I'll attempt it.

"I’ll attempt it."

Some tons of minutes away, my friend and I had gotten into this vigorous discussion about how LOC Kargil had certain characters overdone in the movie- especially one of Capt. Anuj Nayyar being played by Saif Ali Khan. I mean how could somebody be so ridiculously brave to go all full-fledged knowing the firing is on from the other side- As civilians, we tried taking sides, even rummaged through to eventually settle on “How’s the Josh?”, conveniently concluding “Must have been high, Sir.” And we moved on.

Not many days later, through the pouring glitzy evenings dipped in love themed declarations of many forever promises and red hearts singing the Valentine choirs, also bled to shame the losses of some patrons and guardians we probably never even sent a “Valentine’s Day” postcard to. The nation was petrified and we demanded an immediate actionable item- another Surgical Strike. I followed suit among the millions of Facebook & Twitter population changing their DPs to black, exposing the back stabbers celebrating this black day and even offering their personal details ensuring how they’re ready and fit to take on the rifles, bang the enemy nation down and avenge the attacks. JOSH- Josh like there’s lot of fire. Smokes?

“What could we genuinely do as civilians to help?”- I think I left just this one simple question as a text message to one of my closest friends, serving as a Captain with the Indian Army, currently posted at Himachal Pradesh, who admitted visiting Pulwama right about 4 or 5 days before the attacks. I was maybe expecting for him to explosively applaud the humungous amount of support we’re already showing through the black pictures or the over-hauled spirits, and what came about was a straightforward, elementary response – “Understand your duty as a civilian and if you really, really care, ensure that the protectors are not harassed by the system. Respect the soldiers. Maintain peace.”

I thought we’re already doing that. And enough. Then again, this Jawan shared his travel story after the Pulwama incident when he left his hometown to join his unit at Kargil and supposedly his train got delayed. He went to the TT requesting him to be allowed to continue the journey on a passing train over a vacant seat. The TT blatantly refused over how unethical and immoral this would be and sent him over to another examiner, looking to enquire about a vacant seat in the Third AC or the General Category. As an army officer, one is entitled to travel in the second-class AC but the Jawan never argued and went on to meet this other TT who was quick to offer a good bribing amount, knowing he’s temporarily in charge to make the most of this soldier’s appalling circumstances. With hopelessness and angst, the Jawan showed his ID and reinstated that he’s travelling not for leisure but to join his unit at a place getting numb with a temperature of -20 degrees. The TT paused, looked back at the Jawan again and revised the offer, this time with a sympathetic discount of 300 rupees.

The Jawan went back and forth among the authorities requesting them to let him travel on a vacant seat. But you’ve got to be saluting the spirit of these pretentious Ticket Examiners who were undaunted and unmoved that day- The young army soldier who didn’t hesitate one bit in packing his bags and leaving for his unit not even 24 hours post the attacks travelled that day on the floor of the train, between the exit and the toilets. Not sure if the journey made him revisit his vows towards the citizens of not even thinking twice before taking bullets for all of them who are only related in the binding colors of the national flag and not beyond that, not sure if we deserve such brave hearts through these demeaning acts of misusing our comfort, luxury & privileges, not sure if we still understand the magnitude of leading a non-civilian life from our routined, air-conditioned chambers of offices, homes, restaurants and playgrounds!

One of the viral videos of the wife(Nikita Kaul) of a martyred Major Vibhuti Dhoundiyal is enough to give spinning chills when she bends over his coffin bearing the handsome, smiling photo of her late husband and whispers “I love you” and ends on a brave note of “Jai Hind” as her departing words keep re-affirming how she’s forever going to take pride in being married to him- The internet flooded with the outpour of affection, sympathy and doubts over this video, some of the questions being raised about how this is a publicity stunt and we should ask Nikita if she uses English language to communicate at home like she’s using here for the speech. One moment away, we were lauding “Uri” in the theatres and the Indian Army and their families and how we can never equal their spirits and courage, and here we are, thoughtlessly, ruing in aggressive tones declaring if the Army is incapable of giving a befitting reply to the enemies, we will jump in.

We care- we think we care- we show that we care- we care because we should care- do we really care?

Right before landing onto the vocal expressions of readying ourselves wanting a counter attack, we did not lend our ears to the army personnel especially requesting us to save our energies and not become the hate mongers- We did NOT care.

