On her marriage she got 101 sarees- the weakness of her tribe
Happy, merry and young
enjoying all the ceremonies
never realizing what was happening-
her age, main culprit- she was simply 12.
When playing was her only occupation
and responsibilities were unknown,
she was tied to the gorgeous drape of 12 yard
“saree” - the only weakness.
As days went by-
basking in the glory of her new found status
enjoying every moment of attention
yet, unaware
after all it was no more her life.
Holding one by one all her possession
beaming with happiness
she wore each one - so typical of her tribe.
Months passed and before she realized,
tragedy struck her door.
Her husband died.
And with him died all colours of her life
so sudden - so unnatural.
Those very 101 sarees became her burden
Only one colour still remained
White - just white.
Accompanied by a whole list of curses, accusations and
the naked eyes of lust.
Since then she greets thousands of deaths
silently- patiently- so very typical of her tribe.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Why grow-up?
I don’t know about you but I was always in a hurry to grow up real fast, like Maggi noodles in straight 2 minutes. If given a choice would prefer to adorn the Bollywood style where the lead actor would sing and dance on his way to adulthood. No books, no studies (read no Maths) and all the freedom to do watch uninterrupted TV. Adulthood was eagerly awaited by me.
And now, when I am all grown-up battling each day in this big bad world. I often ponder, “Gosh! Where was the hurry to grow-up?” And I definitely do miss the good old days when:
A heartbreak meant “missing the-all-so precious Chitrahaar aired only twice a week in Doordarshan”.
A rejection meant “missing the lifetime role of Juliet in the Annual Day English Play because I am taller than the supposedly Romeo and sported the low maintenance boy-cut hairdo which is beyond anything remotely girlie”.
A problem meant “inability to solve the algebra equation in exchange of being granted the permission to watch the 1-hr long Mahabharata, which was roaring its announcement with the blaring volume of the next-door neighbour’s Idiot Box making me go completely numb and dumb”.
Tension meant “disclosing to Dad that I have successfully retained my record of scoring the lowest marks in Maths in the entire class despite his warnings of sending me to Hostel.”
Infatuation meant “head over heels with the brand new Barbie my uncle gifted to me and more importantly none of my friends could claim to own one because it was imported from China”.
Financial stability meant “being able to afford 1 orange bar ice cream (priced at Rs.5) daily and perhaps a rare bhelpuri (priced at Rs.10) once a week.”
An appraisal meant “being promoted as the Class Prefect of a bunch of boisterous lot of whom yours truly was the ring leader and the best political devise utilized aptly by the Class Teacher to keep the class in control.”
Such was life and now years after I miss the simplicity of those old days. Guess I too was simple enough to cherish the precious moments of yester years. Otherwise, who would in their wildest dream wanted to desert the safe haven of innocence and grow up in no time?
And now, when I am all grown-up battling each day in this big bad world. I often ponder, “Gosh! Where was the hurry to grow-up?” And I definitely do miss the good old days when:
A heartbreak meant “missing the-all-so precious Chitrahaar aired only twice a week in Doordarshan”.
A rejection meant “missing the lifetime role of Juliet in the Annual Day English Play because I am taller than the supposedly Romeo and sported the low maintenance boy-cut hairdo which is beyond anything remotely girlie”.
A problem meant “inability to solve the algebra equation in exchange of being granted the permission to watch the 1-hr long Mahabharata, which was roaring its announcement with the blaring volume of the next-door neighbour’s Idiot Box making me go completely numb and dumb”.
Tension meant “disclosing to Dad that I have successfully retained my record of scoring the lowest marks in Maths in the entire class despite his warnings of sending me to Hostel.”
Infatuation meant “head over heels with the brand new Barbie my uncle gifted to me and more importantly none of my friends could claim to own one because it was imported from China”.
Financial stability meant “being able to afford 1 orange bar ice cream (priced at Rs.5) daily and perhaps a rare bhelpuri (priced at Rs.10) once a week.”
An appraisal meant “being promoted as the Class Prefect of a bunch of boisterous lot of whom yours truly was the ring leader and the best political devise utilized aptly by the Class Teacher to keep the class in control.”
Such was life and now years after I miss the simplicity of those old days. Guess I too was simple enough to cherish the precious moments of yester years. Otherwise, who would in their wildest dream wanted to desert the safe haven of innocence and grow up in no time?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Mad or what?
Just the other day somebody screamed at me,” Are you mad?” I feigned deafness. But honestly speaking aren’t we all mad in ways that we are completely unaware?
The industry I belong to is quite infamous for being the legal asylum for insane people. And I don’t have much to regret. This is what keeps us going and makes us little less mundane (with all the due respect).
But aren’t we all in the same boat? If not, then how could you explain?
