Hormones and Chromosomes.

Some Sundays are for cleaning, some are for studying, some are for writing, and some are just for lying in bed and doing nothing. Apparently, this Sunday was for everything. I woke up late, brunched on bread and cheese (for lack of eggs), took out my diary in an attempt to write, noticed some clutter in my wardrobe, cleaned and organized the mess. And when all of this was done, I sat down to study. Just when I was about to open my book, I remembered that I had forgotten to write in my diary, which was, in fact, the original plan. All good ideas come to you minutes before you commence reading a textbook, this one did too. And to satiate the itch in my brain, I had to open my diary and put ink to paper.  

So the thought that had caused the itch in my brain was, do people think of women as just hormones and chromosomes? Is it just me or is that really how the society sees us? No no, I do have a justification for why I think so. Here’s their idea of an ideal woman, right from childhood, all the way to late adulthood.

• Little girls are delicate and timid.
• Teenage girls are shy, and apparently hide behind their mother’s pallus whilst simultaneously learning how to cook and clean.
• Young adult girls are riddled with the need to get married and put the behind-the-pallu cooking and cleaning lessons to good use.
• Middle aged women are all about caring for their husbands, catering to their every not-so-self-sufficient needs, and overdosing on Maa ki mamta
• And when women grow old and senile, they pass on their legacy to their bahus and ensure that they are subjected to the khaandaani sexism, and make the same mistakes their young selves did.

So the gist of their entire lives is just this, ‘You are a woman. Behave accordingly.’ (Always in bold, underlined letters). Conservatively speaking then, if you round up their entire lives into two things, it’s just emotions, and roles that they have to play in each stage of their life. ‘The world’s a stage and each must play their part’, said Shakespeare. But apparently, it was strongly applicable only to women.

Also, why these generalised ideas for women? They say we all feel deeply and are too emotional. I know a lot of women who are not, and a lot of men who are. And primarily, what is so wrong about that? Why is being emotional considered a liability? You can pretend all you want that you have a tough shell that’s hard to crack, but here’s the thing, shells are supposed to be come out of. Try it sometimes. And any time we react strongly to anything, apparently we are on our period. I agree that PMS is real, I go through it often. But have you thought of the possibility that the world just gives us enough reasons to react strongly to things? We don’t have to bleed just to notice things that are wrong and call them out. So the next time a girl seems upset/angry/overwhelmed, don’t ask her if she’s on her period, perhaps try asking her what is wrong? Because I’m certain she has several answers to that question. And if she indeed is on her period, you can offer her some chocolate. Periods are like dementors, chocolate always helps.

And what is this thing about women being khuli tijoris? I agree we are tijoris, if being a tijori means we are of great value. However, I hardly think that is the context they use it in. Stop referring to us as something that comes with a lock and key, because keys can be duplicated, and locks can be broken, and there are a couple other things that can be broken if you use that anecdote again. Also, we have had a history of being locked under nonsensical customs and traditions for a really long time, and we may get triggered and lecture you on patriarchy if you make such references. Actually, you know what? People SHOULD be lectured on patriarchy as and when an opportunity arises, I wouldn’t feel too bad about that. After all, it is the need of the hour. You know what else is the need of the hour? Saving our planet from doom. It may not seem relevant in this dialogue, but it is relevant in every dialogue. SAVE THE PLANET!

So yes, my conclusion to all this is, we are not merely hormones and chromosomes, we are so much more, and so much beyond that. You would have known if you would have tried to listen and understand us before making juvenile statements like ‘wOmEN aRe So cOmpLicaTed bRoOoOoo’. We are not. We just want to be treated right. So just shut up, acknowledge, recognise, address, and try to fix the problem no little bit?

Potato world.

Dear whoever-is-reading,

I’m writing this because a brilliant mind thought of this and asked me to give words to it. So the thought is hers, but the words are mine. And somebody once said, ‘It’s the thought that matters’. (And it somehow became an idiom that we use whenever someone buys us a gift that sucks.)

