The Epic Tale of - “Vow of Silence”

A daily ritual of calling up my mother on my way to work is an essential part of my life. I have been religiously following it since the time wedding bells rang and I moved out from home to make a nest of my own. (For my ranting on how terrible this transition has been for me, please read my blog here). However, off late my ritual has been interrupted by a new ritual that Mom has initiated. I am not allowed to call up Mom on Mondays. Of course you may ask me why? It is because Mom observes “Maun Vrat” or “Vow of Silence” on Mondays. Too difficult to accept? I can empathize, considering that Mom and I have been known in our family for our nonstop chit chats and conversations. She has been doing it for about a year now and quite successfully too. Steadily she has been subtly pushing me to do it as well.

Conversation few days ago:

K: I cannot do it on Mondays, Maa?

Maa: Then do it on a weekend.

K: But then who will instruct my cook? Who will ask my domestic help to clean that cobweb housing my home for months?

Maa: Then it on a Sunday when your domestic help is not around. Works?

K: Alright. Does it help?

Maa: Immensely. It helps you calm down. Try it once and see for yourself.

K: ok (reluctantly).

So this weekend I announced to hubby darling that I shall be observing a Maun Vrat on Sunday and that he has to support me.

“What a drama queen you are, K!” R commented while watching a movie.

I scowled and he finally agreed to it though reluctantly.

Sunday arrived and thus began the “Epic Tale of Maun Vrat”.

Breakfast:

 I gestured asking R what he wants for breakfast. He gestured back. He first drew a plate in the air and then started making several circles while holding an imaginary spoon in hand. After which he took an imaginary bite from the circle and licked his finger. The look on his face was priceless.

Of course it took me about 30 seconds to compose myself because I was observing Maun Vrat, he wasn’t. He could SPEAK.

I smiled sheepishly. I wrote D.O.S.A. in the air and he replied with thumbs up. Obviously it was Sunday and he wanted to eat “Dosa”.

I got in to the kitchen and the preparations began. Dosa was ready and was served piping hot to Mr. Husband. He gestured me to sit next to him and we relished hot yummeh dosas. Just as I was about to clear the table Mr. R gestured again. This time he drew two glasses in the air and took an imaginary sip.

Frustrated but masking it with a smile, I wrote again in the air, “C.H.A.I.? He obviously responded with another thumbs up again and a naughty smile spread across his otherwise childlike face.

The breakfast was over and the customary book reading session commenced, albeit silently. I took my kindle and found myself curled up comfortably on the sofa. R took to the dewan with his book. Few seconds later I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Mr. R standing with his book looking at me with his typical smile.

R: Pushing himself next to me on the sofa.

Me: perplexed.

R: writing on a piece of paper – It is 11:00 am, can we be done with this Maun Vrat, now?

Me: writing - We?

R: writing - Yeah, it is pretty boring. Making a sad face.

Me: writing - Why are you writing? You can talk. You are not fasting, are you?

R: Writing again. Oh! I forgot. Tee Hee Hee

Me: writing - Okay R. Speak up.

R: Writing again – what are we having for lunch?

Me: writing - For God’s sake, speak up. I can barely understand your handwriting and your gestures.

R: Writing again - Oh! But you understood that I wanted to have Dosa, right? And this writing convo is also going well. (Smiling again with twinkling eyes)

Me: writing - I am not talking.

R: writing - Shall I cook, today?

Me: writing - Please… go ahead.

R: writing - Okay

R left me alone with Jodi Picoult and walked in the kitchen. I felt a sense of relief and buried myself in the book again. Few seconds later I saw from the rim of the kindle that R was frantically looking for something.

Me: Clapping to get his attention.

R: walking towards me and gesturing. He started drawing tiny little circles in the air. The circles were so tiny that I had to shrink my eyes to comprehend their size. He drew at least 20 of them.

Me: I couldn’t fathom anything. I looked at him puzzled and anxious.

R: Erasing the imaginary circles in the air. He then drew a cylindrical shaped object on one side and plate like object on the other side.

By the end of this drawing session my patience had given up, finally.

What do you want, R? I asked composing myself and throwing my “Vow of Silence” in the imaginary bin.

R: Haaah! I wanted to hear your voice. Seeee, how it resonates in the house. Thank you. (Hugging me like a cuddly teddy bear)

Me: smiling. You are insane. By the way what were you drawing? What were those tiny circles?

R: Oh! You couldn’t understand it? It was Dal(lentils), K, he winked.

Yes, I reacted exactly the way you are reacting now while reading this. And apparently the cylindrical object that was being drawn was the “Pressure Cooker”. No, no don’t even ask me the logic. R has defied logic and the laws of physics long ago.