Right before flooding the web with Muslim hating posts, we did not write to the government asking them to withdraw all appeals filed in the Supreme Court against disabled soldiers, military widows and families of the fallen- We did NOT care.

Right before burning effigies, criticizing the families of the martyrs and shouting slogans, we did not share and spread the appeals by retired army personnel humbly requesting everybody to be a veteran to the families of the soldiers- we did NOT care.

One nation away, a 26-year-old Indian residing in the United States fundraised over Rs. 5 Crores, a Muslim IAS officer from Bihar adopted daughters of two Pulwama martyrs, Startups opened payment gateways for contribution and in a million other ways, we had the option to choose to unite- miles and miles away from the path of violence and negatively ventilated anger. That’s NOT for us to do, that’s NOT for us to show.

My Captain friend appeals that we really understand now what we ought NOT to do, that we be the support, sowing and reaping love and presence- the healing shall go a long way making the soldiers feel more wanted, respected, valued and cared for.

Pulwama attacks shall be met with a befitting reply- As civilians, we aren’t to be telling the Forces how they strategize it, we are to stay aware, well-read and connected. We are to share the right information across the right set of people, not stay mum through the actions unjustifying the glory of India, report and highlight some incredible support from incredible hearts walking the roads of kindness and not hate- we have always liked showcasing our patriotism and this is the chance, here are the ways and there’s the hope.

Our soldiers need our love- let’s be the oxygen to their flaring colors of victory and sunshine- they’re asking for it.

I’ll attempt it. Will you too? Please.

Belonging

Tumbling away into the night full of stars, the guide waving from far,
Like a frozen misty morning ready to own your scars.
Beneath the questions, the answers, the protests, the pauses,
Did you believe there nurtured the anchor in the closet?
Oh, but your world is too filled with too many of you.
Too bad, I have always belonged here, and will always do.

Neither your unspoken glances nor the mirage of acceptance,
Not the shells you laid to make me walk the rocks of assurance.
I stood through the fire, the wind, the water, the space,
The Earth only classified as humans, never normal or gay.
You exist in boundaries and creeps, like no rules are meant to be defied,
Then again, love has no language- It’s just LOVE certified.

I am a beginner and a foreigner, I am accepted and discarded,
I believe in humanity which lays to rest across the noises.
Not your woven sweater of warmth you’d look for on a wintery evening,
But maybe the pile of wood, ever ready to be lit, for dreams and making.
A dreamer, a doer, an erupting ball never shallow,
If you’ve seen me smile, do not mistaken my tornado.

I will let the stars light by, and well if the morning sun pleases,
Here’s to my cross-dressing, the short hair, my choice of men, women or none- it eases.
You know when you are unwelcoming and all stares- I thought I’d make do with them all, pretending to be unaware,
And just be- with this revolving mystery of “Do I” or “Do I not” really DESERVE to be?

I am a human of varied emotions, a body with multiple reflections,
The pain, the shame, the acknowledgement, the despair,
Like my yearning soul who’s constantly looking for air,
And a catapult ready to shoot for the stars- as the vast sky may revere.
It doesn’t matter as long as I believe in my colors,
Blue, Violet, Red, Green- I essentially constitute the SPECTRUM, fair?.

My stories aren’t about how I don’t see myself a fit anymore,
My living dazzles around all that I’ve got to become, now and more.
I am a Diva to my dreams, a Dude to my moves,
I ain’t breathing shame in those locked spaces anymore.
My little song of freedom to this winsome, wholesome rhythm of hope,Goddamn, I have always belonged here, and will always do.

Maybe we should chat?

                                                               Courtsey: Google

Listen- I was thinking maybe we should chat.

You are under no obligation to say “Yes” but it’d be really interesting to get into your head and discover for myself these fatal, out-of-the-world, devastating- (metaphorical & literal)- ideas. I’m sure your brain operates vastly different from the most of us and that’s what really shapes you as the kind of being you are.

So, tell me- What is it that you notice first?

I’m not too sure but do you go to sleep with similar kind of thoughts or you’re thinking about it all day long or you’re just too inadequately supplied with the basic living essentials that you feel this is your gateway to being noticed?

Uhm, What is your daily routine otherwise, i.e. when you’re not at this mission? Or is this something that is not strategized and it happens, like one of our random dinner plans or a school bunk?
I want to know about your childhood- and your siblings, and parents- were you too pampered as a kid or they abandoned you for reasons unknown?