So, getting back to the point, let me start by telling you a story that will make you cringe and look at me with distaste. But I will tell you anyway, because that’s the amount of shit I give about what people on the internet think about me (Kidding, please give me validation). So this is one of my oldest and lamest jokes, but I still take pride in it because even if no one else did, it made me laugh. A lot.
We were in our Botany practical hall, and our teacher whom we called ‘Indira, the tiger’ was teaching us botany (Not because it was a botany practical hall, but because she majored in Botany) She was giving us some unnecessary knowledge about sweet potatoes when I turned to my friends and said ‘Sweet potatoes can also be called Sonia potatoes’ .They looked at me poker-faced. Then I had to explain, ‘It’s because I’m sweet’.

That’s when the poker faces turned into face palms and eye-rolls. I don’t blame them, I had it coming. I mean come on, ‘Sonia potatoes’? But I just want you to look at the bigger picture here. Nobody thought I was so sweet, neither did I, but I had the audacity to put myself out there, look at my low self-esteem in the eye, and give myself enough credit to make a statement that was boastful enough to change the hierarchy of an entire vegetable. Now you must be thinking that it was my vanity speaking. I agree to disagree. There’s a thin line between vanity and self love. The line is made of unicorn poop and ice cream sprinkles, because it’s an imaginary line and you can make it with whatever you want.

Vanity stems from wanting to make other people worship you. You think you are so superlative that you want to rub your nonexistent qualities in their face. However, self love has its roots on embracing yourself, whole and sole. It stands miles away from wanting to impress others. It’s all about respecting yourself and sending love your own way.

It was Valentine’s Day recently. And something different I noticed lately about this day is that the millennial wave has brought about a bout of self love that is surprisingly associated with this day. When I was a teenager, all the single people acted forever alone on V-day (I talk as if it was decades ago, I’m 24 okay, so teenage was only five years ago). But this year I saw single people claiming to buy themselves chocolates, gift themselves flowers on Valentine ’s Day because you don’t need to depend on someone else to celebrate valentine’s day. You can always love yourself or your friends and your family. I think that’s just fabulous! Where was this when we needed it? All this self love is so endearing and encouraging, and I think we all need to continue this and make it a new tradition, along with the conventional ways of celebrating it. The millennials also brought in non sense hashtags and abbreviations, but let’s just focus on the positives here. So, I think you should all remind yourselves every day that you’re all sweet potatoes, even with all your flaws. I do realise now, in retrospect, that calling yourself a potato does not sound very cool. But hey, french fries come from potatoes, and have you ever had blue waala Lays?! It’s all potatoes, and it’s so divine!

So go out there and make it a potato world.
#Potatoesgonnapotate

Thought credits- Sweet potato
Sayali Mhatre aka Sayali team-mate

A CHRISTMAS STORY (PART 2)

Armed with a flashlight, some chips if he gets hungry, a mug of hot chocolate to keep him warm, and a pair of binoculars, Alfy waited. He sat guard near the window and stared into the night. It was too dark to really keep an eye out, and the flashlight was barely any help, but he did his best. If nothing, he was sure he would spot Rudolph, the reindeer with his bright red nose.

‘If there ever was a Rudolph!’ he fumed.

As he looked out the window on this silent night, he couldn’t help but marvel at his little town. For a moment, he forgot all his skepticism and smiled at the beauty of this season. Each house was grandly lit up for Christmas. Mr. Jonathan, his neighbour, had the best house in the entire block. His house gleamed red green and golden. A snowman was built right outside his house. The Christmas tree had musical lights on, so the entire street echoed of Christmas carols and the snowman seemed to say ‘Oh come all ye faithful’. Tiffany had helped old Mr. Jonathan set up his house for Christmas. He didn’t have any children so he was happy to have the company of a child who was just as excited as him for the celebration. And it was safe to say that they had done a splendid job! Everything about that sight emanated love and happiness.

Lost in the beauty of his town, Alfy was almost considering abandoning his mission when he heard a sudden sound that pierced through the silence. He quickly grabbed his binoculars and looked out into the sky, but he saw nothing there. Nothing suspicious.
*Creak* 
There! That sound again!

It sounded strangely familiar. That’s when it struck him, it was coming from inside the house! He got up, rushed to the door and opened it just a tad. He made sure he was quiet enough and no one heard him. The lights were all off and it was really dark, but he’d recognise his mother from even a mile away.  *Creak* went the floorboard again as she tiptoed down the stairway. She switched on the lights and walked towards the Christmas tree. Her hair was unkempt and eyes puffy, like she had just woken up from a deep slumber. She replaced a Christmas tree ornament that had fallen down on the floor and tilted her head to check if she had set it right again.
‘At this hour of the night, woman!’, Alfy rolled his eyes.

