I Do? Do I?

For the past one and a half years, on an average, I seem to have got the news of at least six or seven of my close friends and acquaintances getting married. Marriage is a beautiful thing and I cannot even begin to express how happy each one of these updates make me…However, that bubble of happiness just bursts a couple of moments later when the next question pops up by the so-called well-wishers, “So, when are you going to tie the knot?”

I have had people give me such horrific looks of disdain when I explain to them that I don’t want to get married until I fulfil some of my career aspirations. They find it so unbelievable that some of them have the audacity to ask in return, “Are you sure that’s what you really want? Wouldn’t you want your family to find you a nice boy? Your parents are getting old; don’t you want to fulfil your responsibilities towards them as a daughter?”

It takes centuries for mind-sets to change. How do I actually answer the question: but, is that what you really want? 

Answering that question has now become obligatory, instead of voluntary especially because these questions aren’t hurled anymore from just aunties and grannies. Women younger than me are asking this question to me and to their little sisters and peers. 

If we study the theory of human evolution, centuries ago, cave-women were called gatherers – their instincts compelled them to find the toughest, strongest man (the hunter) who they knew they could have a family with, and who would provide for them and protect them. We live in 2017 in a modern world, and while we still respond highly to our primitive instincts, do we still need to rely on a man to complete us? Of course, to add to the noise, we have the biological clock ticking on us. We don’t want to be too late! 

Love makes us do crazy things. Usually, for most of us, logic fails miserably when our instincts call. Within seconds I have seen independent, fierce young women becoming this timid, soft person who needs to be looked after. 

But we’ve evolved so much with time – why are we still letting our instincts get the better of us? I know of women who are highly-qualified still having a closed mind-set when it comes to marriage. Don’t we have enough societal pressure to last us a life-time – waist-size, sexuality, college, religion, work-life balance – didn’t we get enough choices to make growing up that now we have yet another one pushed our way. The lavish way a family celebrates marriage, why can’t they celebrate achievement of career goals in the same manner?

A few days ago, I met a beautiful twenty-five year old girl who told me she’s never been in a relationship, and now she is too scared to fall in love because it could be years and years till she finally finds ‘the one’, instead meeting someone pre-approved by parents and hopefully adjusting according to his whims and fancies seemed the smart thing to do. I did not know whether to give her a pity hug, or to just tell her that she’s got it all wrong. 

Unfortunately, she isn’t the only woman who thinks that way. I know so many of them who follow the same mantra. Ladies, what happened to living life one day at a time?

Surprise yourself for a change, take a shot. Even if it does not work, at least it was a good learning experience. Fall in love with yourself and spare the pressure. What you cannot find in yourself, you will never find it in another person, so don’t go forging a relationship just to fill some void. It won’t ever get filled that way. You are beautiful now, and you’ll still be gorgeous ten years down the line. 

I am not against the institution of marriage, but I believe it should be for the right reasons.

Let your soul-mate find you. You will know when the time is right. Silence your instincts and use that energy to build an empire you can, perhaps, later cherish. 

Regular life is boring, why force it on yourself? Surely, you did not take birth to experience monotony. No one knows for sure what lies after death, and while there are many fascinating theories floating around, the truth is that you just have this one life. Do you want to waste it by being boring and scared? 

Silence the noise around, and listen to your heart – you are just 1 in 7.3 billion people. Be sure to leave your mark. Remember this the next time you are forced to bow down to the wishes and expectations of others. 

You can always do better. 

To Mummy, With Love

I don't have particularly vivid memories of my childhood but as far as the classic game of Good Cop, Bad Cop is concerned, in my eyes, my father always played the role of the 'Good Cop' while my mother was invariably viewed as the 'Bad Cop'. After all, my father used to bring us toys and chocolates from his tours abroad. My mother used to ensure we eat healthy home-cooked food. My father used to take us on outings every Sunday. My mother would return home every evening and check our school-work. While both parents insisted on me getting good grades, it was my mother who used to force me to finish my homework and scold me if I did not score very well. Moreover, she would wake me up every morning so that I did not get late for school - unfortunately, being rudely awakened from my beauty sleep because of my mother's incessant screaming was not exactly my idea of a "good" morning. I remember commenting as a child that I hated my mother's shouting - I think, as a child, it was something that I feared.

