Tuesday, November 23, 2010

How does it even matter?

Whenever I am posed with a question about where I am from, my answers in turn lead to more questions which very often result in questioning about the social class of my ancestors. Thanks to my not so black hair and a mild deficit of melanin, I am often misconstrued to be a descendant of the area above the Tropic of cancer in the Indian sub- continent. I hate being questioned and I hate it more when the questions pertain to my descent.

Most of the time, I try avoiding such questions or choose to remain silent when I am asked these questions. The reason being, the clan to which my ancestors belong is immaterial to me and I think it shouldn't be of any relevance to anybody today either. Today we live in a world where origin and descent, just pertain to the country one belongs to and nothing more. Every time I refuse to answer such questions and I remain silent, my silence is associated with arrogance.

Here's the scene that unfolds every time I meet someone new at my work place.

New Person: Hi, Where are you from.

Me: I am from Adyar.

New Person: I mean, where are you actually from?

Me: I am actually from Indira Nagar in Adyar.

New Person : Which is your native?

Me: Chennai.

New Person: You are basically from here?

Me: DUH!

New Person: You don't look like you are from here. You look like you have descended from the borders beyond the tropic of cancer.

Me: Err!

New Person: What do you speak?

Me: I speak English.

New Person : Whats your mother tongue?

Me: Its Chennai's official language.

New Person: (Shamelessly) Are you higher?

Me: Silence.......... I studied in a higher secondary school.

New Person: (Doesn't realise I am evading his question): No I mean are you higher?

Me: I am no buyer.

I answer irrelevant things until the person forgets what he/she initially asked. I wonder why someone's descent is of any relevance or importance at the work place. Leave alone work place, I wonder what relevance it has anywhere. As we arm ourselves with technology and prepare to become Global citizens of the world, questions of one descent, or origin are irrelevant.

When we know these questions are irrelevant, why ask them at all. The sad thing is, it is against the HR policies of a company to ask one about his/ her salary. It is considered ill mannered to ask someone his/ her age. But we shamelessly prod into questioning one, about his/ her ancestral clan.The sad part being, the person who is questioning never realises that he is asking something that he shouldn't be asking.

Invariably, nine out of ten times it happens that every man I meet, would first question me about my descent, or try to decipher it by decoding my name. I'd prefer the man who's hitting on me to tell me that I look sexy ( trust me it makes my day) rather than ask me if I were higher or lower.  Higher or lower? Does it really matter?

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Of Middle Age Masalas

I am a MASALA woman. Now don't assume that I am a self proclaimed part of the SPICE girls and look like Victoria Beckham. MASALA is the Middle Aged Severely Agitated Ladies Anxiety Syndrome. I manage both, menopause on one hand, and a balding husband whose belly seems like he's pregnant with a twin Hippo on the other. I hope now you understand the reason for so much of MASALA in my life.There is a myriad of problems associated with the MASALA syndrome and all of them begin with an 'M'. Starting with Money- you always have to think about saving and not spending, Managers, Maids, Mother- in- law, Mutual Fund Investments that never yeild returns, mugging up the map of India with your 12 year old kid, Multi-tasking,  Microsoft operating systems, Mallika Sherawat - my husband is her fan, Marriage, the Maruti-800 thats on the verge of death, and the list that leads to My MASALA syndrome is endless.

Middle age is usually between your late twenties and early sixties. About 30 years of your life, you live in the middle of nowhere, hoping to get somewhere at the end of it. You battle dark spots, wrinkles, stretch marks, and hairfall only to accept defeat, and when you touch the sixty mark you convince yourself that it is a natural phenomenon.  The only two women who have won this battle with conviction are Shobha de and Hemamalini. I am 40 years old, and I have to fight 20 more years of middle age, before I  am crowned as a senior citizen, and the Indian Railways can bestow me with economical fares.

Being the average Indian Woman who works in a corporate I need to juggle between my identity as a professional, wife, mother and a daughter-in-law. I need to keep up with the ever changing versions of softwares so that I am not termed as obsolete,and can battle out the game called appraisals on an equal platform with men who are half my age, and bear not even half of what responsibilities I carry. I need to update my wall quite often, treat and tweet along with the virtual society so that I can show the world that apart from being a woman with MASALA syndrome, I am pretty cool. I need to remind my husband who is more worried about stocks than our diminishing intimacy, that I might be a MASALA woman but I need love and loads of it to relax. I need to play Mortal Kombat with my kids and watch Animes with them, otherwise I get branded as a boring mom. I need to watch soap operas and visit temples along with my mother-in-law once in a while, so that I don't get branded as the outrageous, ill- mannered Bahu. My identity is caught between a smart professional, loving wife, interesting mom and obedience. At the peak of outrageous anxiety, the only four letter word I can use is Fool and nothing more. I constantly remind myself that I am a mother now, which means that I need to safeguard my kids from words that they ought not to know at their age.

If I ever refrain from wearing my Mangal Sutra or Bindi, it would be blasphemy. I not only need to carry responsibilities but wear them and showcase to the world that I am a married woman who suffers from the MASALA syndrome. Its been ages since I wore my trousers and shirts to office, while I still appreciate the women who carry off their trousers with a pair of gold bangles, toe rings and a little bit of Kumkum on their foreheads. At the same time, I find women of my age saying the common dialogue "How can I wear this ( what ever it is ) at this age?" Age never as anything to do with wearing things, sharing or for even pairing.  Middle age is the only age where you are forgiven for a bulging tummy and out of shape body. Everyday, I need to swtich between gym clothes, office wear which is usually a Salwar Kameez and if its a friday, a saree and some appealing apparel for parties that my husband never cares to notice. Phew, I adorn a new attire for every avatar that I transform into as each day unfolds. 

The only time I get for myself, is during my time at the parlour. I go to the parlour usually on Saturdays, to spruce up a little and feel good about myself. A facial would at least cover up my dark circles and never ending wrinkles. I don't even remember the last time I bought Pond's age miracle. It has been in my bag ever since and I keep reminding myself to get into a routine of applying it each night, but routines never change. Just as I get my strawberry pedicure done, my black berry would ring. My kids would ask me when I would be back home and demand for a Kinder Joy. Damn these advertisements. They know the perfect ways of getting kids to torment their parents. The other phone call would be from my maid, who'd invariably call to let me know that she wouldn't be coming the next day. I have instilled the corporate culture of calling up when you are taking leave in her. 

Thanks to MASALA, my mother gave up singing when she was 26, after she became pregnant with me. She would often tell me that she gave up on her dreams so that I could achieve mine. I would often retort back saying stop cribbing and lamenting. I would quote " If there is a will there is a way".  I dread the day when my daughter grows up and says the same thing to me. Until I got married, until I reached middle age and until I became a MASALA woman I never realised what Amma had gone through. Middle age makes you weigh your dreams against reality, and passion against practicality. 

What makes Maska Chaska ( 50-50 ) biscuits taste better than Marie biscuits is the Masala. It is the MASALA that adds spice not only to our food but also to our lives. It makes our food eatable and life livable.