest of all souls born females, that you be a Miss as long as you are a girl and revise that to Ms when you are sure you are grown up to be called a woman. So even if you feel 16 at 60, no worries, you are still a 'Miss' with a zzz. And those who do not know your marital status and age, would anyway address you Ms.

Now for those who love being Mrs, by all means call yourself thus. But don't be offended if your neighbourhood aunty asks, ' Where's your Misterrr'.

I mean no offence to any aunty. Oops! aunts. Who? Women, man!

Rapists challenge India's conscience

[This appeared in The Financial World on April 23rd]

It is pathetic, heart-rending, sad, outrageous...indescribable. In less than four months after the gang-rape of the medical student in a moving bus that shocked the nation, now a little girl, tortured in confinement, has once again brought protestors out on the streets.

But, this time, the scale of protests isn't the same. The unprecedented agitation that broke out across the length and breadth of India in late-December and January is not repeated. At least not as of now. Social media users are sharing and voicing their feelings, but that contagious angst is missing. Some quote why only cases that happen in Delhi are highlighted, when rapes happen across the country almost daily. A few even posted that she is not the first 5-year-old to be tortured.

Sounds callous, indeed.



Graphic Courtesy: The Financial World

Laymen vent their frustration thus, when the system drags its feet. The Nirbhaya case suspects should have been done with by now. The case is often referred to as the one that ‘stirred India’s conscience’.

Well, our minds were stirred once prior to that. Remember the old social activist who resurrected Gandhi topi? Anna Hazare’s agitation against corruption was also described as “arousing nation’s conscience” then.

And here, now, we have policemen bribing the family of the little one to hush up!

Wonder whose conscience we referred to. The bureaucracy which doesn’t pull up its act to keep countrymen safe? Sinister minds that have no fear of the law of land? Media channels that play up a case until they get another one to keep their TRP ticking? Laymen who react for some time and continue to live life as if nothing ever went wrong only to wake up at another point to blame authorities for not doing enough?

Who, who is to be blamed for the atrocious treatment of women in the country? Bureaucracy blames democratic shackles; Media blames survival rules; Laymen blame both the above.

Passing the buck with impunity happens only in a democracy. What use is democracy if citizens fear for their lives and that of their loved ones? It’s time the government clamps down on sick minds. Capital punishment may sound barbarous, undemocratic and against human rights. But only this will instill the fear in beasts that is missing now.

The law should have zero-tolerance for rapists. The victim should serve as both the practical evidence and witness. Hear her out and act. Punish her torturers publicly. Cops and officials who tamper with the case illegally should be held accountable and punished immediately.

Meanwhile, each person, each household must act conscientiously. Treat sons and daughters equally. Educate little boys to respect girls. Include a topic on sexual ethics for high-school students. So at least the next-gen can say with pride that ‘the nation's conscience has been stirred’ and Indians are an awakened lot.