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!

His Happily Hippie Ever After

Chumming or not, food and clothes always get me tripping.
So what if I end up bulk shopping right when you break out the news to me- I’m not even embarrassed when you are almost verbatim that my wedding collection has surpassed yours.
You are most definitely worried because I’d planned to attend four weddings the last year and treasured my obvious absence through all four of them- I wish I could tell you I’d make it to yours even from my death bed, it feels that necessary. But I send you a screenshot of my ticket bookings instead.
You see, all of us like keeping promises in words and fail all the more often. I wouldn’t like any such repeat telecasts and therefore, I pat myself affirming I’ll live the actions proper this time.

It shouldn’t be a big deal- you neither. Like it didn’t feel that way when you and I were just colleagues. I was crazy about the OnePlus phone series and one fine day, I see a bulky, chubby, loud man going nuts about how he got that same phone for free because he had some contact working at Amazon. It didn’t matter to me except I burnt myself down for I had no such convenient contact and I’d been saving up for that phone since ages. Anyway, I have hated you ever since.

Or maybe, even more when I’d see you taking your work calls, walking to and fro around the receiver, glued like you’re already making your seven vows of marriage before the holy flames. Why wouldn’t you sit at one place and talk? Eventually, I was told you’re a work genius and maybe the appreciation started to pave way somewhere. But the eating habits, my goodness- all the junk factories would have agreed to a free lifetime supply of food had they been aware of how much of a value you’re to their business.

And therefore, when I found out the only kind of drink you make do with is ‘Virgin Mojito’ and in spite of that extra unprocessed fat content stuck to your body, you got the ‘Jhinga-la-la-hoo’ tribal dance step spot-on, I thought you were cute. We talked relationships, you laughed at my fascination towards Fish and Rice, made me awkward with the proclamation of how I’ll stay a fake Bengali ever. I felt your nudge for literature and poetry gone but not lost, and you never denied. You made my stay really difficult sometimes because had it been under your control, you’d have sentenced me for being at a wrong workplace. You were so impatient with all my dreams and achievements it was downright too overwhelming to contain sometimes.

With our individual break ups around the same time, you said you’re glad it happened to me and forced me into the tunes of ‘The Break-up song’ and ‘Baby I don’t want dollar bills to have tonight’. I don’t think I’d found my most dependable dart board yet until you were pretty explicit about walking me through the swamp, one day at a time.

Off late, I’ve really starting believing in the truth of us getting what we seek, maybe not always in the exact form we’d want them to be. And therefore, it is important to be on a watch. For all that you were to all that you’ve become, I can never put into words my gratitude towards every conspiring theory abiding to let this happen. It means the world to me when you play the cupid to my imperfect love. You give me the stature of family without any formality, you have told me a zillion times until now how your to-be-wife and I are similar in terms of independence and thoughts we hold. You understand that I care for you and you value it without any apprehensions. Our comedy show evenings, trips, rides and getaways shall always be about you getting to be the version you’ve always wanted to be.

I’m too young to be advising you about the new married world you shall step into but old enough to not let you forget that love holds the primary key between all equations. Compromises, regrets and failures exist to remind us that we’re capable of attempting- and that should never stop as and when we think fit. From colleague-to-acquaintance-to-friend-to-good friend-to-cupid-to-‘my last man standing’, may you stay the kind heart I’ve known you as, seems like forever now.

There are multiple reasons to never leave your side, also because you’ve a special responsibility of treasuring some of my biggest secrets password protected inside. To your big day advancing crazy and my incomplete shopping list yet to be check-listed, I’m already in a frenzy!

From Mr. Anirban Mitra to Mr. Anirban Ghosh, tell me later if the other side of the world is the same sunny?

P.S: Your to-be-wife and I discussed about letting you work after marriage, given we’re progressive and all. We shall think about it! :D

Breathe Your Flare of Fitness

“Do you think I’m fat?”
“I don’t think it’s about the bodyweight actually, do you think you’re okay with your current version?”
“No.”
“Change begins with acceptance. You start anytime you want to.”

