Thoughts on being a woman ..

A friend of mine had once asked me to write about how it feels to be a woman. Obviously, in the present day and age even a simple question like that could lead to numerous answers having multiple connotations.

If you ask me, the idea of being a woman is quite disconcerting at times. Especially when you think of violence but otherwise also. And having a missionary girl's school upbringing does not help too much, either. Every time before settling for something different, you try and weigh the moral implications and even if your heart and mind are set on it, you are too impeded to do it anyway.

And if you are introvert who'd rather sit for hours in a book store than go out on a blind date with some random guy, you are worsening the situation for yourself.Otherwise how else will you even meet new people and get a shot at a clumsy little fling if not anything else?

Being a woman is difficult especially you are being judged, constantly. Oh your dress is too short or your hair is too messy or why do want to move out and work in a different city. Ample questions. Answers? Just one. Because I want to.

Its confusing growing up in a time where concepts like chivalry and feminism are constantly colliding with each other. Should a guy open the door for you or pull a chair or pay the bills? Of course not. For Christ's sake it is the 21st century?!



But if a guy does not do all of that, he is possibly not a gentleman because how could he take a woman out on a date and enter the restaurant before, conveniently allowing the door to crash on her face. And for someone who is an advocate of equality, it is rather confusing to even think of how I want a man to behave like when he asks me out. I mean if he too kind, he is patronizing, if his not then he is just plain stupid and does not how to treat a woman? Is that it?

It in almost always that a woman dresses up to look good for someone or something specific. Otherwise won't I,like,remain in my boxers forever? Since I am taking the effort of importunately torturing my legs by wearing 6 inch heels and a skimpy little dress which makes me sweat like a pig, I most certainly want to look good for a specific purpose. If nothing, then at least a profile picture is guaranteed.So either way it is a win win situation.

And this is what confuses me. This pretense. This idea of being 'the woman' and not yourself. I often have people telling me that I can look good if I want to? What do you mean by I want to? It is a presumptuous feeling to even consider that every woman will match up to the idea of someone who is extensively groomed and thinks twice before saying anything, lest her dentures fall out. (Okay! Just kidding :P)

It is even worse when you like someone. Do you talk to him about it? Does it make you a loser if the man of your dreams doesn't ask you out simply because the poor guy has no idea that you are massively crushing on him? Or he might not want to go out with you in the first place. Is it difficult to accept that and move on? It certainly is. Because Fitzwilliam Darcy was only the figment of some woman's imagination.

What if a guy says that he likes you but has never got time for you? Better still he likes you because he likes the idea of you and has very little consideration about what you think, feel or say. Even if it unbelievably disturbing and painful the right thing will always be to move on , even when you are sinking in an ocean of self pity and unsurmountable sadness.

Being a woman is difficult because the woman of today is far more perplexed. Her ideas are not always the best but they make her who she is. She might not know how to cook or abide by your sermons of propriety. What makes her special is her imperfections, the mistakes she makes.She knows that. And she wants the world to know it too.

Lastly as one wise woman had once said,

“When a woman becomes her own best friend life is easier.”

Of a woman and a man ..

A woman is inscrutable, enigmatic, wondrous and beautiful. So is a man.

A woman is strong and weak, brutal, a fanatic yet kinder than often words can describe. So is a man.

A woman cries at movies, the man sits beside her, sombre but melancholic.

A woman throws her tantrums, gets her heart broken, breaks hearts and recovers from it. Unvanquished and strong. So does a man.

A woman gets attached to the books she reads, a man to the batman boxers he wears.

A man opens the door for a woman, treats her with a fantastic meal, expects a kiss if not anything else.

A woman cooks for a man, takes care of bills, ration and his overwhelmingly demanding pet cat, Bubloo. She expects a little bit of concern, if not anything else.

Men use women. Women use men. That's because people are inherently selfish and there is only so much one could do about it.

It's woman's day again and it makes me fathom how different we are after all. Men and women. We all want the same thing. We all have desires. We all want to live a meaningful life. But we all are mortified of commitment, of responsibility, of getting hurt, of being proven wrong. So we take the easy way out. We hurt people,pull them down, we show them what their true "worth" is.

