Accusations. All of us are accused of something or the other everyday. We are accused of being lame, lazy, stupid, slow (in all aspects),for the way we walk, talk, sit, stand, eat, sleep, dress up, for using a deo, for not using a deo, and so on and so forth.
I was accused of being a shame to the entire lineage of Tam Brahms owing to my perenial display of slowness with numbers. I remember before each math exam right from class 6,I would suffer from severe attacks of Arithmophobia. A condition where your mind goes blank when you're asked to add three 4-digits mentally. Yes I was mathematically challenged, but my parents thought I suffered from ADS (Attention deficit Syndrome) and needed several doses of the drug Ritalin. My father's usual remarks after seeing the 61 or 62 or 63 on my paper would be "You don't apply yourself enough."
My mother was too concerend about my mathematical instablity that she got me enrolled for a course to relax my mind and twist my body. They called it the 'Art of Living'. She did have a scientific theory behind it. She said, my brain didn't need Ritalin but just sufficient oxygen. But no amount of oxygen brought life to the dying neurons that stored the multiplication tables. They had lost the hope of living and decided to be comatose forever.
Now coming to the point, most of what I write on this blog is inspired from incidents that happen in real life and if my stories resemble what happens in your life, then I must say its purely coincidental. Many parts of my stories have happened in real life, and the rest I've made it up just to make the story readable. But what if something that is made up becomes reality?
Nikhil Subramanian, was a random name that I gave for the ex-man of my dreams. The other day, while I was whiling away my time on Face Book, I saw friend suggestions "Nikhil Subramanian". We had 21 mutual friends and the guy was absolutely HOTT. Shucks, did destiny play evil tricks? In " Those were the days" I had mentioned that my parents had read my blog on pleasing and were shocked. Actually, they happened to read the post "Those were the days" and here is the conversation that unfolded. Most of the time the conversation was onesided with only my dad speaking and my mind speaking words which he could never hear.
Appa: Now I saw what stupid things you have written on that blog of yours.
Me: What are you talking about?
Appa: How can you write something so stupid and use all unparlimentary language and give a verbal description for it? We have not brought you up this way at all.
Me: (As usual I wanted to excape the situation) I didn't write anything. I was just reading it.
Appa: What do you mean. I know for sure you wrote it. How can you use the forbidden four letter word? How can you? Do you even realise the implications of what you have done? When I saw it I was shocked. I couldn't believe what I was reading. ANd now you are lying to me about it.
Me: (Face looking down at my feet): Silent.
Mind:Ok now what's the big deal. Everyone uses it.
Appa: I wonder what you do on the computer all night. I never did such things when I was your age.
Me: Silence.
Appa: Are you writing some kind of Pornographic Novel?
Me: Shucks no way!! Are you crazy?
Appa: Don't use that word in front of me. You are getting out of your limits I tell you.
Me: I didn't use the f-word I said shucks.
Appa: Don't you dare say that.
Mind: What an accusation. No kid on the face of this planet would have been accused of such a thing ever. Appa Pronography can be either totally disgusting or atleast titilating. My blog is neither disgusting nor titilating. And using the swear word is not a big deal. And by the way you were the first person to implant wild thoughts in my innocent brain, when you took the entire family for the movie TITANIC. I was in class 5 then. You said it was a must watch and dragged the entire family- amma, paati and her bandwagon of sisters. And when they saw Kate Winslet undress you were cool enough to say " Stop complaining and Look at the bigger picture."
Appa: Just because you've been given a lot of freedom don't misuse it.
Me: Silence again.
Mind: Freedom? I must be home before 9 P.M sharp. You eavesdrop on the conversations I have with male colleagues and enquire about their last names just to make sure it ends with 'an'. Chandrashekar'an', Ramakrishn'an', Nataraj'an', Narasimh'an', Jagannath'an',Muralidhar'an'......... and the only exceptions being parthasarathy and a few other surnames. Even the otherday when Jaswinder called me, you were so inquisitive about what I was speaking with her until I told you she was female.
Appa: Read Leo Tolstoy, Read Charles Dickens. Look at the sensitivity with which they write. I spent my time reading such books when I was like you. I wonder what you read and it is reflecting in your writing. This is the last time I wanna discuss this with you. Do you even understand the implications it would have if someone from our family reads it? Delete it right away. I dont want to see you writing such stupid things again.
Me: Silence.
Mind: First go become anonymous on the blog. This is getting tough to handle. And heck no, I am no way deleting my blog. It means so much to me.
I shall write about how much my blog means to me in another post. Just as I remove my name and other details about myself from the blog, I see a comment pop up. I always get excited to see the first comment of every post. The person who commented was Venki and he said brilliant. Venki is my father's nick name. Does he have a deep dark side, I wonder.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
I dont get it!!!
Keeeeeeeeeeeeeek Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek,
Ke Ke Ke Ke Ke KEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,
You're an ass.. a complete ass,
Otha, Vadai thaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Kikkiikkkkkkii Kkiiiikkiiiii,
Kooooooooooooooo Koooooooooooo
Ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku,
Omg She looks hot, Wink,
koooooooooooooooo koooooooo,
Drrrrr.. Drrrrrrr .. Drrrr,
Dud dud dud dud dud dud...
keeekk Dud Dud Dud..
Aiye Aiye Aiye,
Kek Kek Kek Kek Kek,
Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,
Krrrrr thu, Krrr thu,
Wow my spit shines on the road,
Ok Let me stop admiring it.
Dud dud dud .. ROARRRR,
Roar Raorrrrrrrrrrrrrr..
Wow my fancy horn sounds like a tiger.
Roar Raaaaaaorrrrrrrr,
(Simba written on the number plate)
You dont get it right? Neither do I get the language of men on the road.
