Meeting a stranger for an Arranged Marriage date

I’ve felt like an anorexic model
reed thin, yellow, listless

while sashaying down the restaurant floor
Restaurant is their favourite place. 
They may meet you in these places
restaurants, book stores, malls or coffee shops
wrapped in crisp, neatly ironed clothing
buttoned up, their protruding Adam’s apple peeping out
most remind me of young boys dancing
their way to school. 
Others look like businessmen
waiting to seal a deal with a signature.
Some look like rag pickers
who hate to bathe or clean, stinking like 
piles of garbage piling
in the corner of your colony
attracting diseases.

They appear confident
when they hit on a conversation
gulping down glasses of water
Their eyes fixated on the legs of the chair
you are propped on like a kitten, coiling in her fur.
They sell their degrees
and blow trumpets about the money they bring home
flexing their muscles.
While they mouth sweet nothings to you, 
Their eyes twinkle like a love struck teenager.
Inside their dirty heads muddled with selfish misgivings
they will be giving you points, on a scale of one to ten
You will be judged on the light that your face can emit,
to the stupid talk that barfs from your mouth, 
being thrashed for intelligent opinions you may dare to have. 

Some may want you to be a donkey, carrying your own burden 
and that of theirs. Some may think of you as baby makers,
considering your body as a machine that plops out babies 
when their semen gets lost in your womb, much like your mind.
Some may want you to be a guinea pig
with whom they can practice the various “Kama sutra” poses
or may think of you as an ATM machine
your money will buy their happiness.
It’s a million dollar industry, this arranged marriage market
where daughters every year are trained to be mute mannequins
or trophy wives that men can show around to a society
that loves to poke its nose in other’s business
blinded by the big fat log in their eye.

The Art of Healing your Soul

This post begins with a confession. I must admit that I was a scared cat for a good part of my life. You can comfortably call me an introvert. Introverts can't mix with human life and yes I am one of those people who worry about putting off others and press the panic button at anything that my mind may not able to come to terms with. We introverts wear colored masks to hide the frown lines that the world and the drama it creates, puts on us. For a long time, I struggled at choosing those masks and painting them with my favourite hues of emotions. With the passage of time, I am learning the trick.
An article sent by the bestie on the three different kinds of people in the world based on their negative feelings shook me up. This thought provoking article on Mental Floss  talks about three different kinds of personalities. If you happen to read it, you may get a fair idea about the kind of personality you are. I tried to wear one of those personality types, and failed to strictly put myself into any of the kinds that the author has mentioned of. For me the journey has been from a sense of nothingness to weary boredom and finally at this stage in life, I have given up on the world and can't fit myself into the shoes it has offered.
This discouragement led to anger, hopelessness and fear. I wasn't aware of those moments when I was becoming an epidemic of negativity. 
In 2013, I took to practicing spirituality. My mom was startled when one fine day, I declared that I was attending the Sunday mass. For someone who had seen the altar of the church as a young girl, this was one giant leap towards a different kind of life, one that she had never perceived to live. After endless rounds of confession and spiritual cleansing, I took a few decisions. One of the most important of those resolutions was to deactivate my Facebook profile and stay away from twitter. I think one can freeze the former while I didn't know how I was supposed to delete the latter. Perhaps, it was one of the best decisions I ever took for myself. Yes, if you have been hunting to find peace and have failed till this day, then trust me this is the first door that you  need to open, to be in harmony with yourself. I had scuttled away from social media during lent and by the time I returned, fifty days later, I was many kilos lighter and detached from the dramas that had taken a toll on me. If TV is the culprit for you, especially the depressing news channels, then try and cut that clutter from your life for sometime. Trust me, you'll thank me for having given you the advice.
A few months later, I also cleaned up my friend list, unfriending people who were there on my list because we had 125 mutual friends. We never bothered to speak and since it was scary to start a conversation with a stranger I chose to set them free. On the other hand, a few other people decided to set me free and that evened the equation.
The social media is keeping us informed and raising important issues but at the same time, it is accumulating pessimism inside us when we read about them everyday. Also, it puts us at par with people who talk about their personal lives or goals. We start measuring our materialistic and emotional happiness with their yardstick and that is the point from where we fall, and hurt ourselves. 
Remember not all fingers are of the same length, and yes research like this says that Facebook can magnify narcissism and anxiety.