All said and done, I have come to realize that observing silence for a few minutes or a day may help people calm down; however, for me it only pulled my blood pressure up North. :)

Mom doesn’t know about it yet. It is Monday today and I haven’t spoken to her, though I am dying to tell her this “Epic Tale of my Vow of Silence”. 

These are the little joys that make life worth living. Aren’t they?

I am still smiling as I write this.

Have you ever been able to successfully complete a "Vow of Silence" aka Maun Vrat? Tell me, I am listening.

Closure.....!

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 50; the fiftieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Soulmates: Love without ownership by Vinit K Bansal. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

This post won the Gold Batom at Blog-a-ton 50

 "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you" 

- Maya Angelou

The day of reunion had dawned. He hadn’t seen her for ages. The longing for the warmth of her body hurt his soul. His lips parched for her gentle kiss. His heart raced like a million horses.

“We are Soul mates, love”, he had once told her while stroking her long locks.

She had responded by planting a passionate kiss on his lips. He was so drunk in her love that he couldn't stop himself from revelling in the moment.

He shuffled hurriedly towards the Temple of his love, where he had left her, waiting, forever!

His chest felt heavy. He was guilty. He had walked away silently. Without even looking back.

He hadn’t even given her a reason for breaking her heart. He had broken his promise to her, the promise of gifting her a bed of roses. Instead, he had rewarded her undying love with a bed of thorns. Nevertheless, today, he had broken free. He had finally mustered the courage to go against one and all. He had decided to wipe out the painful times of yore and rewrite  their story into a beautiful one, He knew that their meeting was going to be thorny. He anticipated her wrath. Hell, yes, he deserved it too.

"All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name"

 - Andre Breton

He reached and saw that she was standing there, exactly where he had left her, at the crossroads of life, though she looked aberrant. Once, she had strikingly beautiful eyes, cherry colored lips, an innocent face, lustrous locks, soft arms, and a smooth skin. All that was gone now. But, it was still her. Oh yes!

She saw him walking towards her. Blood slowly rolled down her cheeks. He knew her heart was weeping. He knelt down beside her and silently begged for forgiveness. She stood still,
unmoved.

“I am guilty’, he said, his eyes staring at the mud below her bare feet. ‘I was compelled to do
what I did. I was helpless. I became a coward. I gave you up, for the happiness of everyone else”, he explained. She was still unmoved.He slowly opened his heart to her. There were scars on it. She saw that his words were true, so, her heart forgave him. The scars in her heart disappeared.

He smiled. But, she didn’t.

She started rubbing her hands over her vulnerable body and started shedding off her skin. She was enduring excruciating pain, but still she didn’t stop.

He could not fathom her actions. Clueless, he asked,“What are you doing?” “I am shedding off the warmth of your hug. It has wrapped my body for too long”, she replied in a hollow voice.

After shedding her skin, she started pouring sullied stream all over her naked body. He looked at her confused. “The alluring smell of your body refuses to leave mine”, she answered, reading his eyes.

She then turned to the tree behind her and plucked the leaves from it. She carefully folded the pungent leaves and chewed them, relishing its taste. The bitterness of the leaves filled and rocked her being.He gazed at her helplessly. “The sweet taste of your kiss has stayed on my tongue too long”, she whispered.

She then wrenched out traces of his love from her soul and strung them bit by bit on the tree. “My soul has long been a prisoner of your love and I am setting  it free now"she announced.

And then, finally, she grabbed a piece of her broken heart and buried it in the ground. “It died a painful death after you left”, she explained, looking at him emptily. And then, her tears stopped rolling. She was now ready, ready to leave.

As she emptied herself, he started feeling the emptiness creeping up into his soul. All the love, her love, that had once filled his existence slowly vanished.

To stop the Goddess of his Temple from leaving, he desperately started unbuttoning his coat. She stopped him with a flick of her hand. 'Do not remove the coat. That coat is my prayer for you. Wear it. It will protect you’, she said and started to leave.

“Are you really going?” he asked frantically, but his voice was unheard by her.

“We are soul mates, aren’t we?” He begged .

“The string of my soul has long been wrecked by your treacherous love”, her voice was unfeeling but her eyes mocked his cowardice.

“Then why did you wait for me for this long?” He screamed, fresh blood flowing through his
eyes now.

“Because.... because I wanted answers…a Closure”, she answered while turning away.

As soon as she turned away, he took off his coat. His body was no more the temple of her love!

He wanted to perish. As soon as the coat fell off his body, her prayer left his soul and he was
burnt to ashes.

“If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.” 

- William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night 
 

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Weekend Stories

Love and Forgiveness - Part II

The link to Part I of this story is here

I sat besides Amma the entire night reading her a book called "The Map of Heaven". I thought it will make Amma's final journey an easier one.  Amma had a fetish for books and she had rubbed it on Sam who in turn rubbed it on me. I held her little finger throughout and my mind raced back to the good old days when Sam and Amma formed the centre of my existence.

