Its NOT okay

I was reading Tina Fey’s memoir, Bossy Pants and in one of the first chapters she speaks of discussing with a group of women the question, “When did you first know you were a woman?”

She writes, “The group of women was racially and economically diverse, but the answers had a very similar theme. Almost everyone first realized they were becoming a grown woman when some dude did something nasty to them. “I was walking home from ballet and a guy in a car yelled, ‘Lick me!’” “I was babysitting my younger cousins when a guy drove by and yelled, ‘Nice ass.’” There were pretty much zero examples like “I first knew I was a woman when my mother and father took me out to dinner to celebrate my success on the debate team.” It was mostly men yelling shit from cars. Are they a patrol sent out to let girls know they’ve crossed into puberty? If so, it’s working.””

The reason I bring this up is because a few days back when I was traveling by bus, an elderly man on an adjacent seat asked me, “So, what brand of perfume are you wearing today?” I wasn’t as mad as I was appalled, saddened and almost silenced by the most random statement that could ever be made by an absolute stranger. 

I feel sorry for the fact that at times, instead of celebrating womanhood, we end up feeling quite dejected by it. By that racer-back top or the bright pink lipstick and the dark-kohl which we can’t do without quite often.

And to that bright, balding man I must ask, “What were you thinking really?” and do you really have to say something nonsensical to someone less than half your age because you simply can? 

When a successful actress like Deepika Padukone can be objectified by the “largest selling newspaper in the world” or when Jennifer Lawrence’s nude photos are splashed across the web -to the perpetrators I ask, what were you thinking?

What is that hedonistic pleasure that you get by invading someone’s privacy, traumatising them or even questioning them on their choice of attire because really, it’s none of your business? And when, we as consumers allow this to happen, when we click the mouse on that link, we play the much-required part to make these people or organizations feel that this is the content we are asking for and THIS is what we deserve.

And this is perhaps why when a pervert pinches your buttocks and vanishes in the crowd at a railway station it dismantles you but what he probably feels is a brazen euphoria. I mean, if Honey Singh can swoon over Sunny Leone singing Char Botal Vodka, you could very well molest or letch at an unknown person. Totally doable.

And to you, I wouldn’t even bother reminding of your mother and sister because clearly you care zilch about them. Or even hope for you to have a conscience, because then I’ll be trying to invest in the prospect of you being a decent human being. Which lets face it, you never are, and never will be. 

But hear this, for the umpteenth time, ITS NOT OKAY. To ask unpleasant questions, to make an unsavoury remark, to dismiss a person because it makes you feel invincible. Its not okay that you decided to grope me, when I was barely in my teens and shatter my self-confidence and sense of being.

To make women feel safe or even to pretend that you care, you have to understand that are not they are not commodities which come with an expiration date. They have hearts, minds and YES, bodies which will open up to another person ONLY when they want to. By trespassing, passing comments you will only be alienated by the prospect of being truly admired by a beautiful person, who could be self-doubting but does not need you to make it worse.

And to those who want to make it count, instead of opening the door for her next time, fight for her, fight for her opinions and love her for it. Fight for her happiness, fight for your happiness and the next time someone circles a woman’s cleavage on a national daily (because how else could you have spotted it!), make a choice, and subscribe to a different paper. And when a friend spams you with “hot photos” of Oscar-winning actresses, realise the fact that the photos didn’t reach you with her consent. Un-friend the friend and move on. 

Let’s hope that we all manage to love kindly, with discretion and the possibility of imbibing the fact that we are nothing without an open mind, and of course a fabulous dressing sense, both of which can never be compromised with. 

Moving past the 'taboo'

'What is a taboo?'

'A taboo is something you want but can't have'

'...something that makes people uncomfortable'

'....something we are not ready for'

I wanted to be unapologetic about the dream. In a way, I was. In reality, I was yet to feel the fierce force of desire. In the dream, the bus was trudging through the mountains, accompanied by the dark clouds above, guiding us through the meandering ways.

We were seated in two of the front-row seats, the rest of the passenger sat interspersed, making the bus look oddly empty.

I don't know what I was thinking. But I was awfully lonely and cold. I wanted validation. That I wasn't this pesky writer, whose only job was to reflect inwards and produce voluminous literary works out of experiences she never had. 