                                                 Picture credit: christianpost.com

30th January 2016

Yesterday night was special. After spending an extended weekend in Delhi, I headed back to Bombay. The paradigm shift from winters to a pleasant climate is a kick in the gut. I usually prefer the Delhi-Bombay Rajdhani as it saves me the extra miles from the Mumbai airport, but this time I was in hurry so chose the latter option.
After reaching home I curled up in the annals of my comfortable bedroom, still reeling under the winter chill that had been coughed into my lungs by Delhi.
A little later in the early evening I received a phone call from my best friend. She was in Bombay and wanted to catch up with me. Unlike in Delhi where we scoot inside our homes after eight pm, in Bombay it's a different story. The people of Bombay are not bothered about others and their lives, as all of them are hurrying to reach their destinations, since travelling is an arduous activity. Perhaps because of this reason Bombay is brimming with human life even at night.
For Delhites though,  conforming to the idea of travelling at night is difficult. Even then over the years, I have punched fear right on its face and journeyed across the length and breadth of the city. 
I remember those days when I had landed in Bombay, and navigation had bogged me down. I couldn't ascertain routes or plan an outing, and had to rely on the autorickshaws and kali-peeli taxi. In Delhi, where every nook and cranny of the city is connected by metro, moving around isn't a big deal anymore.While in Bombay you need to have extra starch in your backbone to hop onto the local which drives the city. For a person who had recently landed in the city, the probability was a big no. I chose the next best option, the rickshaws and taxis, since learning routes took some time. Infact memorizing the names of places took me about two months until I could wean myself off from relying on taxis.

26 th January 2016

"67 year old republic. Oh really!" said my american cousin giving a bemused expression.
"Yes India is growing older but its young citizens are keeping her on toes."
By the time I had defended India's youthful ageing like an angry warrior we had reached Rajpath. The sun was glistening on the green grass sprinkled with the morning mist. 
"It isn't as cold as we had thought it would be." she said.
I had hoped against hope that the weather would treat us kindly and especially since this airy american cousin had landed down in the city, nail biting chill would have played spoilsport and given her all the reasons to complain.

We had reserved our seats and were sure of being comfortably seated, but even then to avoid a last minute confusion, I dragged her to the venue in the wee hours of the morning.
"Oh I thought we have cushioned seating arrangement." she complained.
"This is an open air event. Do you get to sit on padded seats during soccer matches in the US of A?" I asked visibly irritated by her snobbishness. 
"Ah ok! We'll manage." she said sensing the angry discomfort in my voice.
These american born confused desis. Ofttimes I wonder, whether they were all born with a silver spoon?"

The city had turned into a fortress with 50,000 police personnel and a whooping 150,000 paramilitary staff guarding the city. I had read in the newspaper that one police personnel was deployed after every twenty metres. With the recent Pathankot attacks, the government and security agencies were leaving no stone unturned to ensure that the city was nestled in safety.
The celebrations began with the chanting of the national anthem. This was followed by a posthumous Ashoka chakra award to Lance Naik Mohan Goswami who was martyred while fighting eleven terrorists in Jammu and Kashmir. I could see my cousin intently listening to the voice of the announcer reminiscing Mohan Goswami's  acts of daredevilry. Our brave soldiers are the only reason that we sleep comfortably in our homes and we must always be thankful to them for guarding our borders from the enemies of the state.
The first highlight of the day was the French army's 35th infantry regiment marching smartly in their uniforms. They were not stiffly marching much like our armed forces but yes most of the people present there were awestruck by their charm. There was also a french band named "Music of Infantry" that played tunes joyously as the crowd cheered them.

                                                       

                                    Picture credit: newsnation.com

Christmas Gift 24/12/2015

The delivery guy rang the bell
and handed me a black box
one that had kept me on my toes for many days
it's arrival devoured on my sleep
like a pregnant woman I stood guard.
My impatient fingers tore open the tape
sealing the objects of affection you had sent across
on an overcast winter evening,
socks to warm cold feet
eyewear to let my eyes build castles in air
diary with a message on the last page
scrawled illegibly with a pencil
thermometer to measure inner rage during a fever
postcard addressed to places that will look 
for me and you,inside a crowd of tourists
Christmas message that would someday be born
on a nameless street across Marine Drive.

The BIBA ad-- Challenging some stereotypes while staying mum on the rest!

Every attempt at changing minds or challenging stereotypes is ridden with its share of criticism. That is what happens in our country mostly, where everyone has an opinion and a facebook or twitter account. Of times I wonder as to when we really be happy. Finding a grey hair in a black mane had become our favourite passtime, all thanks to the social media revolution. I agree that healthy criticism is very important, but should it always overlook the spurt of changes we are aiming to see in our society infected with patriarchal mores.

A few days ago while checking my emails I happened to come across this post, mentioning BIBA's new advertisement that was claiming to question a stereotype. The stereotype discussed here was the cooking skills a woman should posses in order to find a groom, whether that happens through her family or if she happens to make the call. 