Few months after Amma had taken over my upbringing she politely informed my parents that I could speak well. Obviously they didn’t believe her. So she had to prove it by talking to me in front of them. Assuming that my parents will be pleased our conversation went for about 5 minutes at a stretch. But my parents yelled at her because I spoke Malayalam instead of Hindi or English. She could never muster the courage to answer them back. I could speak Malayalam well because Amma was the only one who bothered to speak to me. The others only pretended. They never really had the patience to deal with a child who according to the norms of the world was "delayed and stupid". It was Amma who first noticed that I liked books and that I wasn’t half as bad as my teachers projected me to be. She encouraged my parents to send me to a normal school with normal children. Sometimes your own parents don’t understand you but an outsider does. My schooling began in a convent school and that is where I encountered my love for Physics and its laws.

Sam was Amma’s only child but after I had walked in to her life she often mentioned that she was blessed to have two lovely sons. I now understand her tragedy. Sam was a paraplegic and chair bound whereas I was autistic and mostly home bound. When Sam died Amma didn't cry much. She had become numb, somewhat like me. I was just 14 and couldn’t really understand the depth of death. I couldn’t even understand pain or love or longing. But Sam’s death was particularly tragic and for few days I felt a part of my chair bound.

It was my 14^th birthday and as always there was no celebration. I was not very social and kids hated me including my younger sibling, Mahesh. To top it all, that year was special. I had ashamed my parents in front of the other relatives during a family gathering. A cousin of mine had placed a dead lizard in my pants. I was so angry that I had beaten him up. Immediately I was locked in my room and discussions of sending me to “special place” began under the carpet. Hence, it was only normal for my parents to forget my birthday. But Amma had taken the trouble to request my parents to get a cake for me. I hated cakes but Sam loved them. Hence, every year on my birthday a cake was ordered for me to cut it and for Sam to relish them to his heart's content. As soon as the cake arrived Amma finished her customary prayer, kissed my forehead and Sam's too. She then held my hand as I cut the cake neatly in small pieces. She then took a piece and turned towards Sam however I had already shoved a piece in Sam's mouth. Sam licked the chocolate and gulped it down. He looked delighted. Then suddenly something happened. Before he could take a second bite he turned blue. He fell from his chair and started gasping for breath. Within seconds he was motionless. Amma screamed for help and Sam was rushed to the hospital.

“Sorry, he is dead. The poison spread too fast”, the doctor with fat glasses and a big belly whispered to Amma and my parents. It happened so fast that I could barely comprehend the series of events.

Mahesh later told me that I killed my best friend. I could never explain to him that I didn’t. I just shared my cake. I felt pain for the first time at Sam’s funeral. When I placed the books next to him in the coffin, I felt he was talking to me, as if revealing a secret. I wanted to say sorry but I was pulled away. The coffin was then taken away. Amma held my hand throughout Sam’s last journey. I thought she was angry with me but she didn’t say a word.

"Amma why did Sam die?" I asked Amma.

"Because God wanted him to be free from his pain." Amma answered, her eyes wet.

A week later Amma was fired from her job which she anticipated anyway. I still don’t know why? A new nanny was hired. She was huge and looked like a snob. It didn’t matter to me because I had grown up by then and didn’t need anyone.

"Write letters to me and I will write you back", Amma told me as she packed her bag. 

"Okay. But will you respond?" I asked

"Yes, I will. Always." She assured

"What if you don’t?" I asked sensing that soon I will be alone, again.

"Then you must understand that I am dying." She smiled.

"Okay, then I will come and meet you. Wait till I come. Don’t die before that. I will place you in your coffin." I expressed my desire.

"Sure. After all a son has to do it for his mother", she said and I felt tears fall on my hands as she kissed them, the last time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Her heart beats have stopped", the nurse exclaimed.

"Oh! That means she is dead. Don’t worry she was waiting for me." I explained.

She ran and called the doctor who made me sign some papers mechanically. They see death and dead bodies so often that it becomes a routine for them. I brought Amma back to her humble home in Kerala. The funeral was a simple one. Not many people had gathered. A shrunken Amma had been placed in the coffin and buried. Father Agnes completed the prayer and after few minutes people left. I stayed there longing for her. Perhaps longing and pain felt the same. Except that pain was felt on the right side of the chest and longing on the left side.

I stayed there till night. I was wondering if Amma had forgiven me for what I did to Sam. I didn’t get a chance to beg for her forgiveness. Whenever I wrote about it in the letter she responded with a verse from bible. I tried recalling all the verses and if any of them hinted towards my question but I couldn’t. I stood up and walked to the nearby church. My eyes turned wet. I had never cried before. That could be because I never felt what a loss felt like. It pained and hurt. So I cried that night in the church and requested Amma’s God to take care of her.