Remember Joseph Gordon Levitt from 500 Days of Summer? I, being a girl, have often felt the same. About falling for people who don't like you back in return. It was almost like falling in love, except that it wasn't. Everyone feels lost and it is okay I guess, as long as you know how to get back, to find yourself again.

Since we like have a day to treat ourselves to discounts and rejoice on being a woman, we should also take the time out to be able to understand men better. To be able to respect them for the choices they make, even if we don't agree, especially when we don't agree.

As George Carlin had once said,

Men are from Earth, women are from Earth. Deal with it.

The idea of falling in love often felt distant, never affecting you enough to be gnawing into your existence. It is after all stupid to like anyone so much so that you could do anything for them. It is as if what he feels is what you feel, what makes you sad somehow permeates into him too. In your right senses you would want to hate him for taking you for granted, for not asking you if you’d need a ride home in the middle of the night, for telling you that he just wants to have some “fun”. But the very next instant he does something unfathomably kind that you can’t help but forget all of it and curse yourself happily for letting go, finally.

And then one night he tells you a funny story and you laugh so much that you are almost about to cry. He then asks you about your Valentine’s Day plans, in a matter of fact way which makes it appear rather unusual to not have plans on the most overrated day of the year.

For someone who is fiercely independent and does not want to depend on anyone for anything, you seem quite cheerful to have him to discuss even the most inane things which you do throughout the day. And he listens, patiently. And more often than not, he always says the right thing.

Once you had asked him what is the difference between Software and a Computer Engineer. As an IT guy and your big giant encyclopaedia, he ought to know. A friend giggled in the background,mostly in disbelief. He overhears it and tells you that it is okay to not know stuff, and if you never ask, you will never get to know.

The next few minutes he answers your question, patiently, giving examples which could perhaps be more relatable. In the mean time, your mind has already wandered away, far, far away.

He had once asked you, when do you know you’re in love?

You told him, you just know.

It was not a sudden epiphany, in the middle of a mustard field in a Yash Chopra movie. It was her in her shorts and bathroom chappals while she sat on a cold staircase, listening to him on the phone, intently.

He asked her, so did you get the difference?

And just like that, she knew...

A person from an unknown world had once commented on one of my blog posts with the following words:

"That angst of yours is really moving. I might say that I can find distant echoes but then every one is different. Hope you find the other side of life more often..."

The post was about a seventeen year old me who was tired of not being able to live up to her family's expectations. It's almost the same today,except that I have stopped caring. Also I have come to deal with the fact that nothing goes on forever. We have to take life as it comes and try to make the most out of it. But if ever I start contemplating, I realize I am the same girl, who would just about anything to persuade her Dadu to read her article in a newspaper. He is in his late 80's, so he just picks up the newspaper flimsily, sees my name and puts it down. I hadn't seen Dadu for most of my life for a fight he had with his sons. His magnanimous ego did not let him to at least retain his ties with his grand daughter who couldn't understand why she was being taken away from the person who used to put her to sleep, every night.

I haven't ever complained, but I damn well feel I have the right too. And suddenly the angst is replaced by an abominable fear which simply refuses to let go of me. Every time I come close to liking somebody I prefer to shrug it off by saying, "He is going to leave, He will leave, what will I do then, how will I survive?"

It is bizarre, yet true. And I know I need to let go. But the pull is just too strong.

In the first post of my graduating year, I hope I find it easier to gather myself and start afresh. I hope I can forgive people easily, stop complaining about what's not working and focus on what is. Life could be beautiful if we gave it a chance, wouldn't it? And this is not one of those frivolous resolutions we make towards the beginning of every year. Having said that, I wish I could live up to each of the above criterion as much as I possibly could.

Here's to a new year where we are a little easy on ourselves. Let the fear of failing not take us away from giving life a chance, of giving ourselves a chance.

But me ..

The idea of having him, consumed me suddenly, desperately. His brazen self was attuned to the fact that my eyes slyly devoured him, while he had his beer, sitting in one corner of the bar, alone. I think I had made it evident that I did not feel an ounce of guilt or shame whilst staring a stranger and would wait, unceremoniously so, for his arrival at my side of the joint.