It’s not an easy task sustaining one’s self- opinionated persona especially when there are a multitude of them around you. We have successfully managed to mess up our identities, 21^st century being the shield for all the wrong battles we’d pick primarily for an external display of our undying fighting spirit. Of course, we’re bound to lose because we don’t invest enough to understand our wants.
And therefore, it makes sense to proclaim “This is who I am. I’ll eat what I want to, when I want to. I’ll live the way I think fit. And I do not want any interference.”

As a nation, we’ve progressed to be only leading to regression. Homosexual marriages are not legal and we’re stuck over the alimony amount for divorces. We celebrate Independence Day in the same spirit of freedom which has got school girls being raped every day. The Dieticians all over the world are screaming about healthy living choices, be it food blogs or books or videos but our feminism will find rebellion in how our bodies and shapes shouldn’t be subjected to speculation/discussion, no matter what the purpose is.

I understand. I do because I’ve travelled that road many a times.

It wouldn’t make sense to me as to why I should listen to somebody else trying to tell me what to eat. As if parents force feeding their choices all through childhood wasn’t enough, there’s this other breed of concerned, aware, relevant people with degrees and consciousness about healthy living trying to impose their thoughts all over. I would be really frustrated if suggested with the idea of starting my day with two glasses of water, or including fruits in my daily meal. I mean, isn’t this one life all we got? Am I supposed to listen to all you crack-heads and control so much and just die? No, definitely not.

And of course, I understood a fit body as totally synonymous to a thin body. I won’t hesitate to admit that it felt bad to see ladies’ pose all confident and classy while I hesitated to even get clicked. I mean, the tummy shouldn’t show, the dark circles are too visible, the pimples give a really unclean look- I took to convincing myself that I’m not going to be starving to look like one of those, this is just plain crime.
And after a while when the guilt sunk too deep in, I took to starvation. My college was tough and I had stuff to do. This made up for a nice excuse to not have time to eat. There was a considerable weight loss except for the mind which was just growing impatient and more disturbed. I had a major loss of appetite and I was basking in the glory of how I’ve managed to control all my cravings given I wouldn’t feel the hunger at all.

The illusion continued for some time through office too- it was a different city, new people, new challenges and the realization of incapability to be able to handle all of those. The ego won’t let me ask for help and the pressure kept taking a toll on the whole system. My flexibility had reduced, I would be eating random and unchecked, at bizarre intervals. My body would struggle to lie every day that things are okay. It was around the same time I made friends with a colleague who happened to be a certified trainer and dietician. My arguments with him would often be based on how he’s ruining people’s life by giving them diet plans and asking them to starve. I took my liberty with all accusations and frustration of how I’ve tried all I could and I still don’t feel/look good according to me.

He seemed to have sensed that until confronting me about it one fine day. It led to a major breakdown but I knew I had help. And probably this is my chance to discover myself and recover. A Weight Loss challenge came up around the same time, I formed a team of two friends who were primarily into the challenge just because they valued me way too much. And I got them to promise that we’ll win this, no matter what. I took my motivation from the efforts my trainer would put based on his complete faith in me. Nothing would change if I wouldn’t follow his instructions but the guilt would never leave my side every time I would think I had a chance to get things right and I didn’t.

It began with dedicating myself to trusting a man (putting aside all the feminism and the anguish), start with getting the metabolism right, stick to the diet plan, work on hunger pangs, control even around sweets and fried snack and not miss the daily dosage of exercises. I started doing all of this with an initial thought of just winning the competition. However, by the end of 2.5 months, I was building into a responsible, newer version of myself who has begun to understand the importance of routine and a fit body and mind.

We did end up winning the challenge. However, there was a bigger one ahead: “You give me a challenge and I win it. But how do I choose to stand by what I’ve built after the time period expires?” There were multiples discussions with friends, colleagues and family crackling over how I would be back to square one given the target is accomplished.