• Women traveling far and spending double the amount to avail of the discount scheme, even if that means being sandwiched among smelly equally enthusiastic crowd to return in one piece
• The maddening “me first” competition every weekday morning to rush to office, even if that means honking continuously at a traffic signal flashing the immobile Red that even a blind wouldn’t miss
• Hunting for a bride who is rich (able to afford a grand dowry), fair complexioned, convent educated, highly qualified yet homely and domesticated. Even if the groom has never seen a college from inside, charcoal black complexioned, miserably under qualified and jobless
• Hopelessly hopeful about getting back in shape and looking good, when battering the eyelid is the only voluntary exercise you indulge in and oil-soaked food is a must have in the diet plan
• Cribbing about the unhygienic state of the neighbourhood, when all you do is dump the garbage bag in the vacant plot just adjacent (it's lying vacant you see, so who cares)
• Complaining about the sorry state of this country, when all you do is sit back and wait for your turn to fly abroad hopefully to never return (be as an illegal migrant in a room where you’ve to fight for every breath)
We all seem to be losing it. Yet we don’t miss a chance in calling each other by this infamous adjective. So what if I sing to myself while driving, shake my leg in public to my kind of music or talk to the dog about issues as serious as Indo-Pak relations? At least I am harmless.
The industry I belong to is quite infamous for being the legal asylum for insane people. And I don’t have much to regret. This is what keeps us going and makes us little less mundane (with all the due respect).
But aren’t we all in the same boat? If not, then how could you explain?
• Women traveling far and spending double the amount to avail of the discount scheme, even if that means being sandwiched among smelly equally enthusiastic crowd to return in one piece
• The maddening “me first” competition every weekday morning to rush to office, even if that means honking continuously at a traffic signal flashing the immobile Red that even a blind wouldn’t miss
• Hunting for a bride who is rich (able to afford a grand dowry), fair complexioned, convent educated, highly qualified yet homely and domesticated. Even if the groom has never seen a college from inside, charcoal black complexioned, miserably under qualified and jobless
• Hopelessly hopeful about getting back in shape and looking good, when battering the eyelid is the only voluntary exercise you indulge in and oil-soaked food is a must have in the diet plan
• Cribbing about the unhygienic state of the neighbourhood, when all you do is dump the garbage bag in the vacant plot just adjacent (it's lying vacant you see, so who cares)
• Complaining about the sorry state of this country, when all you do is sit back and wait for your turn to fly abroad hopefully to never return (be as an illegal migrant in a room where you’ve to fight for every breath)
We all seem to be losing it. Yet we don’t miss a chance in calling each other by this infamous adjective. So what if I sing to myself while driving, shake my leg in public to my kind of music or talk to the dog about issues as serious as Indo-Pak relations? At least I am harmless.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Such is life
Now, I would prefer to call myself a north Indian at heart, courtesy my years of schooling, college & then employment days. But marriage took a new turn in my life & a calling from south was too good to resist. And I wasn’t complaining either because the excitement of starting a new life was something I was looking forward to.
Years went by and the south has made me feel at home with its linguistic hurdles, Kanjeevaram sarees, gajras and most of all friends who have never made me feel any different.
A very recent trip to the folks back in north did open my senses to the fact that something was amiss. I was no longer the assertive, highly fashionable and heavily made up woman walking on the sultry afternoons with I care for no one attitude.
Rather, here I was the oh so simple gal next-door, making my way through ultra fashionable robust aunties straight from beauty parlours. They looked at me with a pity that you would have for a malnourished child from Somalia. And I looked at them with the horror of being run over by an overloaded & over decked highway truck.
My haggling skills all took a toll. Whenever I quoted a price the shopkeeper knew I was kidding. One of them even chased me off predicting I wasn’t good enough for the purchase. Even the autowallahs knew I no longer lived there and had lost touch to bargain. Probably the visible change in my Hindi accent gave them the clue. Whatever it was, but my purse underwent a heavy weight loss and my pocket suffered a huge dent.
Strangely, my taste bud was the most unhurt and had a great vacation. With food straight from mom’s kitchen what else could you ask for?
Years went by and the south has made me feel at home with its linguistic hurdles, Kanjeevaram sarees, gajras and most of all friends who have never made me feel any different.
A very recent trip to the folks back in north did open my senses to the fact that something was amiss. I was no longer the assertive, highly fashionable and heavily made up woman walking on the sultry afternoons with I care for no one attitude.
Rather, here I was the oh so simple gal next-door, making my way through ultra fashionable robust aunties straight from beauty parlours. They looked at me with a pity that you would have for a malnourished child from Somalia. And I looked at them with the horror of being run over by an overloaded & over decked highway truck.