Ke Ke Ke Ke Ke KEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,
You're an ass.. a complete ass,
Otha, Vadai thaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Kikkiikkkkkkii Kkiiiikkiiiii,
Kooooooooooooooo Koooooooooooo
Ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku ku,
Omg She looks hot, Wink,
koooooooooooooooo koooooooo,
Drrrrr.. Drrrrrrr .. Drrrr,
Dud dud dud dud dud dud...
keeekk Dud Dud Dud..
Aiye Aiye Aiye,
Kek Kek Kek Kek Kek,
Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,
Krrrrr thu, Krrr thu,
Wow my spit shines on the road,
Ok Let me stop admiring it.
Dud dud dud .. ROARRRR,
Roar Raorrrrrrrrrrrrrr..
Wow my fancy horn sounds like a tiger.
Roar Raaaaaaorrrrrrrr,
(Simba written on the number plate)
You dont get it right? Neither do I get the language of men on the road.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Those were the days
Note: This post is dedicated to all those who were born between 1980's and 1990's.
'Alice, who the fuck is Alice?', she shouted. It was Anu, my 8 year old cousin. ' Priya Akka, isn't fuck a bad word? What does it mean anyway?' I saw my Mama, giving me a cold stare. Embarrassed, I immediately snatched the MP3 player from her hand and said, ' Why do you take these things without asking me?'. I tried hard to shift the focus from the F-word to the kid's behaviour, which I did think required some attention.
But wait, what do I tell the kid? Do I tell her Fuck stands for 'Fornication under the Consent of the King', or tell her to Google the meaning or check out the meaning of it in the oxford English dictionary, just like I did when I was in class 7?
Webster’s didn’t have that word in their dictionary back then. Back in class 7, I remember there was this boy, who had watched too much of wrestling and learnt that the f- word had a very bad meaning and showing the middle finger meant the same. It was in class 7 that I learnt to use the dictionary really very well. We searched page by page of the Oxford English Dictionary, for 'Fuck'. Finally I learnt that it meant 'have sexual intercourse with someone.' or used as an abusive word. But what the hell did sexual intercourse mean? I discovered that only in class 9 biology class.
Back then, the movies made me think wildly about the way babies were born. I often thought couples prayed to god for a baby and god made the woman pregnant at his own will. Therefore, one had to be careful and pray to god for the right thing at the right time. My Patti told me,'Kunti Devi in the Mahabharata had a child too early because she prayed for the wrong thing at the wrong time'. Watching more movies expanded my thinking and gave me a bit more clarity on the subject. I learnt that some amount of physical contact was required, and if the couple hugged each other too tightly the woman would eventually become pregnant. It was difficult to think beyond this and I didn't care to think beyond this. This thought was ingrained so deeply that even today it makes me feel uncomfortable to publicly display affection towards my friends who are guys.
I'm no more a teenager and looking back at the way I grew up, I feel not just glad but blessed. I say this because of many reasons. One being I belonged to the generation that saw the rise and fall of a new millennium. Back then in the 1990's, in the newly liberalized India, Internet and mobile communication was nothing but a dream, and Wi-Fi a myth. Owning a cordless phone that time, was a huge deal and was equivalent to having an I-pod 4G today.
It was when I was a kid, that the first mobile phones were introduced in the country. They were in the size of a cordless phone and weighed a Ton. Every call cost 18 Rupees a minute initially and even incoming phone calls were being charged. Pager phones were still in use. It was when I was in class 8 that my parents bought their first mobile phones. I didn’t know to use the T9 dictionary until class 11.
National TV and DD-2 were the only channels that were available until I was 6 years old. Then came the invasion of cable television. We didn't have cable TV connection in our house until my brother completed his class 12. My parents often thought of it as a distraction and a unnecessary luxury. Doordarshan or DD didn’t have many programs, but the few that were being telecast were watched by my family regularly. Malgudi days, Ramayana, Mahabharata, Jai Hanuman, the world this week by Pranoy Roy, the only dose of film songs- Chitrahaar, and Surabhi. The only serial that was famous back then was JUNOON. All that I remember was that the serial was based on an affair between a woman named Mini Kaur, who had left her husband and ran after another man named Keshav Kalsi, the role played by Tom Alter. I remember one of my neighbours complaining to my mom that such serials should be banned as it showcased things that were not in Indian Culture and young girls were getting influenced by what they showed.
I was born in times when there were no multiplexes and we often rented a video tape to watch movies. Whenever the video tapes got stuck, I had fun rolling the tapes back into the plastic case. I still have the video and audio tapes. It was only in class 6 that we bought a VCD player and a few CD's. I remember storing the CD's so carefully and cleaning the Kenwood VCD player every time I used it. The Kenwood VCD player cost Rs. 40,000 back then.
E-mail was considered high technology and Mr.Sabeer Bhatia was the most eligible bachelor at that point. My father had created an E-mail ID and said that one had to be very careful with it. He often boasted about how it enhanced communication with his friends in the US and it must have been an IIT guy who must have invented the concept. These IIT grads .. Phew!! And then arrived chatting. Parents were all the time on the guard, and telling us about dangerous Instant messaging chat stories on the internet, by which many young girls had been fooled.
As a Kid, I belonged to a generation which saw the telephone, change to the cordless phone and Video tapes change to DVD's. I belonged to a generation which saw Social networking change from Picnics to Hi-fi, Orkut and now Facebook. I belonged to a generation where kids were familiar only with two brands, Hot Wheels and Barbie. I belonged to a generation where games meant Ice- spice, Lock and key, or Judo and not Mafia Wars or Mortal Combat. I belonged to a generation that watched Tom and Jerry and Captain Planet and not Animax or Pogo.As a kid, I saw Madras change to Chennai, Bombay to Mumbai, Calcutta to Kolkatta and Bangalore to Bengalooru.