As I blossomed into a teenager, gone were my shy, well-behaved mannerisms. Suddenly in school, teachers started telling my mother that I had transformed from being "the quietest in class" to one of the most talkative persons. It was in sixth grade that I actually started interacting more with my peers and got a closer peek into their worlds. It was in sixth standard that I realized, for the very first time in my life, that my mom was cool! It was a very random incident but it is one that I remember clearly even to this date - our class got a couple of free passes to the local amusement park and my friends and I wanted to go on our own. Each one of my circle of friends rehearsed a speech to present before our respective mothers in order to get permission. I too did the same. When my mother returned home in the evening, I was a little anxious. I waited for her to settle down and then brought up the topic precariously. To my utmost surprise, I did not even need to finish before she said 'yes' and gave me permission (though she insisted on some form of adult supervision). When I called my friends, I found that a lot of my friends who had boasted in class about how getting permission was not at all an issue for them were having trouble convincing their parents. That was the first time I realized my mother is actually not as scary as I think of her to be - she may scream and shout but if I am being reasonable, she will support me. She managed to even convince my friends' parents to give permission after assuring them that we wouldn't be left completely alone and by ourselves.

When I was in twelfth grade, I remember getting on the wrong side of one of the teachers in school. It did not bother me because my entire gang of friends were eye-sores for her and we landed in trouble almost every day. Never in my life had I ever served detentions until then. Unfortunately, my mother did not find this whole affair funny - it did not matter to her that I had partners in crime. According to her, I should have remained in the good books of the teacher and I remember fighting with her over this innumerable times. Even though I don't agree with this view-point even today, this was one incident where my mother taught me to respect the position of authority irrespective of the person occupying it.

When I moved out of my home-town and started living on my own, I realized my mother's importance. For the first time, I was responsible for my own self. There was no one to wake me up on time for my classes. There was no one to make my bed. No one was there to force me to eat something before leaving the house. Little things that my mother used to do over the years for which I never thanked her even once...Even today, though I have been living away from home for almost seven years now, whenever she is visiting, she will still go out and buy me necessities that I will never think of getting for myself; and though I hate it when she cleans, I really appreciate how nice and organized my place looks for the next couple of days.

Over the years, my mother has become my friend. I find a lot of people around me complaining about how they need to hide some things from their mother because "no matter how cool parents say they are, they are only fine with things if they are happening to other children and not their own" - it is difficult for me to relate to such statements. While I may not tell my mother every single detail of what's going on in my life, I do not think I would ever lie to her if she asked me specific questions. We may not have long, thoughtful conversations but her smart, witty comments have always lightened my mood and also made her an instant hit among my friends! Recently a friend of mine asked if I would ever marry a guy who my mother doesn't approve. My first response to her was "Yes, why not? I have to live with him, not she." However, as I thought about what I had just said, I added, "I don't think my mother would ever have issues with a guy I really like - if she does, there is probably something wrong with him that has caught her attention and not mine. If she brings it to my notice and that 'fault' or 'shortcoming' is not an issue for me, I will go ahead with my decision otherwise I will have to think about it." My friend was a little taken-aback at my answer, and to be honest, even I was surprised at what I had just uttered. All these years I have adored my mother for the immense amount of trust she has had in me without realizing that I have the same amount of faith in her.

My mother has taught me to always stand up for what I believe in. She has taught me to endlessly support my near and dear ones especially before outsiders (it does not matter if our internal equations are jarred at that present moment). She has also taught me to be accountable for my own self and not rely on others to get my work done. I will not say I have mastered each lesson that she has bestowed my way - my mother and I are very different persons with a lot of dissimilar perspectives, attitudes and mannerisms but while we may have our share of conflicts, I can only see my relationship with her strengthening with each passing day for the amount of love and respect I have for her makes it impossible for me to imagine my life without her in it. 

A Visit To St. Catherine's Home

A part of my job-profile entails that I liaison with different organizations (primarily NGOs) regarding fieldwork placements of students. This responsibility took me to St. Catherine's Home in Andheri (West), Mumbai on a nice, sunny Saturday morning. While I have visited several organizations in the past, this one, in particular, was a humbling experience for me.

St. Catherine's Home was started in 1922 to provide shelter to unmarried mothers but today it caters to more than 300 infants, toddlers, girls and young, unmarried women who have been the victims of deprivation, abandonment and abuse. The one thing that struck me the  most about this home was its emphasis on not just providing education and rehabilitation but also catering to the psycho-social needs of the individuals residing there and ensuring they are re-integrated into society when they are ready. I was amazed to know that they ensure their children go on a trip to the sea-side once every year!