Was there a lot of pent up anguish, hatred, disgrace and detest that you were waiting to erupt at the next available opportunity or this was just one of the items in your to-do list that’s now checked?
Did nobody come speak to you when your synergy of shame or no shame overruled your essence of humanity and you were dragged into your first act, by choice or involuntarily?

Also, how was it? How did it feel? Powerful, Non-rattled, I-Am-The-Ruler-Of-This-Kingdom, Strong, Happy, Regular, Boring or Nothing? Nothing at all?

Instagram these days are filled with Sarcasm & Redefining Humor posts and I’m suddenly reminded of this one which has a giant pile of notes with a question popping-up to say, “Would you slap your parents if you could win five million dollars in exchange?” You get the drill now, don’t you? So, would you perform your activity if we were to pay you every time for it? On that note, it could become a legit profession and imagine you living the burden of its pride every passing microsecond- Is it cool enough or embarrassing or nothing again?

I don’t know if you’d be able to relate but most of us have dreamt to be where we are today or are “in-making”- Lawyers, Pilots, Engineers, Doctors, Writers, Sports-people, Drivers, Storytellers, Actors, and a zillion other professions which exist, popular, non-popular, famous, unheard of- all kinds of them. I don’t quite think we have it placed in our little notebook what you practice- What do you suggest how do we term it? Or you’re non-opinionated about it, again?

The other day, we tried telling 21-year-old Meera to not step out late at night in shorts- we thought there’s a pattern.
But then, 35 years old Jameela was just out last afternoon to buy grocery, that too draped fully in a Burkha- Good job, you broke the pattern. And how- Neither was 6 months old Shiny spared nor was 10 years old Aamir.

As much as we’d hate to believe it, this is growing more and more common in the households, churches, streets, villages, board rooms, vanity vans, slums, vegetable markets, fields- And we have no safe spaces to hide ourselves anymore.

I hope I have not angered you by asking too many questions and I’m not sure if it could agitate you further by what I’m going to say next, I’m sorry I’d have to say it anyway- I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU.

I ask questions because maybe you never bothered to ask yourself these, enough number of times. And while pleading, counselling, fearing, screaming, punishing might/might not effectively clean your mind or soul, I hope listening does.

So, with your consent, whenever you’d want to talk, I am listening.

And if you are hesitant about how to start, here, let me break the ice for you- “I am a rapist and I need help.”

Dissecting the Demeanour: Your prerogative?

An unending pathway reiterating “there are miles to go before I sleep” (how else will the 360km stretch be covered), the icing to the trip being the condensing set of clouds all fumed up and fiery, ready to burst aloud any moment, the curvy narrow highway pacing up to somehow escape the anticipated landslide in the Western Ghats- the artist inside lurked way beyond its limit to halt in the middle of crazy monsoon showers, only to witness the raging waterfall on one side and the empty valley compensating for it with the forest echoing love messages by couples on the other! My first long bike trip made me fall in love with the unabashed South India. It was real and surreal, dramatic and pragmatic, most definitely daunting but also inundated with heartwarming self-love. ‘This indeed is the institution to self-discovery and freedom, hail Mangalore!’- my excitement was contagious by this time.

The scrumptious Chicken Sukka and Kori Roti hosted me in their regal South Indian authenticity and I couldn’t stop wondering when was the last time I felt this exact level of fulfillment. With gratitude in our hearts and the inexplicable beauty to overwhelm, we set out to explore the heritage. The night before was duly spent in a wholesome planning of the places we’re covering and the entourage to ensure we get the maximum sightseeing before the unpredictable showers hit hard again. I chose a knee-length, comfortable, cotton, blue and white striped dress for a simple fact that this would go perfect with my St. Lawrence Church visit and the pictures to follow, of course. With one of my group members being ultra-religious so much so that he wouldn’t proceed to the next destination without covering all the temples in his stretch, we paused at one of the majestic, magnanimous city temples. I love temples in general, however, this was a moment which could outweigh either of my religiousness (if I walk in) or surrender before the staunch Hinduism practitioners who’d not spare one inch of my body draped in that knee-length dress, judging the appropriateness of my existence in that inappropriate attire.