Just the other day, I had left my laptop with my blog page open and had gone out. My parents happened to read my blog on pleasing. As I came back home, there was an unusual lull of the graveyard and I knew something was wrong. After about half an hour my father broke the ice.’ Why do you write things like this?' he said. ‘ Write what pa? What are you talking about?’ I asked . He pointed to the laptop on my table. It had the post open. My mother had a look on her face that I had never seen in many years. She had the same look when we saw a couple at Delhi's Lodhi Park,in a promiscuous pose and I asked her whether they were playing.
'Priya this is blasphemy. We never even knew such things when we were your age. What are you trying to prove by writing such scandalous posts? Become the next Shobha de? This is technology is just ruining these people. Please remove that before anyone else from the family can read it and embarrass us. And this is the last time you are writing such stupid things. I feel so ashamed to talk these things.' my mom added.
Arggghhhh!!! Why do such things keep happening to me. I wish I could bury myself underground. I quietly walked down to laptop and began to delete the recently browsed history. I knew there was absolutely no point in trying to convince my parents about how I had learnt to view things in a different manner, which was the basic ingredient to becoming a writer. They would never get the point. My parents were thinking that I was in the process of writing a new Mills and Boon novel. First thing,I need to search for a pen name, I thought. Just then, I got a pop-up saying Anu has updated her status on Facebook. She was in class 4, yes she was on Facebook. The status read 'Hey guyz please make it to my B'day party at Pizza Corner, Nungambakkam.' I scrolled down and clicked show older posts. I couldn't believe what I saw. It said Anu has joined the group Fornication under the consent of the King. 18 people like this.
My mother began cribbing about my generation only when she was 42. I am just 22 and I've already begun my cribbing about the future kids.
'Alice, who the fuck is Alice?', she shouted. It was Anu, my 8 year old cousin. ' Priya Akka, isn't fuck a bad word? What does it mean anyway?' I saw my Mama, giving me a cold stare. Embarrassed, I immediately snatched the MP3 player from her hand and said, ' Why do you take these things without asking me?'. I tried hard to shift the focus from the F-word to the kid's behaviour, which I did think required some attention.
But wait, what do I tell the kid? Do I tell her Fuck stands for 'Fornication under the Consent of the King', or tell her to Google the meaning or check out the meaning of it in the oxford English dictionary, just like I did when I was in class 7?
Webster’s didn’t have that word in their dictionary back then. Back in class 7, I remember there was this boy, who had watched too much of wrestling and learnt that the f- word had a very bad meaning and showing the middle finger meant the same. It was in class 7 that I learnt to use the dictionary really very well. We searched page by page of the Oxford English Dictionary, for 'Fuck'. Finally I learnt that it meant 'have sexual intercourse with someone.' or used as an abusive word. But what the hell did sexual intercourse mean? I discovered that only in class 9 biology class.
Back then, the movies made me think wildly about the way babies were born. I often thought couples prayed to god for a baby and god made the woman pregnant at his own will. Therefore, one had to be careful and pray to god for the right thing at the right time. My Patti told me,'Kunti Devi in the Mahabharata had a child too early because she prayed for the wrong thing at the wrong time'. Watching more movies expanded my thinking and gave me a bit more clarity on the subject. I learnt that some amount of physical contact was required, and if the couple hugged each other too tightly the woman would eventually become pregnant. It was difficult to think beyond this and I didn't care to think beyond this. This thought was ingrained so deeply that even today it makes me feel uncomfortable to publicly display affection towards my friends who are guys.
I'm no more a teenager and looking back at the way I grew up, I feel not just glad but blessed. I say this because of many reasons. One being I belonged to the generation that saw the rise and fall of a new millennium. Back then in the 1990's, in the newly liberalized India, Internet and mobile communication was nothing but a dream, and Wi-Fi a myth. Owning a cordless phone that time, was a huge deal and was equivalent to having an I-pod 4G today.
It was when I was a kid, that the first mobile phones were introduced in the country. They were in the size of a cordless phone and weighed a Ton. Every call cost 18 Rupees a minute initially and even incoming phone calls were being charged. Pager phones were still in use. It was when I was in class 8 that my parents bought their first mobile phones. I didn’t know to use the T9 dictionary until class 11.
National TV and DD-2 were the only channels that were available until I was 6 years old. Then came the invasion of cable television. We didn't have cable TV connection in our house until my brother completed his class 12. My parents often thought of it as a distraction and a unnecessary luxury. Doordarshan or DD didn’t have many programs, but the few that were being telecast were watched by my family regularly. Malgudi days, Ramayana, Mahabharata, Jai Hanuman, the world this week by Pranoy Roy, the only dose of film songs- Chitrahaar, and Surabhi. The only serial that was famous back then was JUNOON. All that I remember was that the serial was based on an affair between a woman named Mini Kaur, who had left her husband and ran after another man named Keshav Kalsi, the role played by Tom Alter. I remember one of my neighbours complaining to my mom that such serials should be banned as it showcased things that were not in Indian Culture and young girls were getting influenced by what they showed.
I was born in times when there were no multiplexes and we often rented a video tape to watch movies. Whenever the video tapes got stuck, I had fun rolling the tapes back into the plastic case. I still have the video and audio tapes. It was only in class 6 that we bought a VCD player and a few CD's. I remember storing the CD's so carefully and cleaning the Kenwood VCD player every time I used it. The Kenwood VCD player cost Rs. 40,000 back then.
E-mail was considered high technology and Mr.Sabeer Bhatia was the most eligible bachelor at that point. My father had created an E-mail ID and said that one had to be very careful with it. He often boasted about how it enhanced communication with his friends in the US and it must have been an IIT guy who must have invented the concept. These IIT grads .. Phew!! And then arrived chatting. Parents were all the time on the guard, and telling us about dangerous Instant messaging chat stories on the internet, by which many young girls had been fooled.