Then he noticed something he hadn’t before. His mom seemed to be hiding something under her robe. His suspicion proved right when she retrieved a gift-wrapped box from inside the robe, it had a green bow on it. She then walked towards the couch and bent down and produced another gift-wrapped box from under there. This one had a red bow on it. She placed both these boxes under the Christmas tree and rearranged them multiple times to make sure it looked its most picturesque version. She then went to the dinner table, ate half a cookie, munched some carrots and gulped down the glass of milk. She sat down, leaned back and closed her eyes. Alfy could see she wasn’t sleeping. She was resting, just for a little while.
She got up after a few minutes, yawned and looked around to ensure she hadn’t left any evidence. She then tiredly carried herself back up the stairs, and Alfy closed his bedroom door, lest mom spot him.

He retreated to his bed, got into his blanket and simply stared at the ceiling. Mom had once told him that girls can do everything boys can. He had sniggered and never really believed her. Until now, that is. Girls could even be Santas, he realised. Or was it just mothers?

So what if Santa wasn’t the big-bellied, white-haired man he had imagined him to be? He was still real. In fact, the Santa he had was even better than the one he had read about in books, and heard about in stories. For his Santa fulfilled wishes all through the year, and didn’t wait for that one time of the year. His Santa didn’t stay away at North Pole, she was in the room next to him, and always there for him when he needed her after a bad day. He never had to write a letter, because this Santa always knew what he wanted before he knew it himself.

He switched off the flashlight that was still glowing by the window, and shut the drapes. He had something very important to do tomorrow morning, something that should have been done sooner. With that thought in mind, he finally did fall asleep.

Tiffany was the first to wake up the next morning, and she made sure she woke everyone up with her joyful squeals. She then ran downstairs towards the tree while Alfy ran to the next room. He wrapped his mother in a tight hug. She was taken aback and pressed her cheek against his, just like she used to when he was a little boy.

“Thank you, mom”, Alfy smiled.
He gave her a quick peck and ran downstairs to the tree.

Did he tell his mother he had seen her the previous night? No, he didn’t.
Did he know he was getting a hoverboard for Christmas? No he didn’t.
Did he still believe in Santa? Yes, he did.

A Christmas Story (Part 1)

The fireplace glowed golden with the embers, candles lit the hallway at every step. A Christmas tree was decked up with tinsel, snowballs, and an angel right at the top. The crib was beautifully laid to depict the nativity scene, baby Jesus rested in his manger with a placid smile on his face. A star hung outside the window, the star of wonder, star of night. Cookies and milk were kept for Santa on the dinner table, and of course carrots for his reindeers. Everything was perfect, right out of the books. Everything, and everyone, except Alfred.

Alfy had a shadow of doubt lurking behind his eyes. Like the look grandma has on her face when she suspects grandpa has had a little too much cholesterol for the day. Like the look mom has on her face when she knows he has had cookies before dinner. He wondered how Santa climbs down the chimney if the fire is kept going all night; how the reindeers never make a single sound when they tiptoe in their frontyard with all the gifts, not a single scurry or sneeze in all these years.

Alfy had his nose up in the air, as if trying to sniff out what smelled so fishy. Tiffany, on the other hand, was all smiles. She checked if her stocking was hanging right (for the millionth time) and went to the couch with a toothy grin on her face, which was a recurring theme around Christmas season.

Alfy and Tiffany were only three years apart, and acted like they couldn’t care less for each other. However, when push came to shove, they doted on each other, and that was no secret. Tiffany had long black curls that dangled in front of her eyes, just like her mother. Alfy was a spitting image of his father. The same deep brown eyes, and ability to misplace everything he touched. They were just searching for the TV remote when mom called.

“Honey, dinner’s ready!”
“But mom, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have had those cookies then.”
“Tattletale!” Alfy glared at Tiffany.

Every night the Joseph family had dinner together. Sometimes they argued whether or not it was absolutely necessary to eat all the green peas, and sometimes they secretly wished they could move over to the couch and watch TV instead. Nevertheless, they always had dinner together, no matter what.
‘Amen’, they chorused after they had said their grace dutifully.