Otherwise exuberant and stern, I really broke down watching these bare-chested men with the red long tilak adorning their foreheads and floaty dhotis projecting their succumbed manliness, guard the entrance, labelling me an Outsider with their looks. And just then, my partner held me by my left arm and gently directed me towards the entry to the temple. I remember counting the four minutes and the 37 seconds I spent inside feeling like a lifetime of prison. Had it not been the liberating visit to the Church thereafter, I would probably have sulked for days.

We truly are stuck between the misogyny of inverted power structure between men and women. After the regressive set of ruling years, women have finally spoken up about not willing to be ruled anymore. And we’re seeking a balance with clearly no intention of inverting the power structure and create a society with the women ruling the men. That’s all there’s to it for real- And this theory truly comes across as no-nonsense rationality. However, the energy to speak up against all the discrimination and bondage has gotten a certain sector to believe that we might be avenging ourselves against all these years of stillness. And that in turn, is leading to vague attempts at holding grounds for power, a make-me-feel-good set of prejudiced activities to take pride in the authority of masculinity. Why else would a culturally vibrant city of Mangalore abide the men entering temples to ensure their upper bodies are unfurnished and the same rule has the society looking down upon the ladies not fully clad? What is this shield of virility that celebrates the males and dishonors the females?

I don’t believe we are giving enough importance to the revered ‘equalism’ with as much a necessity to the misunderstood ‘feminism.’ We clearly are failing ourselves, especially as Indians when we let a mighty school in Pune roll out a notice asking the female students to wear a particular skin color innerwear with a particular length of their skirts. We are shameless because we are watching the videos of transgenders trying to have us ask the men to behave and not the women to dress a certain way, we are getting the videos viral and concurrently comparing rape cases depending on which one garnered more attention from the Bollywood fraternity.

I was taught wrong that mini- skirts and halter- necks provoke rapes when I saw for myself not even the minors, infants, Muslim women in Burkha, men at work being NOT spared. Maybe the begotten, rag-hearted gospels of religion come across as intimidating to me for once but I know they wouldn’t be able to stand five minutes of scripture discussion I’ve literally thrived upon right since childhood. Be it their judgement of my origin or the lack of sensitivity towards human emotions, I’ve learnt that I got to hold my head high the next time I walk in the temple door in a saree, or a gown. I’d still be better off than those goons calling themselves the messengers of God in the broad daylight with their demons coming out when nobody around’s watching them assault and rape children within the same premises of the temples.

My Religiousness is my religiousness to believe and follow, none of yours to dissect!

Your Best Break-up Partner

“Are you having the almonds soaked in water daily morning?”
“What giddy again? Everybody around is falling sick. Just go for a checkup and make sure you don’t go alone.”
“Be careful while you cook something and for heaven’s sake always cross check while turning off the gas knob. Do you even know how to cook?”
“Don’t order too many times from outside. Walk down to the grocery store and purchase vegetables. You can manage to cook once in a while- save money.”
“You haven’t called Dad in two days. He is worried.”
“Have you blocked each one of us on Facebook because I don’t see any new posts no more?”

Say hello to these familiar sets of drumrolls your best partner in the world comes with- Mothers.
Oh, what a mess- you feel like breaking up all the time. And you do.
But unlike all other break-ups wherein you have sleeved up with shields of ego clashes, no understanding, dagger swooning damage to self-respect and dignity, and you are swearing on your mothers to never get back- this is always a shelter home. Moms.

Motherhood comes as a choice to some and naturally to some others- And no matter whenever that happens, their children become their first priority. My mother has an M.A. in Psychology and chose to not work so that both me and my sister could attain quality education while Dad had a transferable job and was shifted to the North-western India for 5 years. 
We see partners around us leaving everything to be with each other. Maa has loved Dad ever since the day they met, loved so much so that she still has the writing pad she wrote letters to him in, during the early days of their marriage. She lived away from her husband for her two kids for ten long years.

Our morning school or afternoon schedule, extra classes or weekend rehearsals- there wouldn’t ever be one single meal missed, the instructions won’t stop, the emotional blackmails of securing top three or no ice-creams was a constant. Science sometime fails before the “Mommy” logic. If one paper for the board exams went well, that entire meal which was prepared on that very day would be repeated for all the other papers with a wishful thinking that Parantha & Sarso wali Bhindi is a lucky charm. That, being the same woman who would often vocally proclaim that people are just following these useless religious gurus owing to their superstition and that would end the world.