As a Kid, I belonged to a generation which saw the telephone, change to the cordless phone and Video tapes change to DVD's. I belonged to a generation which saw Social networking change from Picnics to Hi-fi, Orkut and now Facebook. I belonged to a generation where kids were familiar only with two brands, Hot Wheels and Barbie. I belonged to a generation where games meant Ice- spice, Lock and key, or Judo and not Mafia Wars or Mortal Combat. I belonged to a generation that watched Tom and Jerry and Captain Planet and not Animax or Pogo.As a kid, I saw Madras change to Chennai, Bombay to Mumbai, Calcutta to Kolkatta and Bangalore to Bengalooru.
Just the other day, I had left my laptop with my blog page open and had gone out. My parents happened to read my blog on pleasing. As I came back home, there was an unusual lull of the graveyard and I knew something was wrong. After about half an hour my father broke the ice.’ Why do you write things like this?' he said. ‘ Write what pa? What are you talking about?’ I asked . He pointed to the laptop on my table. It had the post open. My mother had a look on her face that I had never seen in many years. She had the same look when we saw a couple at Delhi's Lodhi Park,in a promiscuous pose and I asked her whether they were playing.
'Priya this is blasphemy. We never even knew such things when we were your age. What are you trying to prove by writing such scandalous posts? Become the next Shobha de? This is technology is just ruining these people. Please remove that before anyone else from the family can read it and embarrass us. And this is the last time you are writing such stupid things. I feel so ashamed to talk these things.' my mom added.
Arggghhhh!!! Why do such things keep happening to me. I wish I could bury myself underground. I quietly walked down to laptop and began to delete the recently browsed history. I knew there was absolutely no point in trying to convince my parents about how I had learnt to view things in a different manner, which was the basic ingredient to becoming a writer. They would never get the point. My parents were thinking that I was in the process of writing a new Mills and Boon novel. First thing,I need to search for a pen name, I thought. Just then, I got a pop-up saying Anu has updated her status on Facebook. She was in class 4, yes she was on Facebook. The status read 'Hey guyz please make it to my B'day party at Pizza Corner, Nungambakkam.' I scrolled down and clicked show older posts. I couldn't believe what I saw. It said Anu has joined the group Fornication under the consent of the King. 18 people like this.
My mother began cribbing about my generation only when she was 42. I am just 22 and I've already begun my cribbing about the future kids.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Marriage Musings
"Priya can you please get me your birth certificate", she shouted. It was my mom. "Why do you need that now?" I asked. The birth certificate is the one piece of paper I hate the most. It has my name spelt as "Priyavarshini" and this is circled and the correct name is written above it. My name has been a mess ever since I was born. This is one among the million reasons as to why I hate my name. “Bring your birth certificate fast. I need your exact birth details" She said. "You don't remember the time I was born??" Was I adopted by any chance? I always get this strange feeling about myself. I was under the impression that my mother had to succumb a great ordeal during labour just before I was born. Her BP shot up or something like that. I think she got too worked up about the fact that I was born on the same day as the first prime minister of the nation and just 12 days after the birthday of Shahrukh Khan. For the first 37 seconds to be exact I was like that Kid in 3 idiots. I did not scream. Before my mother's BP could rise even further, I screamed to bring the much awaited relief. I was a slow child since birth.
"3:30 PM, Saturday" I told her. “Oh what an afternoon it was. I still can never forget it. Okay Patti and I are going to the Josiyar (astrologer) to get your Jathakam (Horoscope) done. "
" Ammaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!! You have to be kidding." "Priya, I came to this house when I was your age. It’s been 30 years now." Okay I had heard enough of this and couldn't take it anymore. Moms are just unfair when it comes to daughters. When my mom's mom was her age she already had 3 kids and was carrying the fourth one. Her mother had 9 kids in all and my mother had only two. She compares herself with me but I never get to compare her with her mother. Why should I care if she got married when she was my age. Her mother had nine kids. How fair would it be for me to ask for seven more siblings? I was too irritated and depressed at the same time.
I opened the refrigerator and got a can of Kwality Walls' black forest ice cream with raspberry sauce. "I'm gonna empty this." I said to myself. So what if I become fat? It would be an added advantage and they wont get me married until I thin down. I am great at developing strategies. I was in a mood to bitch and immediately called my friend Apoorva. Okay now Apoorva is a girl's name. Her name is neutral gender or whatever. It's just as complicated as mine and that's what I like. But she never cribs about it like me. I told her about how unfair my mother was and told her about the brilliant strategy I had devised to evade my mom's evil plans to pack me off." Are you nuts? What if your mother suddenly begins to think in a fair manner and packs you off to a fat guy? And more over there are some weird men who love fat women. They are the men who prefer women in the likes of Shakeela( I am referring to an Indian expert porn actress), Namita etc. So stop devising such foolish strategies will you?", she said. Apoorva is always one woman with some sense. Her sense builds up as and when you approach her with problems. Otherwise she is pretty much the slow kind of kid that I am.
"Apoorva I am too paranoid de. I don’t think I can ever find a Tambrahm who is like Shahrukh and Shahid fused into one. I am totally smitten by this Project manager of mine. He is Tambrahm too and super smart. But he dates Neha that bitch. I wonder what she has, apart from her fair skin tone that swept him off his feet." I have a prejudice against girls with the name 'Neha'. I simply hate them and 99 percent of them turn out to be bums. Nikhil Subramanian was my longest crush in school since class 2. Neha Koccha joined school in class 11, and she started going out with Nikhil just one month after she joined. I wonder how these girls manage to do what I couldn't do in 10 years in just one month. I hated her so much. I hate her even now. Apparently, Nikhil and Neha are still going out. There was this other Neha at college. She dated four different guys during four years of college, and passed out with 88 percent aggregate and a distinction. How did she manage to do that.