As soon as I reached the home, there was a young couple there who were just leaving after adopting a ten-month old baby. It was a touching experience seeing the gleam of happiness in the eyes of the new mother as she was holding the child in her arms.
After the couple left, I had a conversation with Sister which made me open my eyes about many things that I was already aware of but I chose not to see. For instance, I was told that one of the major challenges they face when they put children up for adoption is that couples do not want to adopt dark-skinned babies. I guess it is because of such obsession with fair-skin that we need campaigns like Dark Is Beautiful. I was also told that no family in India wants to adopt a child that has any mental or physical handicap. In fact, they do not even want to adopt children who have any scars or marks on their faces. I was really troubled on hearing this! While the mind-set is such that we want our children to be perfect, does this mean that children who appear farther away from perfection have no place in mainstream society? Is only beauty deserving of love and affection? I found myself thinking to myself that it is probably because of this narrow mind-set that the couples were not blessed with a baby of their own in the first place - no matter how hard I tried, I found myself being quite judgmental when I heard these stories. Sister told me that all children with special needs are put for adoption in foreign countries. She told me about children getting adopted and living in Sweden, France, Belgium and U.S.A. and doing very well there.
Every time I hear politicians or some orthodox people condemning how the 'Indian culture' has gone for a toss owing to Westernization, I feel they should reflect on some of the ways in which the Western society is better; especially when it comes to the way it treats its women.

While the home is doing a commendable job despite being short of funds, the fact that it exists is proof that we are living in a society that is in no ways safe for the people who have the XX chromosome. Every day, news of molestation, child abuse, gang-rapes continue to be hurled at the public through newspapers, radios and televisions. I wonder what happens after the sensationalism is over? No one is ready to take any responsibility. We wish to blame the government, the police-forces, the judiciary, the media, the politicians, the organization but nothing really comes out of this blame game. I just feel that it is now time to take matters in our own hands and be responsible for our own safety because expecting this country to be a safe place for women is like a Utopian dream.

Towards the end of the visit, the words of Sister that remained with me were, "Count your blessings! Our children, here, would gladly exchange places with you right now. You have food, shelter, clothing and so much more - be thankful to the ones who provide them for you. Parents are always taken for granted and never appreciated for all the things they do because after all you feel it is their 'duty' to do so." She gave us instances of fathers molesting their own daughters; mothers selling their daughters; uncles making their nieces work in the flesh-trade and all these stories just gave me goose-bumps. The trauma one feels when one becomes aware of the fact that the one who is assigned the job of protecting you and taking care of all your needs is the one who is subjecting you to exploitation and oppression is one that can be extremely heart-wrenching and something that no one can understand unless and until you have been in the same shoes. At the end of the visit, I just felt grateful for having so many privileges, luxuries and comforts - while I never have issues expressing my thankfulness, today was one day when I felt a simple 'thank you' would just not do.

To all the people reading this, I reiterate Sister's message and request you to make a list of all those things in life you are grateful for and express your heart-felt thanks to those people who have blessed you by providing those things. It will not only help you look at your life from a different perspective but you will also be making a difference in the lives of those who you hold in special regard. 

Hide-And-Seek

Weddings are a particularly noisy affair. This one was no different. A large number of guests had congregated at the courtyard that overlooked the huge, well-lit, mansion. They congratulated the bride and groom, admired the decorations, criticized the food arrangements – everything was just the way typical weddings are!

The children were also decked up in the fanciest of attires. However, instead of joining the adults on the dance-floor, they were more interested in playing amongst themselves. The entire house was empty and it became the venue for the game that they were about to play – hide-and-seek. The seeker closed his eyes and began the count from 1 to 100 while the rest of the children ran helter-skelter trying to hide in a place where they would not be easily found.

She ran up the stairs until she reached the third floor that led to a room which opened up to the terrace. She was quite smart for a nine year old – she figured that by the time the seeker reached the last floor of the house, he would have already found her other friends and cousins, and she would be the winner. When she reached the room, it wasn’t empty. Her neighbour’s uncle was sitting there, with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“What are you doing here, uncle?” she asked.

He explained that he was expecting an important call and, therefore, was in the house so that he would not miss hearing the phone ring. She heard the gleeful screams of a few children on the ground floor. “Quick! I don’t have much time,” she squealed. “I need to hide!” He told her to sit down quietly and make no noise. He, then, turned off the lights and carefully made his way back to the sofa. She had not caught his evil gleam in the darkness nor had she heard him silently bolt the door from inside. It was dark and she could not see a thing. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “I am here.” She merely nodded her head and sat still. Suddenly, she felt his hand on her mouth and in a soothing, hushed voice, he said, “Don’t worry. You will enjoy this game – it is called dark room.” Something about his syrupy-sweet voice spooked her but she just sighed in compliance – she loved playing games; after all she was just another child. The other children searched for her in the house but finding the door of the third floor locked, they went down to look for her in other spaces. Her choked voice gave no hint of her presence. As his fingers brushed through her entire body from under her clothes, she experienced shivers. She did not like what was happening but she did not cry for help. She could not. The brutal monster abused her body despite her silent, fervent, prayers begging him to stop.