Tiffany nibbled on several things and never finished any of the items on her dinner plate. Alfy had that look growing children have on their faces like it’s so inconvenient that they are being forced to nourish themselves with food. After multiple redundant instructions, they managed to finish most of their dinner and rushed back to watch TV. Tiffany wasn’t keen on staying up late tonight though. Because the sooner she went to sleep, sooner would Santa arrive with her gifts.
At nine PM, the lights were switched off and they were both sent to bed. Tiffany kissed her parents good night and pranced to her room. This girl was the happiest around Christmas.

Alfy let out a big yawn and promptly announced that he was suddenly very tired and would probably immediately fall asleep. He carried himself to his room and shut the door. Little did they know, sleep was the last thing on his mind tonight!
Alfred Joseph was determined to find out the truth about Santa this Christmas.

Who was this big-bellied man? How did he travel all the way from North Pole? How could his reindeers fly?
He sat with his flashlight near the window, and waited. He waited for Santa Claus to come to town.

Places I'd never been.

There was an omnipresent chill all around. I shoved my hands inside my pockets, looked down, and kept walking. Tucked my hair behind my ears as the wind kept brushing it. I went to the playground first. I sat on the swings and stared into space. No laughs, no giggles, just pure acknowledgement of this place and my presence there. I stood up, kicked some sand, and got walking again. A dog howled in the distance. Television sounds drifted through the streets.

The cafe was open. Not crowded, yet had a steady flow of customers. I took my usual place- the booth beside the window. Chicken salad. The waitress came back with my order. I noticed they had changed the plates. There used to be sunflowers on the China, now there were lillies. Well...
I paid for my food and got a coffee to-go.

Next was church. I went to the bench on the fourth row and kneeled. I had nothing to pray for, so I just be. No matter what I've said, this place did offer peace. The burning candles under the crucifix made the metal shine. I made the sign of the cross and got up. My footsteps echoed across the hall as I closed the door with a thud.
The streets were getting calmer now. I pulled up my hoodie. Also, colder. There was one last place I needed to go before heading back home. The bus stop.

He had always insisted on taking the bus. It had something to do with the government using our taxes for public transport/climate change. I'm not sure which one it was, or maybe both? I never really paid much attention. He would go on with his banter, and I would grumble about why we can't take the car like normal people do. I wish I had listened more. Bus 321 arrived. The door opened. Closed. I stood up, walked, kept walking, and didn't look back.
I rustled the keys out of my pocket and opened the door. The warmth of the house embraced me like it knew I needed a hug. Somehow, this house felt more acceptable now.
It had been exactly a month since Pa died.

A month of denial where I shut myself inside the house, refusing to accept his absence. Not today, though. Today I had been to all those places where we used to go together. Kathy had offered to come with me, she had told me I didn't need to do this alone. But I did. I needed to accept that I was alone. And that it is okay to be alone. Sure it felt a little cold, and a little hollow. But the streets had not changed, the places were still the same. Only my world had changed. And I needed to learn how to live in it.

When Pa taught me how to ride a bicycle, he had let go without telling me, and it was only when I turned to look back that I realised I was doing it all by myself. This was something like that (Well played, Pa).
Today I had looked back on all those things that had memories attached to them, and though I hadn't really aced it, I now had hope that I could possibly do it this time too. All by myself. Sure I would fall a couple times, but I would get back up. And then I'd treat myself to an ice-cream, bruised knees et al. Because diabetes doesn't hurt as much as a bruised knee! Did I just make a dad joke? Well, it's like he never left!
Goodbye, Pa. Until next time.

The lone man at Taj.

It was my first time there. I had always wanted to witness the Taj Mahal and its glory, but I had never found the opportunity. One night out with friends, and an impulsive decision later, we were there. When I first saw the Taj, it wasn’t what I had imagined it to be, it was so much more than that. Magnificent seemed to be a very small word for it. The sky enveloped its minarets and became a mighty white veil. It was like the rivulets in a pond, you couldn’t fathom where one began and the other ended. The Yamuna flowed gracefully behind it, and mirrored its tranquillity. The green garden complimented the white structure and made an ‘almost-tricolour’. The entire place radiated peace and beauty. People from all over the world had come to experience this monument, and in front of the mighty structure, the multitude looked like little lego-people from a distance.      