My competition days used to be really rough because of my performance anxiety. All my assurance queries of “Maa, I am winning this right?” were met with “You just got the hard work in your hand. And the results do not really matter.” It would often annoy me thinking it actually didn’t really matter to her until some time back I was told she’s getting all the certificates framed to be decorated across our hallway and her bedroom.

They say Fathers have a better bond with daughters and Moms with their sons. We are two sisters and therefore, it is hard to tell. What I do know is she’s the only one who could fit in all brackets we create as children. Her every-one-hour phone call when you are away might appear imposing in the beginning but the first breath you take whenever you speak to her- and she knows you got a cold, or you are dull, or you’re cornered or just not liking the city or the new home. She gives you just the exact strength from miles away you need to ride and take on the world- probably she’s the only Godly creation with the capacity to do so for the obvious reasons of being all our origins.

Between the first crush in school to the best friend at work, Maa has always known beforehand which of your relationships are forever, and even more the ones which will crumble. We really are looking for that companionship everywhere around us and will never acknowledge that it has been with us all this while- and has started to erode because we never took care to cherish it. We have always got catalogues and prices around which all our equations evolve. Guess we forgot to assign a category for her since she never made it to the catalogue owing to her priceless worth!

Here’s a good news, she never minds. We have got the liberty to return to her at any point we want, in any manner we’d like- to take out Dad’s frustration on her because obviously you cannot counter speak before him, to tell her that you are least interested in marriage, to click a selfie with her for a Mother’s Day post, to break down before her for a failing marriage, to instruct her to not ask you too many questions. Oh isn’t she cool, she follows you, all so well?

The Facebook and Youtube short ads and movies have enough content to help us all get started- there’s nothing supremely difficult about paying heed to a tiny four letter word- T.I.M.E.
Therefore, if we are done planning for a Mother’s Day surprise cake and expensive gifts, we could plan next the togetherness. They aren’t demanding at all, so most definitely no holes in the pockets burnt!

Meanwhile, I really got to figure out how to make Maa read my blogs. She always ditches it under the pretext of laziness or work. She’d let the whole world know about it and after a week when I go back asking for a feedback, she’d again be oh-my-bad-I-missed-it-again and “It must be good only since you wrote it.”

Also, I got to make her ride a plane sooner than her soon! And strategize because she isn't agreeing to prepare my favorite Mirchi pickle!

P.S: Happy Mother’s Day- If you’re reading it, go let her know you will never break-up with her again. Go NOW. J

The Visible Demons

My city continues to be unpredictable even as we collaborate over 2 years now- To everybody that asks me how do you like Bangalore, I love to reiterate: “Hopeful”, sometimes calm, often loud and petite, and mostly shrieking to convince the person asking that I am absolutely, fanatically sure that things will change for better, you and I alike. Phew, that is one pragmatic side to flaunt.

I seem to have figured out as to how do I deal with this city of hope- Between the constant juggle of early mornings and late nights yoga time, why not tire myself after work with the yoga and running so that all I could barely manage to think thereafter is sleep and NOT food. Because food didn’t give up on me when rest of the world did, I hold it in extremely high regards. But all midnight cravings shouldn’t be given in to, therefore, a switch in the exercise time.

A brilliant way to avoid traffic is to choose the travel period around lunch time and go for private single rides for the first half of the month with the salary making me feel royal and enigmatic, and for obvious reasons switch to the share rides towards the later part of the month. This, because I genuinely believe that self-pity helps me stay grounded. And, with some bank balance in my account.

So, three days back while I take the cab back to my home procrastinating about how I haven’t been invited yet to my colleague’s engagement ceremony and what in the world will I wear if it comes last minute- I completely forget to remind the driver to play the 95.0 Radio Mirchi on the FM. 95.0 because when I came to this city first, the people were all gaga about this channel keeping its advertisements to the minimum and brilliant content to the maximum. I was too lazy to explore the other options and willingly succumbed to sticking to this very route for all travels in cabs with radios installed on them.