I’ve to give it to my trainer and the dietician who chose to deal with me as a friend first. He got me to believe that certain situations and people will always be beyond me. And sometimes, I cannot do anything about it. However, that shouldn’t divert me from making the most of what I’ve got. I take the ownership of my body and therefore, only I should have the ownership of the mind and the thoughts I process too. It doesn’t matter what people say or think, I’ve a responsibility towards being comfortable in my own skin.

I’m in a space today where my bookmark list also includes health blogs. I’m a regular at researches regarding lifestyle and food habits. I run and exercise daily. My routine gets me to have a good sleep and wake up in time for Surya-Namaskar. I’m still adamant about my hatred towards gymming- the reason for Claustrophobia is now mentioned with a laugh at discussions. I feel proud because I get to advise my parents on how they should include boiled corn in their diet, they now listen because they somehow feel I deserve to be in that lecturing space.

Among the many transformations that I’ve had until today, I believe this particular one has made me a happier, patient, tolerant and a better person. It shouldn’t be about the world to make you define your choices, it should always be your willingness of heart and desire to go ahead and live your way. Sometimes, losing is winning. The circle’s going to be rotating all the time and we don’t want to get stuck at a phase. We are brave, brave enough to get up and roll with the circle. It’s one beautiful, rewarding life that’s meant to be seen and lived through the compassionate window of humanity and trust.
Never stop dreaming is the key to becoming what we desire for.
The roads traversed on this side won’t hurt; the journey shall be worth the self.

P.S: Start with breathing. J

The 8th Vow of Consent

The Exhibition centres have always been a favorite. The whole display of handcrafted jewellery, the artists putting to fine details their inspiration behind the oil-paintings and the charcoal sketches, and the captivating warmth around bumping into old acquaintances: I love dressing up to such events.

It hadn't been long when we met at one of the crockery stalls, Asha and I. A middle-aged woman, mesmerizingly justifying her nine yards of 'Banarasi Silk' draped graciously around, I almost curbed the urge of telling her how my Dad would have loved to meet her, given her striking resemblance to Rekha Ji. We immediately connected over our love for words and voices. And the next moment I know, she texts me the address of the venue I'm supposed to go visit as she would want me to host an event. She insists I should not give it a miss, not even for my love of sleep or some cosy self-admiring weekday sessions for this new home I was about to shift to, not even for my happening office commitments I was really looking forward to.

So, there I was, two weeks later, looking sharp and lost in my blue & white business suit. Maa says I look good in white and that I should keep some portions of it on, for all my big days, as a lucky charm. My mother has a degree in Psychology and right through childhood, I have always admired this profession and secretly dreamt of being able to host one of their Conclaves or Summits or Conferences someday. Today was the time.

I couldn't have been more honored to be a part of this Conclave which saw panelists like Amit Abraham, Sudhir Kakar and Asha.


Asha. Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology.
Dr. Asha, the woman who looked like Rekha Ji.
After the 3 hour panel discussion dissolved for it's first break, I just instincitvely rushed to hug her. We became close friends after that.

She insisted I call her Asha, and not Ma'am or Aunty.
I made her agree to calling her 'Dr. A', she said, "I know you want this title for yourself someday. This will be a good reminder to keep working towards it."

I would be frequent to Asha's clinic whenever she would be in town, and almost unapologetic about keeping her away from meetings due to our phone conversations, or Whatsapp.

Asha loved exploring the crockery, every corner of the world she would travel. However, like one typical Indian, she would always leave it at bargaining. She said she keeps no crockery at home because the empty sounds of dishes and plates hurt her. By now, I could tell there's much more to her than what she portrays, I had no option other than waiting for her to disclose her story, I was much younger.

At 43, Asha is pretty much living her life out of her ambitions and desires. She looked happy, I would try asking her why  she doesn't consider marrying again now that it's been 11 years since her husband died. She just let that suggestion pass everytime. I got to know why.