There are some auxiliary buildings around the Taj Mahal. They act as a museum, and an office. Back in the day, some of the buildings acted as a place for the workers to stay. Largely ignored, they remained vacant, away from the public eye. These buildings were beautiful by themselves, but the Taj overpowered them for obvious reasons. However, there was one man who apparently didn’t think so. Dressed in a white kaftan, black-rimmed glasses, and a beard that reached his chest, he was perched on the front steps of this building. He had his palms open on his lap, and he rested his head on one of the pillars. There was something about him that itched my curiosity. Often when you read a good book, you are tempted to read the last line of the chapter to know how it ends. You know you shouldn’t, but your eyes keep moving nonchalantly towards that last line, until you finally give in. That’s the thing about curiosity. You can’t ebb it, you can’t nip it in the bud. It has to be quenched. It is the only way. And so, to quench this bout of curiosity, I abandoned my group of friends and went in pursuit of this man and his story.

He seemed a tad surprised when I walked towards the building and sat on one of the front steps. He sat up straight, adjusted his glasses, and turned the open palms into fists. I was aware that I had disrupted his privacy, and slightly regretted my decision. Perhaps, he could see that, so to break the tension,

“Your first time here?” he asked.

“Yes” I smiled.

“How did you like the Taj?”

“It is beautiful!”

He beamed so proudly, that for a moment I was sure he was a descendant of Shah Jahan himself!

Then there was absolute silence until I finally blurted, “Can I ask you something?”

He was surprised by the abruptness of it all, and faintly nodded.

“How come you are sitting here when the Taj is right there in front of you? Why aren’t you there with all the other people? What is so special about this odd building?”

He laughed an old-man laugh, the one that comes deep from the chest, and is the ‘ha-ha’ version of Santa’s ‘ho-ho’

“Those are three questions, you asked for one!” he teased playfully. “Where are you from, child?”

“Mumbai.”

“And yet, you are sitting here on the steps of an old building even though you had come all the way to visit the Taj Mahal. People are whimsical, aren’t they?”

He was right, I hadn’t quite thought of it that way.

“I work as a gardener here”, he continued, “As did my father, before me. In fact, my ancestors were all employed here as well. They had seen Taj before it became the Taj Mahal! It is our own little family legacy, so to say.”

I was amazed at his rich family history, and was glad I was having this conversation. Fortunately, he wasn’t done.

“You see how beautiful the Taj looks from here? Away from the clicking of cameras, and jabbering of tourists? It is an old habit. I come here every evening at the time of namaz and gaze at the Taj.”

 “I get it”, I intervened, “Some things become so routine that you don’t find the need to marvel at it.”

“No, no! You misunderstood me”, he spoke defensively. “You see the moon every night, but you never tire of it. You have eaten food cooked by your mother’s hands a million times, but at the end of a long day, you still pine for it. Your mornings don’t seem right until the prayer song your grandmother sings fills each nook and cranny of the house. On cold winter nights, you warm your hands by the fire and listen to the same song you had been listening to since you were a child. There are some things that gradually shed their novelty, and turn into something better, something that gives you comfort. And in his most vulnerable state, all a man needs is some comfort. This is that place for me. I find my peace here, I find my namaz here. ”

I sat there in silence and waited for his words to settle. I had come here to read a story, but the story had laid out so much more with it. I had read the last line, felt the curiosity vanish and something else take its place. Peace.

I looked at the oblivious crowd of people drowning in their wonder, and decided to go be a part of it. I hadn’t revelled enough, I had to see it up close and take it all in. So that next time when I visit, I can sit here and ponder like this wise man does. I took his leave and walked back to my friends. Halfway through, I realised I hadn’t even asked him his name, so I turned to look at him. He had his palms open towards the sky, and eyes shut behind the black-rimmed glasses.

So I let him be. Perhaps, another time.

Note- You see that little white speck at the bottom? That's him. I clicked this picture when I visited the Taj Mahal, and I knew I had to write about him . The picture demanded a story (Fictional).

Vodka and Lemons.