The advertisement brings into picture a coy girl who is wearing over-sized earrings in an effort to bedeck herself and look pretty in front of the suitor arranged by her parents. Her worried father barges into her room where she dares to question him about how could she magically take a decision about how can she spend the rest of her life with a guy by feeding him a plate of samosas? The father gives her a stern cold look and asks her to come soon. Next, she is shown sitting impassively in her drawing room where her parents and the guy's parents are taking a decision about her future. I wonder what qualities were taken into consideration which inspired the groom's mother to give a green signal to Payal, the quiet shy girl who was shown to be the mute mannequin in this advertisement. At this instance, the father decides to take the matter in his own hands and tells them that they will be visiting their house soon. The guy's mother aghast at this idea asks why are they considering a visit? To which the father replies that his daughter wants to know as to how adept their son is when it comes to cooking or taking care of a household, so that they could give away their daughter.The mother laughs off the proposition by saying that her son can't even boil water and can only make noodles in a microwave. The girl's father apologetically conveys to them that their daughter can't live on noodles alone.At this juncture, the groom intervenes into the conversation and invites the girl's family to their house after ten days, trying to buy time to learn cooking. The frame closes with smiles spread on the faces of everyone present there.

The Female Human Body and the politics of Menstruation

Nikita Azad has pulled the rabbit out of the hat. A raging, roaring debate about menstruation has been deafening this part of the planet. And its falling on the deaf ears of a bunch of self-confessed misogynists who have appointed themselves as the patrons of religion.
This is India, where talking about menstruation is forbidden and a bleeding woman is considered impure. Look at the irony, it's also the same country where women are worshiped as goddesses on Ashtami. So while women are revered as sacred their bodies and the blood flowing out of it, because of the changes that a woman's body undergoes to prepare for a pregnancy is considered impure.  Once in a month, the uterus grows a new lining to get ready for a fertilized egg. And when the body does that, all hell breaks lose and women are deemed as impure by men and women, the silent agents of patriarchy.
When I look back at times, I remember my struggle with menstruation. I was one of those girls who started menstruating early in life and was not prepared to deal with it. It came as a rude shock for my mom, who thought that she had all the time in the world to arm me with the necessary information. What followed was a cycle of events every month that involved regular visits to the chemist shop to get my supply of sanitary pads, to carefully placing it so that I don't stain my clothes and become a butt of jokes ( I did become a butt of jokes many times, since I suffered from heavy flow) to hurriedly rushing to the washroom during a period to change to escape the prying eyes of people and especially men. 
We used to secretly murmur about it amidst female friends never letting the guys around us have an inkling of it, as if they had no idea about menstruating girls.
Religion meanwhile had already played havoc in our lives. Many hindu girls used to tell us stories of how they were disallowed to enter temples while on periods and were even not allowed to say their prayers. I was told to not attend the Sunday mass and touch the bible while menstruating because as per the patriarchal church fathers I was impure to touch anything that was sacred. Since I wasn't a devout Christian, I used to happily give the sunday mass a miss while on my period. But over the years I felt like questioning these practices, devised by a bunch of men  for keeping a check on women. I decided to abruptly end this malpractice of not being allowed inside the church premises by heading to the church on a Sunday, while on my periods. Mom supported me and never reprimanded   me for this sudden outburst of rebellion. While some eastern orthodox churches still do not allow menstruating women to partake in the sunday mass, the catholic church had since opened its doors to women on their periods. 
Infact when I had posted a status update to support the #HappyToBleed hashtag some friends expressed their surprise and doubt about such practices existing in the church. Many more decided to stay mum about body politics that is regressive and oppressive. 

Nikita's open display of fearless honesty has opened a dirty can of worms. I saw quite a few women supporting the #HappyToBleed hashtag with pictures, with a vast majority still choosing to stay silent about the period talk. To all such people, who decide to brush this issue under the carpet and consider it shameful to talk about menstruation, may I pose a few questions.

1) Do you think menstruation a natural process needs to be hidden from men?
2)Do you think men don't know about menstruation and if suddenly through an online campaign they are informed of it, all hell will break lose?
3) What is so shameful about menstruation, the blood or the fact that it flows from the vagina?
4) Is it difficult for you to accept menstruation as a natural body cycle, if we forget the pain and cramps associated with it?
5) Don't you think the body politics around menstruation needs to be discussed, so that women are not shunned and shamed by patriarchy, for something that is natural?
6) Don't you think talking more about menstruation will bring to light the taboos associated with it?
7) Don't you think campaigns centered around menstruation will allow the less privileged women folk of our country to be informed about it?
8) Don't you think campaigns like #HappyToBleed will foil patriarchy to play havoc in a woman's life?
9) Do you consider yourself impure when you are on a period?
10) Should a  normal cycle be a yardstick for shunning women  from religious freedom?