The next day when Father Agnes came home where I was expected to finish some rituals and leave, he handed me a paper. It is a letter for you. God bless you. You must learn to forgive and let go. His pearls of wisdom were too much for my little brain to comprehend. I kept the letter safe in the pocket of my shirt. As the rituals concluded and people spoke kind words for Amma I felt the pain getting stronger. I was missing Sam as well. The fact that I had been a part of his death sometimes drove me nuts. I packed my bag and decided to leave immediately. The house was handed over to Father Agnes who planned to start an old age home there. It was Amma’s wish after all. I was happy for her and Sam.

The train for Bombay was on time. I preferred trains. Flights were just too fast and I didn’t want to reach Mumbai so soon, anyway. I boarded the train and found my seat amidst smell of coconut oil and a sea of human sweat. I looked outside as the train took speed. The trees, green hill tops, all washed off from my eyes by a strong breeze within seconds. That is when I remembered the letter and decided to read it.

Dear Rajat,

By the time you read this I must have begun my journey to meet God. As I write this my hands tremble and my heart pounds. This is perhaps my last letter to you. Cancer has claimed all of my energy. It has spread too fast though I feel it’s good in a way. I will die and meet Sam. At least I will be closer to one of my sons.

All throughout the past decade your your letters you have asked me if I forgave you for Sam’s death. No I didn’t and it is because it wasn’t needed. You didn’t kill Sam. He died because I wanted him to die. I had seen him suffer in pain and I wanted his suffering to end. I had to do it Kanna. I am glad Sam died next to his best friend. I don't know if  what I did was right or wrong. I just know that Sam deserved some peace. I hope you will forgive me and if you can’t I will understand.

When I first met you I was told that you don’t understand Love and other emotions. But if you are reading this then you have understood all of it, better than anyone else. After all who comes to see a dying Nanny?

I have loved you my child and when I meet God I will ask him to bless you abundantly.

Place your hand on my heart, do you feel my love? Thank you for being my son. I am dying peacefully.

God Bless!

Amma.

I held the letter in my hand and felt a wave of emotions run through me. Anger, vengeance, pity, hatred, love. All of it at once. For the first time in my life I found myself standing on the crossroads. I had to choose between - Love and Forgiveness.

Weekend Stories

Love and Forgiveness - Part I

A usual Saturday morning for me would mean staying at home and doing my laundry, completing projects, loitering around the city with Sanjeevani. Universities in US have holidays on Saturdays and Sundays which gives students enough time to cater to their personal needs. My parents felt a sense of pride that I was doing my PhD or perhaps that I was finally doing something meaningful. They often boast about it to their relatives. In all the letters that my mother writes to me she mentions how she has been missing me. But I don't miss my family at all. I felt happy away from home – happiness? you feel when an electric current runs in your body and takes a pause at your lips. Then your lips stretch themselves and you end up smiling. 

Life in US is different and peaceful. You do everything on your own including cursing yourself. But it is different here in India. You outsource everything to domestic help including attending to the emotional needs of your child. Nonetheless, sometimes domestic helps can be a boon especially when your child is Autistic and it is too much of a hassle to deal with him. In my case it was. Amma had been kind to me in spite of the fact that I was nuts. So here I was in a small town of Kerala to meet Amma, to pay off her debts, to fulfill my promise, and above all to beg for her forgiveness. I had last seen her when I was 14. Today after a decade I was to meet her again.

Ironically I had first met her in a hospital. I was just 7 then. They said I had hit my head against a wall and that I was hurt. Hence, I was admitted to the hospital. But that was a blatant lie. My nanny who would often vent out her frustration on me had hit me with a stick so hard that my skull almosy broke open. I was stubborn I think or mad as my nanny called me. So first aid was administered and may parents were advised to be kind and nice to me till my wounds healed. I couldn’t speak clearly then hence nobody could know that my nanny was the culprit. And by the time my parents could understand what I was saying my nanny had managed to escape the cruel clutches of my parents. That is when my father’s uncle referred Shirley Amma to take care of me. She came to meet my parents in the hospital itself. I think the emergency was on both sides. Amma wanted a job desperately and my parents wanted some respite. It was then that my journey with Amma began.