Asha was married to a businessman at 20. Coming with a family background of Professors and Educationalists, Asha wanted to pursue her Career ahead. What turned out instead was something common in Indian household, her husband didn't agree. In 1995, there wasn't much she could do about it except wait for the inflicted cries of manlihood on her to fade out so that she could bear some more the next day. She would bleed to unconsciousness in bed and beg him to let go, he would call her names and bring her to the oven flames and throw crockery at her and force sex.

Asha bore children 6 times and none of them survived.
She says she lived a life of prostitution and slavery for 12 years, except she wasn't even paid for it.

So, one fine day when she got a call informing her husband met with a spot death in a drunk driving case, she didn't even go to fetch his body and perform the last rituals.

She fled the city.

Dr. Asha today is a famous Psychologist. What she's made out of her life is commendable. She says her primary aim is to get penalised in India what she suffered everyday for 12 years: Marital Rape.

The UN Population Fund states that more than 2/3rds of married women in India, aged between 15 to 49 have been beaten, raped or forced to provide sex.
In the present day, studies indicate that between 10 and 14% of married women are raped by their husbands: the incidents of marital rape soar from 1/3rd to ½ among clinical samples of battered women.
Sexual assault by one’s spouse accounts for approximately 25% of rapes committed.

Article 2 of the Declaration of the Elimination of Violence against Women includes marital rape explicitly in the definition of violence against women.
While marital rape gets documented in hospitals, cases are rarely registered, since it is excluded from the India Penal Code’s (IPC) definition of rape, says an analysis by Dilaasa, a counselling centre based out of K.B. Bhabha Hospital in Bandra.

Sometime back, when Union Minister Maneka Gandhi said that even if there was a law against marital rape, women won’t report it, doctors and counsellors point out that Ms. Gandhi may not be off the mark, but that she missed the complete picture. Nayreen Daruwalla, director with Sneha’s Program on Prevention of Violence against Women and Children, said, “They do not report [marital rape] directly, but talk about it along with the other problems they face, such as husband not giving money."

What's extremely disgusting to each of our self-pride and worth is the scenario where we are ready to attack anybody who questions the rights of women to dress appropriately so that we could prevent rapes in India, however, most of us won't even accept that Marital Rape makes for 25% of the total rapes committed. Let alone the men, as women, we are just not aware of this term. In our heads, marriage is an institution, just like religion or education. Therefore, how can anything that's under the cover of marriage not be legal? How can unconsented physical relation not be sacred?

Each of us is fighting numerous battles, and nobody has the right to judge anyone for the account of their behavior.
But are we not going to understand if a child see his father forcing his mother into bed without her agreeing to it, are we/are we not helping raise a potential future rapist here?

Rape is a crime, we agree. While we celebrate our Independence Day on one hand and we drown into the news of a school girl being raped on her way to her school's Independence Day celebrations, we do feel we haven't inched closer to be able to deserve freedom.
Aged women being raped, married women and teenage girls, men being raped, infants and pregnant women being raped: It's time we move beyond the discussions on 'how to prevent rapes' to 'how to prevent the growth of rapist minds.' Those filthy brains are nourshing themselves somewhere, someplace watching rapes in the sacred pretexts of marriage happen.

Let's begin with accepting the existence of Marital Rape, let us not support it, let us help cut down on building rapists, let us get it penalised.
Let's live the duty we owe to ''the India.''

The Woman You Got To Find

Did it hurt while in the shell inside, you heard the world deciding over whether you should see the light of the Earth or set free by putting a 'No Entry' label to your birth?
Were you taken aback when you were questioned as to why you behave like a girl, or not, for that matter?
Did they laugh at you in school when for the Cricket team you nominated yourself as the Captain?
While making your first tea for family or a random set of strangers, were you nervous because you knew their expectations of you being a perfect housemaker is building up?
Wearing make-up or keeping your hair short and untidy, walking out in a gown or a skirt or a saree, did you feel they're noticing it all proper, to tell you later about it what's in store for your safety and what the world might eye?