At times, maybe I was too picky about the company I wanted around me, the food I ate, the drinks I refused and the men I dated. It was a conscious decision to not let someone peek into my soul. Even during moments of disarray I was selective about the information I gave out to the people; especially the ones closest to me.

I didn't ask them if I looked fat in my ugly dress. 

I assumed the answers instead. 

The protagonists of my book were strong heady women who made men crave for them. For whom love was pragmatic; almost like a business transaction were the pro's and cons need to be weighed before signing a deal. In my head, I constantly envied them for their confidence. 

But today the only thing on my mind was this man sitting beside me, looking outside the window, humming faintly. It was quite distracting.

After some time he turned to look at me.

'Could you please tell me the time?'

'It's almost four.'

His eyes were of a curious shade of hazel, I noticed.

'Thanks,' he said barely opening his mouth.

As the bus moved along, those travelling with family took turns sleeping and guarding their hefty belongings. But not both of us. He just had his back-pack and I, a tote. 

Around six, for some reason (also maybe because it was a dream) most of the passengers were in various stages of their afternoon nap. Some snoring vigorously, mumbling incoherent words or being ominously silent.

I was writing in my diary, phrases mostly about the journey and what I had observed so far.

My neighbour's existence didn't matter to me till then. But the next five seconds would change everything. 

"Sorry I don't meant to intrude, but I have read all your books. I found them quite intriguing."

It wasn't the first time someone told me that they like what I write. But his words engulfed me, with a fatal realisation that all this while I have been too hard on myself, unknowingly imposing restrictions on myself; when all I wanted, was to be free.

"Also," he added.

"I think you're much more beautiful in real life. Not that you don't look good in your photos and in interviews..."

Validation.

My mouth was on his. Breathing heavily. He was surprised but he complied to my sudden whim, cupping my face, removing the hair from my face; which was flushed in an instant. 

I pushed him to the window and kept kissing him, hot tears flowing down my face. He pulled me closer to him and unbuttoned my sweater.

"Are you sure you want this?"

I nodded.

Standing awkwardly against the window, I felt the first thrust in all its absolution. Several others followed soon after. I clutched his jacket and let out a slight moan. My inner thighs were wet with blood and instead of cleaning it up straightaway, I chose to sit for a while, regaling in its glory.

He smiled at me. I muttered a 'thank you'.

He guffawed. 'Anytime.'

And then, I woke up.

Taboo, an author writes, is something we are not ready for. But when we are ready; it pushes us to dive of the cliff and let go. When we are ready, it sets us free.

Getting past 'it'

“The shattering of a heart when being broken is the loudest quiet ever.” 

Anxiety attacks; penetrating every fibre of your body. Loneliness, if only you knew its remedy. Love; oh how you wish you knew how to experience it fully, letting it engulf you completely, and not spit out your soul, when it chooses to. At times, you want to put up a fight and let it be heard by the people who have wronged you; intermittently but terribly.

‘It’ meaning the response you could possibly muster up for someone who superbly smack shit across your face leaving you listless and hurt, simply because they can and you can’t be rude to people.

Almost 22, I wish I could deal with certain situations better. That is if my only resolve to an unpleasant occurrence be it my personal or professional life, wouldn't be to break down and cry. Because apparently tears imply that you are a weakling that you aren't allowed to be frustrated, bitter or downright angry, since that makes your lachrymal glands explode.

And like most of my so-called good wishers have said. People will take you for granted. And boy do they not!

But I often wonder if it’s worth it? To be inanely passive and let things be; even if it kills you from inside. To know that your worst fear is to not that you can’t land a fantastic job or go to the writing school you have visited frequently in your dreams.

It’s as simple as being unable to stand up to the accusations of one person who means the world to you. To realise that someone’s repeated insinuations can make you think so little of yourself. And that after all these years and all the distance, it still matters. What he or she thinks of you still is majorly responsible for how you think of yourself, and you’d do anything to change it, but you’d rather not.

Secretly, you blame them for everything. Your dysfunctional antics, stopping even a friend to reach out to you because they shouldn't; because the dimensions of the entire problem are rather entangled, and also embarrassing.

Slowly it becomes a part of your existence, gnawing into your everyday reality, affecting every decision you take; however not enough to dismiss the perpetrators of a hurt soul.