"St.Philomena’s Hospital" the board read with a cross sign next to it. I instantly recognized the cross. Amma wore a similar cross around her neck. Her God was crucified on it, she often told me. Strange how the cross was always next to the names of all the hospitals we have ever seen. Amma thought it was because God's presence was required in hospitals to help patients and their families. But Sam had a different take on it. He whispered in my ears that it is because all doctors crucify little children on this cross with their injections. Of course he chuckled every time he cracked that joke. Sam was my best friend, rather my only friend. He was the only boy who never called me “Mad”, or “Crazy”, or “idiot”.  But he taught me a word called “Rascal”. According to him it meant, “Good boy”. So he was the only rascal I met in my life. The other boys were bad. They would pinch me, pull my pants down, and sometimes even locked me in the toilet. But Sam was different. He laughed loudly, always and read books. Sam wasn’t particularly healthy. He was lean, his eyes were buried in little sockets, he hardly walked, most of the times Amma carried him or he was on his wheel chair. But he had a particular liking for reading. When he was placed in his coffin which was on the whole small, I neatly placed two of his favorite books next to him. I had promised to buy these books for him but before I could even gift it to him that rascal died. He was in a hurry to go to Jesus I think. He didn’t even wait for me to say sorry.

I entered the hospital building which appeared to be very depressing. The building stood still with the same numb look. Perhaps the hospital buildings are also autistic. They never show any enthusiasm. The dull green and off white paint, jaded curtains and creamiest spartac tiles only added to its misery. Just like the doctors across have a protocol to scowl; hospitals have a protocol to look uninteresting. The odor of the antiseptic was so strong that my nose was filled with it. I think they do it deliberately to make the atmosphere gloomy. Have they not seen those deodorants ads? They can just spray it across the corridor and people will instantly cheer up. Perhaps they don’t want people to cheer up. The whole idea of hospitals will be diluted if people felt happy at hospitals.

The lift seemed full and the queue outside looked disappointing. I decided to take the stairs instead. I walked past the Childrens ward, NICU, then the general ward and I finally reached the private ward.

"Amma? Shirley Amma?" I asked the older nurse sitting at the counter on the 2^nd floor.

She looked at me and spoke in heavy accented English. "Room No. 202. Take a left from the end of the corridor, the second room. Visiting hours end at 7. Just one hour, wokay?" She lacked expression on her face and that made her look more autistic than me.

"Okay", I took the pink slip and walked towards 202.

I peeped inside and found a nurse attending to Amma.

"May I?" I asked

"Yes please." She answered

I walked inside the room. Amma lay on the bed, motionless. Once upon a time a plump woman, now she had reduced to a narrow frame of with a single layer of flesh covering the bare bones. Her ears particularly looked large. Her eyes now looked just like Sam’s, buried in the socket yet full of life.

"Can she hear me?" I asked the nurse.

She responded in positive and stood cleaning the table. I think she was curious to see who has come to meet the almost orphaned Shirley Amma.

“Amma, I am here. Nurse told me that you are listening. I am fine. I didn’t get your letter so I realized that you must be dying. I am glad you didn’t die. I wanted to place you in the coffin. I had promised you, remember? Now if this life is painful then you may die, please. I will hold you through death just like I held Sam. It is only when you die that I will let go. I have also got a letter for Sam. Please give it to him. I wanted to ask for forgiveness but he left before I could even say sorry." I spoke almost breathless.

"I couldn't even say sorry to you. Have you forgiven me Amma? You know it wasn't my mistake, right?"

I saw a clear line of tears oozing from Amma’s shrunken eyes. She couldn’t speak. She just cried.

"Don’t cry Amma. I am better now. I have a girlfriend too. She is nice. Only that she is plump like you. And she speaks Malayalam too." I wiped Amma’s tears with cotton balls kept next to her bed.

The nurse looked rather stunned at my words. She thought I was insane. Who in a sane mind would ask people to die? From the look on her face I could read that she could not appreciate the depth of my words. Normal people could never understand that Amma and I were different. That what we nurtured within our hearts was an emotion which is not understood by many. It is called Love – Love? you feel it when you place your hand on your heart.

The link to Part II of this story is here

We failed each other

I don’t really like writing about depressing things. I try to keep away from it as much as possible to keep my sanity, intact. But then sometimes certain things create a stir of emotions inside you and you just can’t let these crazy set of emotions wreak havoc inside you. So, here I am to write about something that has hit me hard on my face and punched me on my chest. 

This is how it all started. Today, few hours ago I shared a post on FB about how we women have the right to be ourselves, how important it is for men to understand that we women are just human as men, and etc etc. Below the post that I had shared, I noticed men had written disrespectful comments, and opinions against women. This was nothing new to my eyes. But what surprised me or rather shocked me was that women had also written equally insolent remarks against women. That’s when I realized that what we notice today is just a tip of the ice-berg. The problem that we are fighting against finds its roots deeply stretched across the X chromosome. Of course we are dealing with a patriarchal society or a male dominated one as one likes to call it. And it will take some time for us to transform the society we currently survive in. But my problem right now is not the “Y” chromosome at all. I have a bigger worry.Well, let me explain.