In the coffee shop, across the newspaper stand, in the football ground, over the bridge: were you struggling all by yourself, in anguish and hatred, to prove You're much more than what they think you're not?
Did you run over yourself trying to outdo You because you know you're not just that?
Were you able to convince yourself that you are like their sons they've always tried to mould you into?

From Miss Popular in college to Miss Outstanding in office, could you manage to brainwash them that it's not always just about the looks?
Were your attempts in cracking a deal put to vain because they declared you're trying too hard to outdo the men?
With a partner, they'd agree you need him. Without a partner, they'll say you are disloyal and too big a dreamer to value love.

If you say you love marriages, it makes sense. When you talk Margaret Thatcher, and Mary, and Para Millitary Forces, and Robots, and Computers, and Boxing, and Weightlifting, they won't agree you know enough. You're just trying to pace up, you see.

From the size of your waist to the number of followers on Instagram, from the price tags of the items in your cupboard to the list of books you recommend in your lectures, from being a CEO of a top-notch organization to the wife and the mother, dear Ladies! You are worthy of everything you see around.
And if you desire to be the choices you make, you got to remember that Capabilities shall not be used as privileges.

You are beautiful. You are smart. You are funny. You are intelligent.

Do not get offended by the order in which these are put forward before you to rejoice in.
Do not hold it up against you when somebody says you can't do something.
Do not race up to choose in haste, just to prove you can do it in the best manner possible. They're nobody to show you your set of available choices.
Do not cry about feminism because to support women rights, we don't need to revoke the streets declaring we are one of them, pleading and victimised.

Not every man disagreeing to you disrespects you, not every person doubting you knows you enough to trust you.

You are precious. Sometimes, a little too much and often not enough. But you are worth to die for.

Regardless of what you think of, you are a diamond enough to live without the baggage of comparison and fear.

All you need is to find that one woman who's craving for it and set her free.

Maya's Spring

Maya's going bonkers tonight.
Like always, she has misplaced her Ghunghroos yet again.
She's been this careless ever since her dance lessons began. While she's in the school teaching the kids, she would forget the stationary at home. While at home, she will leave her lunchbox near the kitchen sink. And not to mention her dancing school, she's always running late.

Maya. She's 25. I met her 7 years ago. Her Mother was at our place asking Mom for some jewellery and money as they needed to marry their only daughter off. So, Maya took her seven vows with this 38-year-old divorced trader. And I never heard of her ever since, until three years back.

Campaigning for 'I Am Malala', while we were around in villages with the sanitary awareness and child/woman welfare programmes, I was introduced to this set of female volunteers who would help us hold the event. On the third day, there were some success stories being shared before we would wrap up the campaign. Our lead told us about this little girl with two kids, daughters, who was running around the village, sweating her way out to send her kids to school because her aged husband wouldn't allow that. His business flopped and therefore, the only remaining options he went with were drinking and getting violent with the ladies. His 21 year old wife even tried fleeing the village
with the daughters but failed miserably, thrice. It was around that time that this organization found her.

It took almost a year. The team helped her get a divorce and the daughters were sent into the custody
of an NGO, the same place where their 21 year old mother was appointed as one of the care-takers. When I had the opportunity to meet her, I happened to ask about her dreams. She was ecstatic in explaining to me that in village, they would show all of Shah Rukh's movies on a Projector: Swades, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Baazigar. And that she loved the character of Maya from Dil Toh Pagal Hai. She wanted to dance, breathe carefree.
She also hoped to romance Shah Rukh some day. She felt he was the first and the only man until then who could make her feel beautiful about herself.

Thus, I discovered our Maya.

I was back to college because the campaign ended. But we have managed to keep in touch.
Maya calls me DidiMa even though I'm two years younger to her. She says I feel like a mother each time she hugs me.

I spoke to her this morning. Their NGO is travelling to Nainital. And Maya's performing her first solo contemporary dance act. She's nervous, and she misplaced the Ghunghroos yet again.