An author once said, “We accept the love we think we deserve.” Maybe. Maybe not. My idea of love is mostly not the self-deprecating kind; neither am I atrocious at giving love, even though I am not utterly resplendent. But I do realise that due to a few bad experiences, I blatantly might refuse a chance to those who are quite fond of me.

So, from now I hope to try and stop feeling low and let certain people or moments define what life or love should mean to me. And be steadfast, even if not spontaneous, to move past the hurt, to grab hold of good wishes which come by my way every day. And mostly importantly even if I am unable to curtly answer back someone, to give myself the time to recover from something which genuinely bothers me.

Because some people will be worth the fight and some won't. And as always, some infinities will be bigger than other infinities. And it's up to you to pick one and go with the flow.

Why Writing Matters and Stories Too

 I started writing as an awkward teenager, when the arduous journey of going to school and back, multiple tuitions and the ordeal of having a few classmates who used to come and ask me to make them read the “dirty parts” of a Sidney Sheldon book, seemed too much to handle.

Neither was I a class topper, nor a back bencher, floating through lessons as if they didn't matter. Of course, coming to think of it, calculus didn’t actually matter, but 2+2 sure does, even today. But I used to be perpetually excited about English classes, ready with my fancy mechanical pencil and eraser, to copiously scribble down what Shelley, Yeats or a Wordsworth thought while writing those beautiful verses, which still make me regret not pursuing a degree in English.

Anyway, getting back to how and why I started writing. A few months into my menstrual cycle (of course you did NOT need to know that), I was head over heels for a guy, about whom I knew nothing. I used to text spam him, bombarding the poor lad with a zillion messages from my landline number. It's not something I am acutely proud of, but when nothing worked out, I started writing. And it wasn't any of your morbid, sleazy passages about getting my heart broken. Instead, I kept recollecting the night when he danced like a dream in front of me, while I was PMSing and writhing with cramps. Those few hours, they were perfect. And the reason I remember them so vividly is because nine years back, I choose to write about it. (Man I feel like an old dame no!)

As I moved to college, my writing slowly changed from being like an acoustic cover of a Taylor Swift song, to something which slightly reflected the kind of person I was growing into. Instead of stalking random strangers, I started stalking strangers who also happened to fantastic journalists, writers, activists, and yes, feminists.

During my first college internship, I briefly worked with an organisation which worked towards eradicating prostitution. I was scared for my dear life, when I stepped into a red-light area for the first time in my life. The dingy alleys, the dark staircases, men strewn on floor. All of it made me acutely aware of the fact that struggle is such a never-ending process. And of how it is possible, to take charge of our lives, bodies and most importantly our souls when we want and how we want.

Three years have whirled by, I have written about bird hospitals, distressed jeans, spoken to authors whose books I love, some whose novels I have never read and plays which make me laugh alongside an audience of whom I know none.

I have enjoyed most of it, but at times, writing too feels like an obligation for which I am paid, and hence expected to churn out pieces which can be suitable for the palette of over a lakh people. That's why, when you do a fantastic story at work, mostly nobody notices, but one mistake and chappals are out, ready to dismiss your sheer existence.

The struggle these days, however, is mostly to catch up with the kind of writing, which I once couldn't do without. Exploding into a piece of paper, but never dissolving with it. Even if page gets lost, the essence of your inner exploration never does. So as I write this, during peak production hours, I wonder what if I didn't meet that pimply lad in a black blazer dancing on a Himesh Reshammiya song, would I still write?

I guess I still would. 

One of the most cheerful and nice authors whom I came across recently told me, "The act of writing is a joy in itself. It’s a very intriguing process of creation where ideas and incidents take over. You start with nothing and something comes out of it and you become a medium to write a story, one that needs to be told."

And even if it's your own story, especially if you write a blog like I do, you would be surprised to know how one's life stories can resonate across countries. Even if it's a nonchalant view alert from a country, whose name you hadn't heard of before, you realise how we all are but stories, and that in spite of wars, heartbreaks and separations, a moment which was once felt, observed and lived through, will float around as molecular tales, waiting to stumble into and happen in someone else’s life. 