Coming to the point, Apoorva gave me some gyaan about marriages. "Marriages”, she went on. “are not as bad as you imagine them to be. In India it’s not enough if the guy alone likes you. It is important for you to build a rapport with his family too. More importantly his mother. After all, we cannot live without our families."
I was beginning to feel a bit nauseating with all the black forest and raspberry sauce. Apoorva was getting a bit boring with her gyaan.
"You know ...” she went on. “See it’s like this. You often find that adopted kids are more pampered and cared for by their parents. Why is that? It is only because the parents get to choose their kids, and by default women hate to accept the fact that their selection is awful. That's why you never find mothers of adopted kids cribbing about them. But our parents often blame fate to bring slow kids like us to be born for them. They didn’t get to choose us. Similarly if you are the the 'chosen one' of your mother-in-law, there is very less chance that she would crib about you. Women hate to accept that their selection is bad. All that she can possibly do is brand you under the name of ' Modern Bahu' thats it. That is something we all would carry in the due course of time."
This did make some sense in a weird sorta way. “I have three options", I told her. "One is that I can go in with the choice of my parents and become the chosen one of the mother-in-law too, or second I could wait and find the man of my dreams. I've always had a fancy to marry an army man. This is another of my brilliant strategies for life. Just imagine, you would hang around with the elite of elite people in the society. And the best part is you are married yet single. You can send each other the cute sms'es like 'I miss you.. Want to kiss you' types and never get bored of it. You can have a perennial honeymoon and intimacy intact. The guy would visit you probably only once in 3-4 months and you get to exchange love letters even after the wedding just like in the movies. The guy would be deprived of the sight of a woman for at least a 100 mile radius and would be dying to see you. And every time he comes down, you could have a wild wild time and never get bored of it. Adding to this, imagine the perks. Free medical checkups, sprawling army quarters to live in, free transportation by trains, and in some cases you get a cook and a driver too,and huge pension ( thanks to the 6th pay comission and salary revising strategies of the Indian Government). Just in case the guy pops off, you get a huge compensation and get hailed as the wife of an honourable man. This is so much fun when compared to the boring corporate guys. I wish I can be a privileged one. My last option is to remain single. But this is a tough task, considering the fact that I have absolutely no control of my hormonal upsurges and if I choose to be single I need to maintain the reputation that Lata Mangeshkar possesses and want to be known for my chastity."
Just as I finished speaking to Apoorva, the door bell rang. My mother and Patti were back. I was curious to see what the horoscope looked like. I went and opened an A4 sheet of paper from my mother's purse. The sheet had my name written on the top left hand corner and my date of birth on the right. There were many squares and it looked like some magic square. In-between those lines somewhere, there was what what destiny had in store for me. Was I to become the ' Chosen one', the ' Privileged one' or the ' Chaste one'?
"3:30 PM, Saturday" I told her. “Oh what an afternoon it was. I still can never forget it. Okay Patti and I are going to the Josiyar (astrologer) to get your Jathakam (Horoscope) done. "
" Ammaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!! You have to be kidding." "Priya, I came to this house when I was your age. It’s been 30 years now." Okay I had heard enough of this and couldn't take it anymore. Moms are just unfair when it comes to daughters. When my mom's mom was her age she already had 3 kids and was carrying the fourth one. Her mother had 9 kids in all and my mother had only two. She compares herself with me but I never get to compare her with her mother. Why should I care if she got married when she was my age. Her mother had nine kids. How fair would it be for me to ask for seven more siblings? I was too irritated and depressed at the same time.
I opened the refrigerator and got a can of Kwality Walls' black forest ice cream with raspberry sauce. "I'm gonna empty this." I said to myself. So what if I become fat? It would be an added advantage and they wont get me married until I thin down. I am great at developing strategies. I was in a mood to bitch and immediately called my friend Apoorva. Okay now Apoorva is a girl's name. Her name is neutral gender or whatever. It's just as complicated as mine and that's what I like. But she never cribs about it like me. I told her about how unfair my mother was and told her about the brilliant strategy I had devised to evade my mom's evil plans to pack me off." Are you nuts? What if your mother suddenly begins to think in a fair manner and packs you off to a fat guy? And more over there are some weird men who love fat women. They are the men who prefer women in the likes of Shakeela( I am referring to an Indian expert porn actress), Namita etc. So stop devising such foolish strategies will you?", she said. Apoorva is always one woman with some sense. Her sense builds up as and when you approach her with problems. Otherwise she is pretty much the slow kind of kid that I am.
"Apoorva I am too paranoid de. I don’t think I can ever find a Tambrahm who is like Shahrukh and Shahid fused into one. I am totally smitten by this Project manager of mine. He is Tambrahm too and super smart. But he dates Neha that bitch. I wonder what she has, apart from her fair skin tone that swept him off his feet." I have a prejudice against girls with the name 'Neha'. I simply hate them and 99 percent of them turn out to be bums. Nikhil Subramanian was my longest crush in school since class 2. Neha Koccha joined school in class 11, and she started going out with Nikhil just one month after she joined. I wonder how these girls manage to do what I couldn't do in 10 years in just one month. I hated her so much. I hate her even now. Apparently, Nikhil and Neha are still going out. There was this other Neha at college. She dated four different guys during four years of college, and passed out with 88 percent aggregate and a distinction. How did she manage to do that.
Coming to the point, Apoorva gave me some gyaan about marriages. "Marriages”, she went on. “are not as bad as you imagine them to be. In India it’s not enough if the guy alone likes you. It is important for you to build a rapport with his family too. More importantly his mother. After all, we cannot live without our families."
I was beginning to feel a bit nauseating with all the black forest and raspberry sauce. Apoorva was getting a bit boring with her gyaan.