Tomorrow is a big day for her. She told me she's got a dinner date after the event. I asked her to wear Red, she was adamant on going with Gray. We fought the discussion out with, of course, Maya giving in.

She was getting late for her final costume rehearsal and therefore rushed into the final words: "DidiMa! I will send a Whatsapp picture. My Summer seems to have found her Spring. I love you."

Yours Truly, Unrequited.

Unrequited, like it's essence does not promise returns.
I am not sure how it turns out to be fulfilling all the time: There's anguish, and regrets, and demands but a whole lot of abundant acceptance.
These friendships often never intrude the uninhibited zones.
And happen to leave behind a plethora of lifelong mystries.

Why did my best friend who walked me through my first ever school competition wasn't that heartwarming when I returned with the winning trophy to hand it over to her?
Why after explaining the difference between a 'Fast' and a 'Best' friend she had to give up on me the exact moment I was about to let the world know she's chosen to be my savior?
Why did it hurt when on the Friendship's Day, the wrist band she gave me was exactly the same like for the others?
Why would her lunch suddenly finish up right before I would rush to join her and expect to eat from each other's tiffin boxes, just like the old times?

Our crush for the same guy with dimples, my Mom trusting her more with handling my tantrums, my sister getting jealous of our Friendship, my Dad asking her to never leave my side while I'm on my bicycle -- her holding hands and being the support shoulder to a common friend, being ignorant of the fact that I feel abandoned, her sharing the class notes and hand made cards with the entire school and juniors but me, not waiting up anymore to wish me before I enter my allotted classroom for mid-term examinations, not even calling me by the name she used to.

My first friendship with my best friend who taught me all about it ended with the two of us just deciding to not cycle to school together anymore. I asked Mom to send my sister and I, just the two of us and nobody else.
I felt my possessive bits wanting to go hug her and bring her home to savor our favorite 'Orange' ice-cream. By then, she had already found a distraction in other friendships.

The last time I saw her was before leaving the city. I was returning with my Dad from school with all my certificates for the Board results. Dad congratulated her for scoring well in the exams. She did not take the sweets he offered her, though. That's when our eyes met and I meant the goodbye.

Until recent, I had been living friendships just like a ritual. There might be procedures but not necessarily the devotion. And one fine day, when the Sun shone bright, I was told I would be always valued as a friend because no matter if all the other chips go down, the friendship will keep us together.
The Light I thought I was following all this while said Friendship is particular and a certain way.

What I have been feeling now is Friendship is irreplaceable and a replacement, a security and a complete give-in, a promise and defying each one to make some more, a stay and a walkaway.

Like your favorite flower in the garden of Life, it shall surround you with the perfume of belongingness. But Roses will give way to Tulips one day, and Lilies to Forget-me-nots. That's the deal, you cannot expect them to hang on.

When I choose to see things both scared and carefree again, my Virgo asks me to not lose faith.
I will be made to stay in the Friendship so that no other definition binds me, to not let me be.

What's Your Spirit Color?

Ever since I remember being in school, 26th January and 15th August have been incredibly busy. While we were at Dad's school, I would go accompany his students for the 4 AM March past and slogan calls all over the campus.
That was how we would wake everybody up. And I would look forward to the day ahead. There would be flag hoisting and cultural performances, Dad's speech.
And then it would be my turn for which Dad would have made me rehearse for almost a month. While I would go on to the center stage and hold the microphone, something in me would hope I wish I never have to stop doing this. And every single time, the school would reward me with a little prize.
Dad would be called to hand it over to me.
I was probably too little to understand if it made him proud.
But Mom has kept those moments alive in pictures. I can tell he was happy, he was living the two of us together.

I like re-visiting that period every time I'm home. Mom has now given up on asking me why I'm always around the album cabin.