When a girl in a short skirt, dark lipstick, or a loud makeup enters a room, who is first one to assassinate her character and label her "A Slut"? Think about it. Haven’t we heard Girl A calling Girl B a loose character, just because Girl B has a dressing sense which doesn't comply with the standards set by Girl A? Don’t we know of aunties who term a girl characterless in their apartment because she talks to boys? Have you never seen or heard of a mother in law setting her daughter in law ablaze because the daughter in law failed to fulfill the dowry requirements? When a girl gets raped, women are the first ones to say, “Oh! She should have refrained from stepping out of the house so late.” And how can I miss the classic one liners by Mothers themselves, “Roti nahin banayegi to shaadi kaun karega?”(if you don’t learn to roll roti’s, no one will marry you.”)There is no exhaustive list; I can go on and on.

Now you see where am I coming from? It’s like we didn’t have enough problems already that we women have waged a war against each other. And after being so discourteous to each other we say we are not being heard. In many parts of our country women themselves feel that it is only after they give birth to a boy that they will be complete as a mother. I agree that it is the societal pressure which leads to this deteriorated thought process. But doesn’t the society also comprise of women?

I recall when I was in Delhi few years ago to see a cousin of mine; she mentioned how worried she is about her old age. She is blessed with two lovely daughters but she told me that she feels inferior to other women who have been “lucky enough to give birth to a son”. I felt disgusted and tried my best to explain her that she must take care of her daughters well and that her daughters have the potential to make it big. But I don’t think I was able to convince her. However, my cousins’ mother in law (who is a very gentle woman) could convince her and my cousin realized that given an opportunity even girls can achieve greater heights. Finally, some sanity prevailed. To tell you, this cousin of mine is a post graduate and was always a very studious girl. On the contrary her mother in law is not a very educated lady. Now, do I even need to tell you which woman in the above case qualifies as “modern or advanced”?  That’s when I realized it is not education alone that can help our situation. We require a deeper understanding and empathy for each other. The roots lie in the upbringing that a mother provides to her growing daughter and the legacy that is passed on from one generation to the other.

Think about it, we fight with men in buses because they don’t offer seats to pregnant women. But there is another question that stands upright in front of us, how many women stand up to offer a seat when they see a pregnant lady standing helplessly? The answer lies within each one of us. We women are Shakti and if we decide to stand up for something, no man in this whole wide world can stop us. That is exactly why we have been blessed with the right to create a new life, we are the creators. Men are able to easily exploit us because we have arrogantly refused to stand up for our own gender. We have decided to be judgmental of each other. We have unanimously decided to let go of the divine power of empathy and affection that we are blessed with.

I am in no way defending the mean actions of men or the violence that many women are subjected too by the opposite sex. What they have done to us or have been doing to us is unpardonable. All I am trying to say is that somewhere it is our fault too. We as mothers have so many times made our own daughters feel inferior. We as sisters have been unreasonably kind to our brothers. Haven’t we seen how mothers come running to rescue their rapist son? I know we have truly modern women too. However, the number of such women is so small that in most cases they fall under the minority category and are labeled as “feminists”.  

The fact is, before we stage dharnas and shout slogans to change to the mindset of the male population in our society, there is a lot of homework that you and I have to do to change our mindset first. Accept it or not, we have also aggressively participated with men in creating this garbage in our civilization, the stench of which has now polluted our souls. Time has come to wage a war against our ailing attitude too. We need to go back to our basics, again. We need to extend a helping hand to each other. We need to accept each other as women. Because ladies, the bitter truth is that more than this male dominated society, we have failed each other.

I am not completely broken. I am hopeful that someday we will see through the opaque lenses of our eyes. We will shun denial and take responsibility. We will become better friends, mothers, mother –in-laws, etc. And that is when we will be able to transform the men in our society. That is exactly when we will win this war. Nonetheless, today I am sad and hurt. And as I write this, I feel sorry for you and me because as women, we have failed each other, miserably.

Heartbroken,

K

Super SIX

“So, do you like reading, R?” I typed anticipating a YES

“YES, I do.” Came a prompt reply

“Oh! Wow! Me too… I love fiction, love stories. How about you?” I typed again

“Well, I like sci-fi and books that give us a glimpse of the universe, our galaxy, and the many stars.” He typed.

Stars, really? He is such a nerd, I thought to myself. I imagined him wearing big glasses with a square shaped frame. His hair oiled till the end of every follicle and neatly combed. I also imagined him with braces on his teeth.

“So you like all this aliens and spaceship stuff, huh?” I wrote again.

“Well, Yes K. I have loved reading about it since my childhood. Do you like such stuff?” He asked this time sensing my discomfort with this genre.

“Ah! Not really, but you never know, I may like it, if I ever read it!” I tried to be as polite as possible.

This was one of the initial chats I had with him. Soon after this the duration of our chats increased exponentially. But the image of him being a nerd stayed in my head for some time till our first meeting.