Anyway, for the ride I took three days back, the channel playing was 92.7 with an RJ hosting a show and speaking to this lady school teacher from Goregaon who was all praises for the channel and the show. And I go in my head, it’s all scripted. They were holding a conversation in Hindi while she told the host about how her school has completed its Platinum jubilee and they are celebrating. I am having a good time imagining how much my Dad would have loved to hear this pure Hindi giant word exchange ceremony and how this lady must be a prolific Hindi teacher. And she takes that exact moment to clarify that she’s a Mathematics and Science teacher. I am both stunned and impressed. Also embarrassed that why I judged too quickly.

As my ride is about to finish, the song that plays next is “Humko mann ki shakti dena, mann vijay kare, Doosro ki jay se pehle khud ki jay kare” and I am all dewy eyed that it’s been years I listened to this favorite song which not only used to be one of the school prayers but also an irritating wake up alarm set by Dad which followed with a long morning walk at 4 AM and speech exercises and this bitter brown drink from some herbal leaves which is supposed to get your memory stronger. Shoot, awh- it sure led me to not forget any of these!

Well, I guess 92.7 Big FM is to be thanked for. I judged too far away, too many things before exploring and finding for myself. Why can’t a lady speaking fluent Hindi teach Mathematics and Science? My Dad’s a Ph.D in Hindi and one of the most well informed/spoken people I know on the planet. What’s with questioning the people getting married at 32 because it’s too late and at 23 because they probably are not ambitious enough? A male friend suggesting you do not wear shorts to the night ride might not be because he doesn’t approve of it but probably because it is colder at night and he doesn’t want you falling sick. 

A plus size could take interest in Martial Arts as much as a zero figure could be a foodie. Somebody adorning a saree could be a foreign minister and a bald man may have just chosen to go for a clean shaved head and not be a victim of hair loss. A shy, non-English speaker could represent a community before the ex-president of the United States and a Chaiwala could most definitely vouch for living with a million abuses from his ministry every single day of his tenure as a Prime Minister of the biggest democracy of the world.

Sure we aren’t bound to make our fair share of assumptions only a certain way but there’s got to be sense of understanding needing to develop.
All body sizes exist because of various reasons.
All girls with short hair are no lesser ladies and not every man who cooks and takes care of babies is less of a man.

White is gorgeous but brown’s got its own sparkle. 

Because Muslims eat beef and Christians drink, we shouldn’t be restricting our children to keep the company of kids with same caste and color.
Every language is beautiful, no profession is small and money isn’t everything.
There shall exist our individual battles and there will be times when we’d need to come together and accept, and act upon.

The world’s scarier when we tell our sisters that provocative clothing leads to rape and fail to even identify with Marital Rape. Between the sizes of the cleavages across to the lengths of the penises, there also exist communities who do not possess any. Love can exist beyond genders and feminism can be misused.

There’s each of our clocks ticking and like Rumi says, beyond the ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoings, there’s a field. I wonder what we shall carry to that destination when the procession begins- a truckload of imposed choices and judgements, or the acceptance and pride of living as one people?

It’s never too late to not re-think and re-start.

Padman, Padman: Whatta Period!

Watta day at office to leave behind the footprints on the sands of time- wait, why am I quoting H. W. Longfellow’s ‘A Psalm of Life’? It was one of my most adored poetry pieces of the Std. 9^th syllabus. Anyway, my attempt at sarcasm is quite often ear-bleeding, I’m told. I quite agree.

So, I’m at this café asking my best friend the potential names for babies and exchanging vigilant glances across the adjacent table only to deduce the girl’s trying too hard to please the guy- they’re on a Tinder date, my James Bond spirit shimmers in pride. Man, I really got to not divert away to stupid stuff during headaches- therefore Facebook login. There you go- another peer getting engaged, shoot! Fake saree candid, uh huh. Road trip pictures, wow. ‘Karni Sena to protest against Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s next musical he’s working on’ – I predict well, haha. A man posing with a Pad, a woman too, more than two people in fact- Scroll down. Scroll up. Pause. What?

I clearly remember being in Std 7^th when Mom was speaking with my Bua over the phone with Dad ironing his shirt. With the Chemistry book in hand, I saw her sigh an anticipative ‘She is yet to grow old’ and Dad frantically rubbed my back. About a week later, I return home midday crying my lungs out that my Wednesday sports skirt has blood stains. And that the school reception gave me a rectangular object to place under my underwear. But there was blood still. Maa checked, told me I had placed it on the wrong side, got me all cleaned up, fed lunch and put me to sleep. Oh, I had slept like a baby that day- for a straight 14 hours. I woke up only to find the bed stained. Maa placed the similar rectangular object on my hand, gave directions about placing it on the right side and asked me to call it a Pad.