I waited, he never budged an inch from his seat. Frustrated, I tossed my heels and proceeded towards the dance floor. I could sense his eyes on me as I glided along. Men hunkered around , I could feel their breath, stinking of alcohol. Amidst the cacophony of sounds - voices, music, clinking of glasses and couples kissing in a distance, I was lost. In a haze, perpetual, transcending into space. I could almost fly, except that I couldn't. My bare feet was stomped on, almost cruelly by some lady who face I had missed because of her sheer height and the excruciating pain she had so kindly bestowed me with. Almost blinded with the pain, I stormed out, looking for a place to sit.

I swallowed a glass full of water and sat still, till the pain eased out. Although my friends weren't really convinced of my condition, they let me go ahead and dance some more. By then, I had forgotten about him. Momentous agony seemingly had a have a amnesic effect on my grey cells. Gangnam style was blaring from the speakers and in spite of my lesser known feminine self shouting in my in despair, I started frolicking around with a bunch of hippies who were more than kind to accommodate me into their group. The song suddenly changed. As people started pairing up, I was left on my own. Awkwardly I started leaving the floor, a little fatigued with all the jumping around.

Almost magically, the floor had clear little enough to accommodate a stunningly average looking man, whom I had found mind numbingly attractive few hours back. He was looking directly at me, even then, I thought of it as one of those moments when you think that some one is looking at you but they are looking at the person standing next to you. I was still debating in my head whether I should leave, when he came close to me and asked, "May I?"

My little known dance skills had gone down the drain that very moment. I was somehow intimidated by his tall and lanky frame and couldn't look into his eyes, even once. We floated along the dance floor effortlessly, in spite of my conscious self. And then, obscurely enough, I decided to let go. His hands glided along my back, never enough to reach my bottom. I looked into his eyes and saw my own reflection, earnest yet difficult. My frame, seemingly imperfect at all the wrong places never seemed to bother him as he held me at my waist, gentle and firm. My hands perfectly fitting into his, I was already building castles in the air.

We barely talked. He held me carefully enough, making sure that I did not stand a chance on succumbing to another blow by platform heels. In my mind, I was praying hard to cling on to the moment as long as possible. It was almost three in the morning. I had persuaded my friends to leave without me. He asked if he could drop me home. I replied with a faint, "yes"

The car journey was made in silence. I reached my apartment when I blurted out hurriedly, "Will I see you again?"

He looked at me for some time, distraught. He smiled and said, "Definitely, maybe."

"What does that even mean?"

"Bye, Anna"

"Wha .. ? How do you know my name?"

"Bye, Anna. You will see me soon" - his car stormed past me.

The next day my friend hurled the newspaper at my face while I was still fast sleep.

"I knew there was something wrong with that guy."

"What? Who?"

"That son of a bitch, yesterday."

"Hey mind your language!" I blared

"He is Ismail Faiz, the leader of one of the most wanted terrorist outfits in the country."

"No, no." - I mumbled in disbelief.

My phone vibrated next to me.

'I start letting my guard down when people stop giving me reasons to keep it up. This time around, just one person was enough. I hope I will see you soon.'

"I hope you do." , I replied and tossed back my head into my pillow without the faintest realisation that I had quite fallen in love with a man who posed a threat with almost everyone, but me.

It all started with the urge to write the perfect story. The perfect story. A story which had little bit me in it and also everybody else. A story which is like and unlike anything else you might have come across. A little less fiction and a lot more real, a little more sensitive, a little less careful. Something which provides neither the writer nor the reader with instant gratification but lights up your soul slowly, tepid yet existent.

The prefect story, does it come from knowing yourself? Or travelling a lot? Reading, understand, comprehending, analysing or just writing? How am I to look for something when I am not sure about what I am looking for?

Patience is a great virtue; someday I would like to be blessed with it. Till then I am content in remaining famished, in search of knowledge, information, experience and inspiration. And who knows, it might just lead me to what I am looking for.

In search of the perfect story,in search of the perfect story ...

Arziyaan saari ..

"It will get better"

"Will it? I don't know .."

"It always does.Trust me"

"Then it will .. get better"

"So much confidence in me?"

"You have no idea .."

But I hope someday you do ..