On a bright sunny day of July, I saw a tall, dusky man, with long locks, dimpled cheeks, a beautiful  smile, broad shoulders, a very sturdy frame, big bright eyes, and arms that could wrap a tiny being like me with utmost ease. His branded Tee, Jeans, and boots added to his charismatic personality. He was the exact opposite to the nerd who lived in my head. The stereotype in my head was shattered in to pieces. He walked towards me and swept me off my feet, well, literally.

That is the day I realized that the rest of my life will be spent shuttling between the Milky Way, the gym, and the branded showrooms. And that’s how it has been. Crazy indeed!

Wrong Dates - 2009

R: Happy birthday K, dhan tan dhan… your favourite black forest cake.

K: whose birthday is it today? (sarcasm)

R: Hun, you forgot your own birthday? I thought you were good with dates. You even remember the date when we first met.

K: Hun, you see my birthday was yesterday. You missed it by a day….anger and tears making their way out.

R: stunned, confused, and almost froze where he stood.

We celebrated the birthday on 10^th instead of 9^th after a certain amount of emotional atyachaar. JAnd since then R has saved all the important dates in his phone including the one when we first met. He has never missed a date since then.

Gifts – 2010

K: Happy Anniversary, R. Thank God you told me you wanted a phone. Its so difficult to choose a gadget.

R: Thanks K. It’s a wonderful one and Happy Anniversary to you too. Here’s your surprise gift.

K: what is it?

R: well, open and see. You will love it.

K:Really? Unwrapping the gift and then shocked. It’s a PEN DRIVE, R.

R: Nice, na? 8 GB….!!!!  

K: what am I going to do with it?

R: well, I agree. No worries, I can use it. Thanks K.

K: grumpy face.

After that I have been gifted a 16 GB pen drive, a DSLR camera, and many such gadgets. Smart man that he is!

The Gentleman – 2011

Kaku: R, I am very impressed. You open the car door for your wife. What a gentleman you are.

K: blushing and cheeks turning pink. R loves me so much Kaku.

R: Well, Kaku, she is lovely. But you see she bangs the car door every time she gets in and gets out of the car. Hence, to save the doors from getting slammed and broken this is my small attempt.

K: cheeks turning red in anger.

R still opens the door and closes it when I get in to our car for that matter any one’s car. Sigh!

 A fair chance -2012

K: (on the phone) You know what happened today, R? blah blah blah..bleh bleh bleh.

R: Okay….

K: and then blah blah blah, bleh bleh bleh

R: Hmmm…

K: R I am talking nonstop and all you are saying is Okay and Hmmm….

R: K, before I can even complete, you start from the other end, already. You have to give me a fair chance, babes.

K: Oooops!!

Since then I have started taking a 30 second pause after my paragraph ends to give R a fair chance to speak. J

Ek Cup Chai - 2013

R: come home early na, K. I will make chai for you.

K: Okay let me see.

Me getting home early to enjoy the evening chai with R.

K: You enjoy having chai with me don’t you?

R: Well, certainly K. It is your company that keeps me going. But honestly I love the constant entertainment of your nonstop blabbering during our chai times. Laughing loudly.

K: a little grumpy, a little happy.

Our chai times are still very entertaining.

The Scary Revenge – 2014

K: You said it is going to be a romantic movie. It was an action movie.

R: Didn’t you see, there was a love angle to it?

K: keeping quiet. After a few days… the scene was reversed.

R: It was not a horror movie, K. 

K: Of course it was R. In fact the name itself was “Bhoothnath Returns” J

Since then we have arrived on a compromise. No surprise movie tickets, please!

So as we complete 6 years of insanity, madness, fun, and togetherness, I still feel it’s a dream. I pinch myself every time and realize, No, it’s not. It is the most beautiful reality of my life.

Today we saw Interstellar and the movie very subtly sent out a message that love knows no dimensions. It is beyond any physical dimensions. It is a bond that exists beyond the physical dimensions of our lives.

Happy Wedding Anniversary R… Life is worth living only because you are a part of it.

Love and lots of love (beyond physical dimensions),

K

The Business of Sorts

Just like the American Dream, we Indians have a desi version of it – The Great Indian Dream. It starts from our childhood when the pressure of studies is invariably thrus upon us. Study well (read score only 90 and above), get a job in an MNC only with a good package and if possible an onsite opportunity too. Then of course MARRIAGE and KIDS happen, and then etc etc. The point that one must note here is that the thought that a job provides safety and security is drilled deep into our heads. The prospect of doing a business drives our parents crazy. Thus, most of us regretfully fall in the “service class” except for the few adventurous ones who explore Bizness. Nonetheless, we are all business men/business women. In fact, I feel we Indians are attuned to business right from the time we are little racing sperms. Of course the source of our training begins at home just like Charity. Most of the times our elders don’t even realize that it is through them that we are aping and shaping our business skills. And thus we all get inducted in to this business of National Interest or The National Business. This business skill is not taught in any management school. No, No, I am not even talking about the dread MLM- Multi Level Marketing either. This business is like energy, constant and consistent in our genes.