Oh that time! I was among the selected unluckiest lot who had the most torturous five days of a month. The first day of the period meant a guaranteed vomit sessions, followed by a ten minute serious unconsciousness. It sailed into a feeling of broken back and soaring temperature through the second and third day and comparatively better through the remaining two. The time, however, genuinely promised royalty. No making the bed, no doing the dishes, no going to sports, no disturbance in sleep- Dad would massage my feet every time he was home. I generally felt good except for these times when my grandparents visited us and grandmother would discuss with Dad that being born a girl is such a pain. I was not allowed to join them for temple visits and was even asked to skip homework. There would be hush hush talks about that time of the month where it’s fair for me to appear dull and lost. I found it convenient.

That sort of got me to use the period as an excuse through school and early days of college. I had huge respect for people who gave me space when I would tell them about my ill health. They supported me acting special about it. I think I met a pilot who was invited to college for a session. While I showed her the rest room to change around, she mentioned she’s not well. Assuming it would be that time of the month, I expressed my genuine sympathy as to how brave of her to have made this. I swear, I had never felt that guilty before- she was shocked with my calling a normal, natural occurrence special. Her words still ring in- “As women, we already have a lot of challenges to convert to privileges. If we’re the ones to demean what goes into our making, we cannot expect the world to believe otherwise.” Something changed within that day.

It’s been 6 years I’m away from home. A total of 11 years, 2 months and 5 days of period pain encountered already- if I make it past 50, there’s still 26 more years to go before I hit menopause- might as well make peace with the system! I don’t say there’s a time when I look forward to welcoming them with open arms but we’ve kind of reached a settlement wherein we’re normal about it. There’s pain, cravings, cramps and acceptance. By now, I’ve travelled, worked, shopped, sweated out, and performed - all my schedules have check-boxed with the period schedule. Acceptance.

Except for the medical stores who would still go for a layer of newspaper wrapping followed by a black polybag before they’d handover pads with the looks of a scared drug dealer, except for the religious heads who wouldn’t suggest you being a part of some holy ritual because your impurities would dampen their already blackened spirits into darker holes, except for the ladies and gents who would shush you when you exclaim you’re on your third day of periods- it is supremely uncomforting to hear you talk about your problem that vocal and public, what has this generation turned into, a fanatic modernity?-  all acceptance except these.

Arunachalam Muruganantham’s a hero. I must confess I love him for his sense of humor and simplicity. While the world gets to live the story of our real ‘Padman’ in the Akshay Kumar starrer on Feb 9^th, I’m already swooning over a dialogue from the trailer which goes something like “I never study IIT, IIT study me now.” This guy’s making lives brighter- I take to the context of #Padman challenge where he asks people to pose with pads, reigning the spirits of how they’re not ashamed to hold one in their hands.

This isn’t a publicity #metoo stunt. It feels accomplished to see celebrities holding pads, men not shying away from standing by the spirit of normal womanhood, women steering it calm and clear in a similar fashion- Oh My! The last few days have been a treat to the eyes to watch this easy breezy wave of acceptance.

Oh, there’s of course miles to go- We got to reduce the usage of plastic and promote menstrual caps. But all new beginnings deserve applauds. I wish I was at home to pose with Maa and Papa holding sanitary pads along with me but work commitments…Since my sister’s going to be a doctor anyway, it would just be redundant of her promoting the PADMAN spirit.
Therefore, I come back home to wake my flatmate up to click me with a pad only to find the pictures coming bad. We tried a few angles and then decided I cannot be looking so dull (read cough and cold) with a pad in my hand. I shall go without one for now, sigh!

Now, before this sweet wave of kind gesture rubs across into “I’m holding a Pad and I support period, and the existence of women, and their right to live….and blah blah blah”, I take to my happy little victory dance because this right here, right now is Feminism in place. No shrieks, no hues- we’re happy in the company of our period being accepted. Period.

It’s 2 AM and I’ll sleep blessing Muruganantham again. And Twinkle Khanna for bringing the story to us. And my best friend who’ll hopefully take me for a whistle-filled Padman watch on Feb 9^th!

Wake up bright, dear world!