"You know ...” she went on. “See it’s like this. You often find that adopted kids are more pampered and cared for by their parents. Why is that? It is only because the parents get to choose their kids, and by default women hate to accept the fact that their selection is awful. That's why you never find mothers of adopted kids cribbing about them. But our parents often blame fate to bring slow kids like us to be born for them. They didn’t get to choose us. Similarly if you are the the 'chosen one' of your mother-in-law, there is very less chance that she would crib about you. Women hate to accept that their selection is bad. All that she can possibly do is brand you under the name of ' Modern Bahu' thats it. That is something we all would carry in the due course of time."
This did make some sense in a weird sorta way. “I have three options", I told her. "One is that I can go in with the choice of my parents and become the chosen one of the mother-in-law too, or second I could wait and find the man of my dreams. I've always had a fancy to marry an army man. This is another of my brilliant strategies for life. Just imagine, you would hang around with the elite of elite people in the society. And the best part is you are married yet single. You can send each other the cute sms'es like 'I miss you.. Want to kiss you' types and never get bored of it. You can have a perennial honeymoon and intimacy intact. The guy would visit you probably only once in 3-4 months and you get to exchange love letters even after the wedding just like in the movies. The guy would be deprived of the sight of a woman for at least a 100 mile radius and would be dying to see you. And every time he comes down, you could have a wild wild time and never get bored of it. Adding to this, imagine the perks. Free medical checkups, sprawling army quarters to live in, free transportation by trains, and in some cases you get a cook and a driver too,and huge pension ( thanks to the 6th pay comission and salary revising strategies of the Indian Government). Just in case the guy pops off, you get a huge compensation and get hailed as the wife of an honourable man. This is so much fun when compared to the boring corporate guys. I wish I can be a privileged one. My last option is to remain single. But this is a tough task, considering the fact that I have absolutely no control of my hormonal upsurges and if I choose to be single I need to maintain the reputation that Lata Mangeshkar possesses and want to be known for my chastity."
Just as I finished speaking to Apoorva, the door bell rang. My mother and Patti were back. I was curious to see what the horoscope looked like. I went and opened an A4 sheet of paper from my mother's purse. The sheet had my name written on the top left hand corner and my date of birth on the right. There were many squares and it looked like some magic square. In-between those lines somewhere, there was what what destiny had in store for me. Was I to become the ' Chosen one', the ' Privileged one' or the ' Chaste one'?
Sunday, May 09, 2010
I wonder why - Sunaina
I am an 18 year old woman. I don't know if should call myself a woman or a girl. Both seem appropriate and yet inappropriate. My name is Sunaina. It means one with beautiful eyes. My grandmother named me Sunaina, since I had large eyes when I was born. They are still large and the most prominent feature on my face. I live in Calicut with my family. My family is a huge one. My father's family, my Patti, and my father's two brothers with their families stay with us. They call it a joint family, but I don’t think we are joint in anyway.
I have a very peculiar problem. I don't know if I must call it a problem or a worry. A problem or a worry means the same thing. The thing is that I don’t want to worry about this problem I have, since I don’t think its a problem at all. The people around me make me realise that I have this problem. I am a woman with a small build. I don’t have huge breasts. I have been ridiculed and made to feel small because of this. My Patti tells me that I can never satisfy a man and I am a shame to the family. She even asked my mother take me to a doctor to solve this problem of mine. The doctor shouted at my mother for putting me in such an embarrassing situation. She told me not to worry about it and said that it was perfectly alright to have small breasts.
Every day I travel by bus to college. The bus often is crowded. The bus is so crowded that people fall on one another. Sometimes the pushing gets very bad. Many a time a few men take advantage of this situation. On the pretext of moving, they rub their genitals on my back in the process. The feeling is miserable. Many a times they have pinched and fondled my breasts. It hurts a lot both physically and mentally. I try resisting but sometimes I cannot prevent myself being touched. I once told my boyfriend about these incidents in the bus and he ridiculed at me by saying “You have such small ones why would anyone do that?" I felt miserable about myself for an entire week after that.
I wonder why these men do this to me. What is their intention? Do they do it because it gives them pleasure, or they think it gives me pleasure? According to my grandmother, I could never satisfy a man. Then why do I get fondled each day?
If a man has small genitals, no one would even know except his wife. He wouldn't suffer a complex about it. When I get touched and fondled, I wish I can pull down the guy’s zippers and do to him the same things that are done to me. I wish I can pass on the misery I face each day. I wish I can comment on the size of his prized masculine possession and other things. But I know I would never be able to do it.
Women's liberation to me is not about banishing female infanticide or the women’s reservation bill. Liberation to me means looking at a woman beyond just her breasts.
I have a very peculiar problem. I don't know if I must call it a problem or a worry. A problem or a worry means the same thing. The thing is that I don’t want to worry about this problem I have, since I don’t think its a problem at all. The people around me make me realise that I have this problem. I am a woman with a small build. I don’t have huge breasts. I have been ridiculed and made to feel small because of this. My Patti tells me that I can never satisfy a man and I am a shame to the family. She even asked my mother take me to a doctor to solve this problem of mine. The doctor shouted at my mother for putting me in such an embarrassing situation. She told me not to worry about it and said that it was perfectly alright to have small breasts.
Every day I travel by bus to college. The bus often is crowded. The bus is so crowded that people fall on one another. Sometimes the pushing gets very bad. Many a time a few men take advantage of this situation. On the pretext of moving, they rub their genitals on my back in the process. The feeling is miserable. Many a times they have pinched and fondled my breasts. It hurts a lot both physically and mentally. I try resisting but sometimes I cannot prevent myself being touched. I once told my boyfriend about these incidents in the bus and he ridiculed at me by saying “You have such small ones why would anyone do that?" I felt miserable about myself for an entire week after that.
I wonder why these men do this to me. What is their intention? Do they do it because it gives them pleasure, or they think it gives me pleasure? According to my grandmother, I could never satisfy a man. Then why do I get fondled each day?