Through my brief stay in the boarding school and then eventually moving to a Convent School, I was always asked to prepare a speech about Independence/Republic Day and deliver it. I have enjoyed doing that. While in college too, I ensured I call up Dad at 5 in the morning to wish him and then try getting a few quotes from him which I could use for my write-ups. I was mature enough now to understand this is making him feel valued, making me feel dependent. We were both okay with agreeing to that.

26th Jan 2017 was the first time ever this day felt a holiday. I was in my flat the whole time. Dad wore a suit I got him for the School function. I almost choked when the thought dawned over that he would have given a speech. And I did not. He posted a selfie later with Maa and I had my excuse to call my parents and wish them.
I guess he knew what I was feeling. I guess he wanted to say I was very much there with him, on stage while he spoke and did those adorable gestures with his hands and neck. But he never said anything. Neither did I.

The next day I go to office, I'm trying to be happy. But 26th Jan was different this time, how could I?
It's difficult accepting reality sometimes.

To divert my mind, I happened to ask a colleague how this Republic Day fared for him. He showed me a video where there are three kids, one belonging each to the Hinduism, Islam and Christianity. They want to see a Republic Day function in a school close to them but they're not allowed inside. They find a way out. The Muslim kid goes to a Mosque and gets a Green piece of cloth. The Hindu kid goes to a Hanuman temple and gets a Saffron piece. The Christian child goes to a Church and brings a White piece of cloth from near to Lord Jesus's foot.
The kids then sew those cloth pieces together. And the next thing I see in the video is they're attempting to raise the National Flag they made by hooking it across a bamboo stick.

All I could manage in that moment was to be grateful to Ajit, my colleague for showing this to me.
I take extreme pride in India, being an Indian.

I realized circumstances could bind you to behave a certain way. But your spirit is unchained. Alive. Colorful.
My spirit is Red because my heart agrees to be it's Confidante.
I'll breathe Red in all my reasons of Hope, Choices and Change.

When things go downhill for you, maybe take a moment to identify what's your spirit color!
And paint all of You in it. You'll feel your chosen color, you'll become that to live it.

Our First Voices

The first time my Dad stood behind me while I recited the 'Gayatri Mantra' on stage in front of 200 odd people, he made me believe at the age of 4 that I could grow up to become an excellent orator.
The first time I saw Maa draping a sari, I knew I wish to become a woman of that aura one day.
The first time I met an Acid attack victim running a beauty parlor because she's passionate about it, I felt something change within me.
My first encounter with the husband of an Autistic woman taught me all you need to love and be loved is intent.

The first time I Lost a Speech competition in Std. 9th, I felt it's the end of the world.
The first time I saw Deepa Malik win a medal for India at Paralympics, I learnt no loss or pain is bigger than your determination.
The first time a kid came up to me and broke down about how his friends make fun of his stammer, I realized I have a duty to perform.
The first time I realized I will never be able to meet Dr. Abdul Kalam, while hosting his Condolence Meet in College, I sighed because some Dreams got to just remain such forever.

The first time a little, shy birdie (whose birth was being re-considered) cracked her entrances to become the first Doctor across all her generations and while she fake-complains about her everyday encounters with village patients in her ward visits, I feel lucky to have shared my parents with her.
The first time I saw Mahi becoming M S Dhoni on screen, I wanted to go hug him and tell him that no matter whether the stars dim out or the sun never shines, I would never leave your side.
The first time I was trusted with the story of a 105 kg bullied, feared potato sack transforming into a 75 kilos of inspiration who still fears the loss of his old parents, I knew I got to play a parent and a companion alike.
The first time at 23 I discovered I still wish to go to the hills and settle among the clouds, my hut and my own little world, I found my innocent self around.

The first story of a shriek, win, drag, hope, dance, music, pain, beating, teaching, care, strength, speech, revolution, loss, love, beginning:I have lived each of them to become bits of them. There will be many more stories we got to write about.

Let's not give up on us.
Let's breathe and create some, let's stay connected.
The Sun shines proud every morning and so do we stand a chance.
Life's rewarding.