We often tend to oversimplify love, placing it at the top of  to-do lists, our brains and our hearts. It feels utterly bitter to like someone dearly and have them do the lamest of things to get rid of your nagging presence in their otherwise perfect lives. Like establishing the fact that they are rather solid with someone, and meeting them sneakily behind their mother's backs. Or telling you that they don't know where their life is headed. Better still, pinging on gtalk to inform that they are not single anymore. 

You could whack them across their faces, but you retain your calm and composure and utter the sanctimonious words, "I deserve better." Nope. Not true. Because there must be a time when you also have tried miserably to communicate to someone, "Look, You and Me. Never going to happen." 

And it's okay, to not like or to like someone because attraction is fleeting and so subjective. You either like someone or you don't. But just because the other person is unsure of his/her feelings is it okay to ostracize yourself for it? You know, it's not.

It's a beautiful feeling to admire someone but we must try to not base it on the bleak prospect of getting into a relationship with them. Instead initiate a friendship, and if that feels awkward, sit back and see where things go. But don't give up on that fleeting emotion, which makes you dizzy because you yourself can't possibly fathom how this one person makes you lose control of your otherwise brilliant memory and mumble gibberish whenever you see them. 

Yes, this post is dedicated to a friend because I relate to the dichotomy in her life far too much. It took me most of teenage and adult years to isolate admiration from reciprocation because it feels like crap to get your heart broken by someone and it does wonders to your self esteem!  

It's not easy, and maybe one of those jerks will turn around one day, and say, "It will be a pleasure to have my heart broken by you." Till then, love yourself, love your ability to not get shattered, even when someone dismisses you and do let go, when you have to. How else, would you finally meet the atrocious monkey, who thinks you look the best in the morning, with your tousled hair, horrible breath and red eyes. 

And remember, even when you don't, a nerdfighter called John Green once said, "We need never be hopeless because we can never be irreparably broken."

Okay?

In sickness and in health

Sometimes the idea of pain is utterly unfathomable and then all of a sudden it becomes a horrid truth, negating the reason for your existence. And so my friend said, I was hyperventilating. Maybe I was, but I spent the week in sheer misery, recovering and falling into repeated hallucinations which was the by-product of an otherwise nonchalant viral fever.

I didn't visit the doctor in the beginning because it felt like something I could deal with. I mean if I couldn't deal with a weather change flu, nothing would ever be easy for me. Turns out self-medication was a terrible idea. In six days, I went from 'oh I can't smell my food' to 'my skin is burning so much that I should be allowed to have a water hose at my disposal' The pain, was excruciating to say the least, and when I finally ended up visiting a general physician at a local nursing home, she suggested I take a paracetamol injection.

"WHAT? Really? What do you think I have been surviving on for the past six days?"

"This is a strong dose, it'll help you sleep."

By then, I think I had lost it. May be without an iota of rhyme or reason but for the first time in my life, I didn't feel utterly invincible. I broke down in front of the doctor, who wanted me to leave the place rather than 'create a scene.' My friend was awe-struck and should I say bamboozled by how I transfigured from a shivering Eskimo to a hysteric insomniac. 

I called up my parents, and almost begged them to let me come home. I felt I couldn't do without them. It felt utterly unreasonable to spend a bomb on flight tickets, when probably a day or two's rest in Hyderabad too, could have served me fine. But I was hell-bent. Home was what I needed, the only thing which could make me feel better.

So, I went home last Friday, the doctor I was taken to was unbelievably friendly, I was actually a tad bit disappointing that he didn't offer me a candy after being so kind to me. Anyhow, blood tests were done, I had a refrigerator full of food at my disposal. And my beautiful three dogs, wonderfully understanding, who pampered me, must I say, rightfully so. 

This post is also for my parents, who arranged for my travel at a moment's notice, my brother who kept calling and enquring about my health. My friends at office whose messages made me realise, there is a lot to come back and look forward to. 

My friends at home, you know who you are, for meeting me at a moment's notice, for almost disowning me for forgetting on which floor our class XII classroom was, for being there for me whenever I needed you. I don't feel the need to grow up, when you guys are around.

Lastly, S, you come at the bottom of the thank you list but you know that you are always at the back of my mind, especially now that you have inherited my flu. Your incomprehensibly disgusting jokes, make me realise that at last, I have met my match.