If a man has small genitals, no one would even know except his wife. He wouldn't suffer a complex about it. When I get touched and fondled, I wish I can pull down the guy’s zippers and do to him the same things that are done to me. I wish I can pass on the misery I face each day. I wish I can comment on the size of his prized masculine possession and other things. But I know I would never be able to do it.
Women's liberation to me is not about banishing female infanticide or the women’s reservation bill. Liberation to me means looking at a woman beyond just her breasts.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Of Mobiles and Automobiles
There are two things that have never fascinated me. One is mobile phones and the other is automobiles. I've never even bothered to find out my own mobile model number and each time I am asked, I take out the back cover of my mobile to read it out. And each time I invariably forget it within the next five minutes of reading it. I have never felt that remembering my mobile model number is mandatory. I've often been ridiculed by shopkeepers, friends and relatives for this. Now days, remembering your mobile model number is as important as remembering your car registration number.
The other day, as I was speaking to someone from the restroom of my office, a friend of mine noticed that the cleaner there had a better and more updated version of Nokia when compared to mine. She found this extremely funny. I still don't understand the joke about the rest room cleaner having a better mobile than mine.
The only feature I need in a mobile phone apart from the basic necessity of making calls is that of sending messages and receiving them. And yes I don’t need a phone that hangs if I pressed the buttons too hard. I find it immaterial to have a phone worth forty thousand rupees, with a 7 pixel camera, hazar other features, and have balance of Rs.0.04. A phone should serve the purpose its meant for. I don’t quite understand the logic behind having a phone worth 40 or 50 grand and not being able to make an emergency call because you have a balance of 0.04 rupees. So technically, during an emergency if I cannot make a call from a phone worth 40 grand it is of zero value.
Another thing that never amuses me is cars. Ever since I was a child, I've never dreamt of owning the best cars. I don’t know the difference between a z-series and x- series Mercedes. My father often told me “It doesn’t matter how you travel from point A to point B, be it by a Porche, a Lamborgini, a Maruthi 800, or the MTC buses. There is no shame in travelling by something that takes you to your destination”. A few days back, when the prime minister visited Chennai for the opening of the secretariat,many roads were blocked and there was terrible traffic jam throughout the city. While numerous 'Honda Cities', quite a few Skoda's were stand still, I walked past them and reached home way ahead of all the cars present there.
As I walked, I wondered of what value was a Rs 25 lakh car, which earned the respect of the onlookers on the road, if it took you to your kid's birthday function four hours late.
The other day, as I was speaking to someone from the restroom of my office, a friend of mine noticed that the cleaner there had a better and more updated version of Nokia when compared to mine. She found this extremely funny. I still don't understand the joke about the rest room cleaner having a better mobile than mine.
The only feature I need in a mobile phone apart from the basic necessity of making calls is that of sending messages and receiving them. And yes I don’t need a phone that hangs if I pressed the buttons too hard. I find it immaterial to have a phone worth forty thousand rupees, with a 7 pixel camera, hazar other features, and have balance of Rs.0.04. A phone should serve the purpose its meant for. I don’t quite understand the logic behind having a phone worth 40 or 50 grand and not being able to make an emergency call because you have a balance of 0.04 rupees. So technically, during an emergency if I cannot make a call from a phone worth 40 grand it is of zero value.
Another thing that never amuses me is cars. Ever since I was a child, I've never dreamt of owning the best cars. I don’t know the difference between a z-series and x- series Mercedes. My father often told me “It doesn’t matter how you travel from point A to point B, be it by a Porche, a Lamborgini, a Maruthi 800, or the MTC buses. There is no shame in travelling by something that takes you to your destination”. A few days back, when the prime minister visited Chennai for the opening of the secretariat,many roads were blocked and there was terrible traffic jam throughout the city. While numerous 'Honda Cities', quite a few Skoda's were stand still, I walked past them and reached home way ahead of all the cars present there.
As I walked, I wondered of what value was a Rs 25 lakh car, which earned the respect of the onlookers on the road, if it took you to your kid's birthday function four hours late.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Some nasty reminiscences
I always wished life was like a tape recorder. I wish I could just press the pause, rewind and fast forward buttons as and when I liked. I could undo my mistakes, never repent for being unjust, unfair or biased. Then I could live a life without a single regret and sleep peacefully on my grave. When I look back, I regret two things I did in my life.
The first one was when I was in class two. It was on my birthday. There was a get together at home and many close friends, relatives, cousins, and neighbours were invited. I quite don't remember who all were present back then. I was very excited and happy to get all the attention and presents. My mother had ordered a huge cake from Adyar Bakery and had made a variety of snacks. Among the various guests who were present, there was also Ramanujam. Ramanujam was the son of my neighbour's servant. He was a year younger than me. My father had invited him over as there were quite a number of children and he too could play with us. I didn't want Ramanujam to be there. I didn't feel comfortable. Ramanujam was a short, skinny boy who wore half overalls, which was his corporation school uniform. He was wearing that during my birthday party too. He didn't wear shoes and his legs were dusty with sand. Ramanujam often watched my friend Aparna and I play at her house. Aparna's father was a strict man and he never allowed Ramanujam to play with us. He didn't want us to mingle with the servants. As my father called me and asked me to include Ramanujam to the games we were playing, I began to cry. I didn't want to be associated with a servant's son. My father was furious and called me aside and tried to make me understand that my behaviour was unacceptable. I didn't care about what he told me. I didn't want to play with Ramanujam and I didn't want him to be at my birthday party. I told my Father "Appa he is not even my friend." Ramanujam silently watched what happened. He wondered why I was crying. He just stood there in his half overalls and kept staring at my father. He simply stood there, I wished he had some ego and just walked out, but he stood there watching and wondering why I was crying. He knew I cried because of his presence. The emptiness in his eyes and his silence is something that I can never forget to this very day.