This business is called “Poking One's Nose in Someone Else’s Life”. To ease its pronunciation, I have abbreviated it to PONSEL. I quite like the name. There are separate names to it too, like, “doosron ke phate mein taang adana, chuadhary ban na etc etc. I am unsure what is it called in different Indian languages. In case you know, please enlighten me. The phrases like, “none of your business” had been developed to counter this business and its propagators (whom I call PONSEL’s). Sometimes, the F word is also accommodated in the sentence. Certain harsh phrases in Hindi like “tere baap ka kya jaata hai” (loosely translated – what goes off your father) had also been developed to counter this concept. PONSEL's are often addressed as "Morons", "Idiots" and in recent times "A-holes" has been topping the charts. However, this business like a cult has grown by leaps and bounds and has been passed on as a legacy to future generations.

If history is to be believed, foundation of this business was laid millions of years ago. No scripture or text though reveals about the major contributors to this concept. I am also unsure if it was initiated by the X chromosome or its counterpart the Y one. However, the X chromosome has been pretty active in the expansion of this concept. Ironically, PONSEL binds India together and has often been synonymous to judging, stereotyping, and gossiping too. I mean go to any part of India you shall find propagators of PONSEL. People from all walks of life and from all faiths can be found in this business. 

Remember your neighborhood aunty who often told your mother that her daughter’s skimpy dressing will land her in a problem? Do you recall the well meaning Sharma uncle who has been the reason why you were pushed in to engineering though you craved for a Hotel Management degree? How about those many girls who shunned you because you spoke to “boyis” which meant that you have a loose character? Or how about your well meaning aunty who wanted you to get married at 25 so that by the time you are 55 your kids are “SETTLED”.The PONSEL's are experts in every subject - religion, career, maternity, relationships, health etc etc. You name it, they know it. Peep in to your own lives and you will find umpteen numbers of examples to understand my point. 

This business has been thriving for centuries and if experts are to be believed it will continue to thrive with the same vigor for the next few centuries too. If stats are to be believed, PONSEL’s have witnessed a tremendous growth of about 300 % in the last decade thanks to the technology. With the advent of technology and its fruits like, emails, whats app, viber, LINE, facebook etc etc, PONSEL’s have been able to reach far off relatives and ex-neighbors with ease. Facebook though has reported a certain decline off late due to the Blocking application. However, users of whatsapp and viber have reported a consistent growth.

In one of the weddings that I had been to, my faith in PONSEL’s of the Y generation (or whats app generation) was restored. The bride and groom beamed on the stage while they did their customary Namaste and feet touching act. R has never been an active participant during such gatherings and has failed miserably in our national business. I think that’s because of his Y chromosome. But my X chromosomes push me to be actively involved during these times. So I sat on the red colored sofa which was placed very close to the stage, adored the bride and the groom and simultaneously kept an eye on their gifts( the grooms mother thought people may steal it).As I was playing my part of that of a CBI inspector, I heard a very interesting conversation.

“The bride earns more than the groom, isn’t it?” A girl with the maroon lipstick whispered.

“Yeah yeah. She is with such a big company. But see the groom is better looking than her.” The girl with the brown lipstick responded.

“It is for the money that he has married her. Else there are girls dying to marry him.” – Red Lipstick girl

“Jaane de na, apne ko kya( leave it ya, how does it matter to us).” – Brown Lipstick

In fact weddings or social gatherings are the place where PONSEL’s find their prospects. Some prospects are victimized, some replicate the PONSEL business going further, or some escape it. In almost all the gatherings that I have attended I was either looked as a prospective bride or a prospective procreation machine. Thus, off late I started flaunting my mangalsutra and snake long sindoor to escape aunties and uncles who were eager to know if I am married. If not they could suggest the alliance of their daughters husbands aunt’s neighbors sisters son for me. If yes, then it was a different game altogether. I thought I had out mastered them. But I was so wrong. The focus shifted from my forehead (that is where the sindoor is visible) to my tummy.

"How long have you been married?" Staring at my tummy.

"6 years." Me uncomfortable.

"How many kids?" The stare still unbelievably stuck at my tummy.

"None." Me getting up to walk away.

"Huuuuuuuuh!!! Almost in a heart attack mode… jaldi karo."

"Sure aunty" and then Running mode.

Nonetheless, I had burnt my fingers so often that I learnt my lesson, well. So when I attended the recent wedding, I confidently faked a baby bump.

photo credit:www.slodive.com

Love,

K