The matter of fact remains that of course we are responsible for our health and well-being. But there are times, when everything seems out of control. The idea is not to try to be in control, when you know you can't. Instead, let go. Weep hysterically at a public place, treat yourself to nice warm food, watch your favourite movie ten times on DVD, and never forget the people who forever have their arms outstretched to catch you, when are about to fall. Maybe there is a bruised elbow, or you escape unscathed. 

Or you are just scared. And that's why, even in the bleakest times, a mother's kiss on your forehead is sufficient to make you feel alright. Because believe it or not, even when medicines cease to work, people make miracles happen. 

One for the dad

“You got a dream... You gotta protect it. People can’t do somethin’ themselves, they wanna tell you you can’t do it. If you want somethin’, go get it. Period.”

The day, for some reason, wasn’t going well. My head hurt and my stomach hurt in tandem. So I did something I do almost always do while away time in office. The hallowed words, www.buzzfeed.com , and voila, ‘28 incredibly touching photos of fathers seeing their babies for the first time’; by the third photograph I was already weeping silently when I realised I hadn’t called my father to wish him. And so I dialed his number. In the middle of an afternoon siesta, my father mumbled a “thank you” and said he’d call me in the evening. 

If, you’d known me and my father, you would possibly say that I am exactly like him. My mom says that, when I refuse to arrange my wardrobe or help in the kitchen or refuse to budge, when in front of the television. “Tui tor baba’r e mei,” (You are your father’s daughter). Undoubtedly, I was, I mean, I am. 

It has been four years, since the time I have been staying away from home. When my parents were leaving me at my hostel for the first time, my mom, who usually weeps even during daily soaps, was surprisingly calm. And my dad, he broke down, and cried. Instead of comforting him, I too started sobbing hysterically. That continued for about an hour after I reached my room and unpacked. It suddenly dawned on me; I was on my own now. 

When I was in class VI, I told my dad to get me the first book of the Harry Potter series. Since my classmates kept yapping about the novels, I wanted to find out what was the big deal about them anyway. I asked for the first book, my father got me the first three. For someone, who reads anything between two to four books every week, he certainly didn’t want to underplay his excitement at having his daughter, asking for a book for the first time in her life. 

When I was in my third year in college, I remember whining to him, that we haven’t gone for a vacation for the longest time. He called me in my next break saying that we were going to Bhutan, when I came home.

I guess, we look up to our parents in different ways. Truth be told, I always trusted my mom more than my dad, but whenever I needed something, a hug, a packet of sweets, a book to read or even sanitary napkins for that matter, my dad got them for me.

Two months back, my grandmother passed away, and while all my family members used their lacrimal glands endlessly, my father sounded almost calm on phone. I was almost angry on him, for having such a steady voice, especially when he was yet to tell my grandfather that his wife is no more.

And then I remembered, when my maternal grandmother had expired five years back, I had gone so numb, that I couldn’t shed a tear. I mean me, who sobs on seeing puppy videos, had nothing but an overbearing sense of numbness at such an occasion. 

Again, I am copiously indifferent when it comes to things I don’t want to deal with, I can’t blurt out and tell people when they have hurt me and when I do, it almost always doesn’t have a desired result. How, I hope that I could be more volatile, hurl abuses at strangers, be angry at someone and get over with it. But then I am my dad’s daughter, who chases a cockroach out of her room instead of smashing it with her slippers.

Over the last few days, I have frequently wondered did I turn out the way; my parents wanted me to be?  Would I, could I, should I try be more social, more amiable, less of an introvert, stop day-dreaming and be obstinately ambitious?

 

Well, of course I could.

Then I look at my dad, listlessly sleeping in a local train, with a newspaper on his lap. A man, who didn’t take a promotion all his life, so that he could come back home and rush me tuitions, and when he did give the exam, he managed to top in entire east India. Can you imagine doing THAT at the age of 50?

Hence, more than anything else, my father has taught me one thing – to be a consistent version of myself, to be happy with the person I have turned out to be. To read obsessively, to dream endlessly, stand up for the choices I make, even if it means earning probably a tenth of what I could, with my resume and qualification.

A thank you, would probably be an understatement. For you chasing the school bus when I got late, or skipping office and standing in front of the passport office for two hours, in case I needed something. 

Even though I am 21, your presence makes me feel utterly blessed and believe that angels exist. And so does Santa Claus.