My father realised it was futile trying to convince me and told my brother to play with Ramanujam. He played cricket with my brother and kept staring at my tears. While the snacks were being served my mother made sure Ramanujam felt comfortable. I knew he was not one bit comfortable. He sat at one corner of the sofa in the hall and kept eating his food as fast as possible. He didn’t look up even once. May be he didn't want to see me crying. Before he left, Ramanujam extended his hand to shake them with mine and smiled gleefully. He told me "Aaapy birthday Akkaaaa". I didn't want to respond. I didn't bother to shake hands with him. He hadn't even wiped his hands after eating the cake. They were all sticky and his nails were dirty.
Ramanujam's father got a better job and soon his family moved out of the neighborhood . All that I remember of him were those half overalls and the emptiness in his eyes. I had behaved in the worst possible fashion. I was mean, nasty, arrogant and what not. I just wish I could press the rewind button and undo what I did to Ramanujam on 14th of November 1994.
The second incident happened rather recently. In class 11, there were many new students who joined my school. One among them was KP. KP was a short, stout girl who wore specs. Her hair was a distinct feature, since it was light brown, incredibly straight, rough and dry. This called for a lot of ridicule I named her bottle brush. Where ever she went, everyone screamed bottle brush or Scortch Brite. She quite didn’t realise I had given her the name and used to crib to me about her hair. I used to tell her not to worry about external appearances and that her hair was unique. I shamelessly hid behind a veil of guilt and cowardliness. Soon the teasing got overboard and KP couldn't handle it. She left the school forever. My class teacher gave the class a big lecture about treating fellow students and how we must not make fun of one's physical appearances. The guilt inside me was killing. I prayed and hoped she didn’t hurt herself physically. I tried contacting KP after she left school but all in vain. She had changed her contact number and didn't want to get in touch with anyone from my class.
The other day, as I was crossing the road near Alsa Mall, I saw KP. Before I could cross over to the other side she was gone. I tried tracking her down on social networking sites, so that I could get rid of the guilt I was living with. Sadly KP isn't listed on any social networking site.
Sorry would not be the right thing to tell KP or Ramanujam. I just wish I could press the rewind button, then the erase button and fast forward my life to the present.
The first one was when I was in class two. It was on my birthday. There was a get together at home and many close friends, relatives, cousins, and neighbours were invited. I quite don't remember who all were present back then. I was very excited and happy to get all the attention and presents. My mother had ordered a huge cake from Adyar Bakery and had made a variety of snacks. Among the various guests who were present, there was also Ramanujam. Ramanujam was the son of my neighbour's servant. He was a year younger than me. My father had invited him over as there were quite a number of children and he too could play with us. I didn't want Ramanujam to be there. I didn't feel comfortable. Ramanujam was a short, skinny boy who wore half overalls, which was his corporation school uniform. He was wearing that during my birthday party too. He didn't wear shoes and his legs were dusty with sand. Ramanujam often watched my friend Aparna and I play at her house. Aparna's father was a strict man and he never allowed Ramanujam to play with us. He didn't want us to mingle with the servants. As my father called me and asked me to include Ramanujam to the games we were playing, I began to cry. I didn't want to be associated with a servant's son. My father was furious and called me aside and tried to make me understand that my behaviour was unacceptable. I didn't care about what he told me. I didn't want to play with Ramanujam and I didn't want him to be at my birthday party. I told my Father "Appa he is not even my friend." Ramanujam silently watched what happened. He wondered why I was crying. He just stood there in his half overalls and kept staring at my father. He simply stood there, I wished he had some ego and just walked out, but he stood there watching and wondering why I was crying. He knew I cried because of his presence. The emptiness in his eyes and his silence is something that I can never forget to this very day.
My father realised it was futile trying to convince me and told my brother to play with Ramanujam. He played cricket with my brother and kept staring at my tears. While the snacks were being served my mother made sure Ramanujam felt comfortable. I knew he was not one bit comfortable. He sat at one corner of the sofa in the hall and kept eating his food as fast as possible. He didn’t look up even once. May be he didn't want to see me crying. Before he left, Ramanujam extended his hand to shake them with mine and smiled gleefully. He told me "Aaapy birthday Akkaaaa". I didn't want to respond. I didn't bother to shake hands with him. He hadn't even wiped his hands after eating the cake. They were all sticky and his nails were dirty.
Ramanujam's father got a better job and soon his family moved out of the neighborhood . All that I remember of him were those half overalls and the emptiness in his eyes. I had behaved in the worst possible fashion. I was mean, nasty, arrogant and what not. I just wish I could press the rewind button and undo what I did to Ramanujam on 14th of November 1994.
The second incident happened rather recently. In class 11, there were many new students who joined my school. One among them was KP. KP was a short, stout girl who wore specs. Her hair was a distinct feature, since it was light brown, incredibly straight, rough and dry. This called for a lot of ridicule I named her bottle brush. Where ever she went, everyone screamed bottle brush or Scortch Brite. She quite didn’t realise I had given her the name and used to crib to me about her hair. I used to tell her not to worry about external appearances and that her hair was unique. I shamelessly hid behind a veil of guilt and cowardliness. Soon the teasing got overboard and KP couldn't handle it. She left the school forever. My class teacher gave the class a big lecture about treating fellow students and how we must not make fun of one's physical appearances. The guilt inside me was killing. I prayed and hoped she didn’t hurt herself physically. I tried contacting KP after she left school but all in vain. She had changed her contact number and didn't want to get in touch with anyone from my class.
The other day, as I was crossing the road near Alsa Mall, I saw KP. Before I could cross over to the other side she was gone. I tried tracking her down on social networking sites, so that I could get rid of the guilt I was living with. Sadly KP isn't listed on any social networking site.
Sorry would not be the right thing to tell KP or Ramanujam. I just wish I could press the rewind button, then the erase button and fast forward my life to the present.
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