Even when he, ultimately, stopped, she, still, did not feel the same. Her body continued to ache while her mind was terrorized with fear. He made her swear that she would not tell anyone – this game was their little secret. She nodded in agreement, blinking her eyelids rapidly to stop the tears that were about to trickle down her face. She had not enjoyed this one bit – she had no intention of playing this game with any of her friends.

She trudged down the staircase only to be hounded by some of the children, who, still had been looking for her. “Where were you hiding?” they asked. “You are the winner of this round!” She did not know how to answer them. On seeing her silent and subdued, they merely shrugged their shoulders, “Fine! Don’t tell us if you don’t want to!”

The new seeker began her count. Once again, the children started looking for places to hide themselves. She hid with the other children. This time, she did not want to become the winner of the game. One always has to pay a heavy price for winning – on that fateful day, that was the lesson that she learnt. 

Freedom (Flash Fiction)

“She is stunning,” he thought as he looked at her intently. “Bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, luscious lips…She could get anyone!” He remembered the large swarm of boys in his class who had had a crush on her. She wasn't a head turner but she was the cute girl next door with whom every guy wanted to be; and of all the men standing in line to be with her, she had chosen a brat like him to spend the rest of her life. She wanted his love, care and attention. He bestowed upon her insults, injuries and rebukes. Finally she could take it no more and decided to walk out of this loveless marriage. She wanted to be free. He granted her wish. He could see what he had done to her. Her rosy cheeks had become pale. Her luscious red lips were dry and her bright eyes had lost their luster.  In the spur of a moment, he raised the knife and dug the blade into her back. She gasped with her eyes wide open as she was released from her suffocated existence. He bent down to close her eyes. She had always believed in the best of everyone yet she had experienced the worst for herself. He had murdered her today but he had raped her dreams and her life long ago. Each day, a part of her was dying a tiny death. Today, he had ended it once and for all. He wiped a tear that was about to surface on his face. With a grim look, he dropped the knife. Without giving her another glance, he just walked away from the house, now, in search of his own freedom. 

A Tiny String Of Hope

At present, I am on vacation with my family in the United Kingdom. News about India, however, still continues to reach us especially updates of the status of the Delhi gang-rape victim. Facebook is flooded with messages of people expressing their shock, angst, fury, frustration, despair and wrath. Despite being a frequent user, I refrain from paying much heed to the content posted by people on Facebook. Somehow I doubt the sincerity of their desire to actually do something that will actually make a difference...For example, without meaning to offend anyone, I do not see how changing your profile picture to a black dot (apparently symbolizing how shameful the state of affairs in our country are) is going to make a positive difference!

Today, I received the news that she died. A part of me was dejected because somehow I had a tiny ray of hope that she, who had succeeded in awakening so many emotions in so many people would not, herself, rest in slumber. The tragedy of our nation or, perhaps, of mankind, in general, is that we all have short-term memories! Once a person dies, we forget about him or her in some days and our life continues with its usual monotony. I hope that the protests that have been happening continue until justice is delivered instead of fizzing out like many other such instances. We all seem to have developed the bad habit of only living in the moment. Once a tragic moment has elapsed, we just forget about it, move on and focus on the other moments that are more likely to be pleasurable.

The media has played its role in bringing to light not just how unsafe women in our country are but also the mind-set of many of the people in our country who continue to treat women as second-class citizens that need to succumb to whatever they are being subjected to - for women, survival should matter (it is all about "saving intestines"); dignity is secondary, if at all, important.

I am not a radical feminist. I do not think it is a crime to objectify women based on their looks and on the basis of the sort of clothes they wear; these days, even men are subject to such objectification (for example, John Abraham in Dostana) even if it is to a lesser degree.  Yet I would like to live in a country where women are treated with respect.

This is where, I feel, the problem lies. How do you teach someone to respect a woman in a country where everyone wants a son over a daughter? How do you teach a family of well-to-do,"educated" individuals to respect a woman for what she is and not for the amount of dowry she is going to bring to the household? How do you teach a man working at the topmost executive level of his firm that it is not acceptable to displace his anger towards his boss by beating up his wife?
From the time a son is born, he looks at the way his father treats his mother. He sees how partial the mother is in his favour between him and his sister? How easy is it to change so many years of conditioning? I am not sure if candle-light marches or setting up fast-track courts is where the solution to the problem lies...It is a much bigger issue at a macro-level that we need to address.

Even though she is no more, I hope her demise will bring about a change that will make this country a better place for women. Although the government seems unmoved and has to make use of tear-gas machines in answer to the protests, the cries of the protesters and their pleas are, hopefully, real and will succeed in bringing about some positive changes in our country. I hope it isn't a lot that I am hoping for...