I sat on one of those long-legged stools you usually see in every club, red shiny and pretentious. I hated them for two reasons; it was difficult for short people to climb on it, and once you were seated you could do nothing to shift the chair because your legs couldn’t reach the floor. So you either asked someone to do it for you, or awkwardly shifted your butt hoping that it would shift the stool too, but alas, Physics always failed you.

The club was like any other club. Loud, crowded and dimly-lit. The television kept switching between a football and cricket match. The traffic was a drag outside, but the music drowned all the honking from the streets.  Tipsy people were drinking away mid-week blues in their respective booths.
‘So baby pull me closer in the backseat of your rover’ the speakers boomed and everyone lost their shit and  started singing along.
It was clearly a tone-deaf bunch of people. It was endearing though, they didn’t seem to mind that they were all off-beat, they were just living in the moment.

I was alone tonight. Dressed up in my little black dress, I had even watched Youtube tutorials and put on some make up. It was quite futile, in retrospect. Nobody seemed to notice.  It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, or I was heartbroken or my boss was giving me a tough time. It was a voluntary decision to come out alone. Even though I never admitted it, it was subconsciously because of a Bollywood movie I had recently watched. The movie showed the protagonist get out of her safe bubble and go on her own honeymoon alone, after her fiancé broke off the marriage. She went to a foreign land all alone, devastated, yet came out of it having found herself along the journey. She met a bunch of strangers who became her friends, and helped her broaden her view of the world and her own life. So I waited for something like that to happen to me too. I waited in anticipation of a leggy lass who would instantly become my girlfriend, and would save me from myself, or a trio of guys who would become my best buddies and take me for rock concerts. I sat with my cocktail and waited for someone to come along and whisk me away from my monotonous life. But nobody came.

While I was waiting, my daydreaming eyes found the ceiling lights. They were really tiny and dim, and nobody really noticed them. But they made the place look so pretty.
“Yesss, shiny”, I said aloud.
“Sorry ma’am?” the bartender intervened.
“Screwdriver. I need another Screwdriver.” I quickly tried to cover up.

Whilst sipping on my cocktail, I watched a group of friends who were dancing the night away like nobody is watching. Nobody was, except me. I wish I had the confidence to pull off those flawed dance moves with such tenacity.
I watched the middle aged couple enjoying their drink in a corner of the bar. They had probably taken a night off from taking care of their children for going on a date. There was zest and longing in their tired eyes. You could see that time had changed a lot, but the butterflies were still there.
I saw a gang of giggling girls who were too young to be drinking at the club. Nevertheless, too excited to be doing so. They had their phones ready to capture every moment and record it for future giggles. The novelty etched on their faces reminded me of my teenage years.

With the fourth cocktail down, I started getting impatient. Here I was, hoping to meet a fascinating stranger, when no one had even bothered to make eye contact with me. However, there was one guy who had observed me more than I had observed anyone else here. He didn’t suggest a refill even though his job demanded it. He just casually struck up a conversation.
“Where are you from?”
“Just around the block.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yup” (It wasn’t entirely a lie.)
“The stars outside look better than these lights, you know.”
I looked at him quizzically, suspiciously, then warily.
“I look pathetic, don’t I? Sitting alone, staring at the shiny ceiling lights?”
“No you don’t. You look much better than the people here holding pretence.”
I nodded in faint approval. He then left to tend to another customer, or maybe to give some more life advice.

I didn’t think anyone was pretending here. They were all here just to have a good time. Like I was running away from myself hoping that someone would take me under their wings and teach me to fly, they were running too. They were running away from reality, just for a little while. Because they deserved it, they deserved to run away from their jobs, or homes, or whatever it was that was bothering them, and be happy, even if it was momentary.
Because life wasn’t all peaches, sometimes it was lemons. And sometimes you need Vodka to go with those lemons.

I stepped down from the stool and almost tumbled. It had to happen, but this time I could blame the alcohol.
The bartender was right about one thing though. It was indeed much prettier outside, and the stars beat those domestic lights, hands-down.

In that moment, I felt like I belong there. In the big world outside, underneath the stars, alone. I wasn’t waiting anymore for someone to come save me like in that movie. I was merely happy that I belonged somewhere.

Sure I was stuck, but I wasn’t lost yet. I belonged.