My haggling skills all took a toll. Whenever I quoted a price the shopkeeper knew I was kidding. One of them even chased me off predicting I wasn’t good enough for the purchase. Even the autowallahs knew I no longer lived there and had lost touch to bargain. Probably the visible change in my Hindi accent gave them the clue. Whatever it was, but my purse underwent a heavy weight loss and my pocket suffered a huge dent.
Strangely, my taste bud was the most unhurt and had a great vacation. With food straight from mom’s kitchen what else could you ask for?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Far from over
“Perfect” and I don’t get along too well. Rather we share an enmity that sometimes is much volatile than the rapport we share with our neighbours. So whenever everything around me is just the way I wanted, I tell myself that how can everything fall perfect?
Ever since I could remember, I had to slog for simple things like finding the correct size for my flat footed feet. The embarrassment reached its crescendo when one harassed sales guy advised me bluntly to stop my feet from growing further otherwise I could soon be shoeless. Now, our civilization has progressed to setting foot in the moon but how to control the growth of my feet is not within the perimeter of human knowledge (feel free to correct me if I am wrong).
Incidents were plenty like every time a hard earned vacation was planned, permission seeked and tickets booked. In other words, things were perfect to take a break. The very next moment I did find rashes surfacing on my otherwise smooth skin. Such were the outbursts that I was bed-ridden for a month or longer with measles making sure that the only sight I get is from the forlorn window of my bedroom.
My tryst with the idea of perfect is a saga that’s far from over. But the only thing that has changed over the years is my attitude. So when everything seems to be perfect and fall in place, I fail to savor the moment. Rather I keep my mind on the alert mode, reminding myself to expect the unexpected. After all my life is far from perfect.
Ever since I could remember, I had to slog for simple things like finding the correct size for my flat footed feet. The embarrassment reached its crescendo when one harassed sales guy advised me bluntly to stop my feet from growing further otherwise I could soon be shoeless. Now, our civilization has progressed to setting foot in the moon but how to control the growth of my feet is not within the perimeter of human knowledge (feel free to correct me if I am wrong).
Incidents were plenty like every time a hard earned vacation was planned, permission seeked and tickets booked. In other words, things were perfect to take a break. The very next moment I did find rashes surfacing on my otherwise smooth skin. Such were the outbursts that I was bed-ridden for a month or longer with measles making sure that the only sight I get is from the forlorn window of my bedroom.
My tryst with the idea of perfect is a saga that’s far from over. But the only thing that has changed over the years is my attitude. So when everything seems to be perfect and fall in place, I fail to savor the moment. Rather I keep my mind on the alert mode, reminding myself to expect the unexpected. After all my life is far from perfect.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
If n Me
“If” is a favourite with people who genuinely care about me. And they use it so generously with me that sometimes I really admire the inventor of this word. The world wouldn’t be what it is without the many “ifs” of our lives.
Deep down the memory lanes, I still hear my baba (read dad) uttering his favourite one-liner, “if only you listened to me”. Such was the magic of this word that it made me even more determined to never listen to him. Today, I do regret and tell myself, “if only I would have listened to him.”
Several times later I heard my teachers declaring in numerous meeting with the parents, “if only she could get out of the maths phobia…”. What it did to me is for everyone to witness. I developed an allergy towards the subject that till date I am left uncured off. My milkman, newspaper guy and the grocery fellow are the real winners for my inability to figure out simple calculations. No doubt, the newspaper guy bought a new bike. The milkman is a proud owner of a brand new car. As far as the grocery guy goes, safer to skip the part.
In more recent times, the hubby also gives me an extra large dosage of this word. His favourite being, “if only you would have controlled your temper”. And like every happily married couple, it usually doesn’t end at that. Obviously we fight. (Come on) the world should know we are married for life.
As far as self-introspection goes, I do admit that I often say to myself, “if only I would have studied that bit harder, if I had killer looks to get away with even a murder, if I was born earlier where there was less competition…”. I could go on till eternity.
Seriously, world wouldn’t had been a better place to live without the “IFS”.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Give me a break minus the Kitkat
One of those days when I seriously ponder about my choice of a career. Now, before you get me wrong, let me come out clean. I am a “Copywriter” and I love what I am doing. But most times I don’t get to do anything. Reasons are numerous and these are some that might make sense but most are incomprehensible:
Client has an undying passion to write which couldn’t get fulfilled in the pursuit of a lucrative career. So finds that this is the right channel to revive the undying hobby. (Now, I always knew that good luck doesn’t have a liking for me.)
The Art guy feels the copy is long and comes to his own conclusion that it demands an encroachment on specialization. So, takes the free hand (without my knowledge) to assault. (Although, I am the only one he pleads for when there is a mail to compose.)
“Who reads the copy anyways?” is my friendly Client’s comment. And after all he is paying to run the show. So off comes the scissor that literally tears away my labour of love and mindless hours of hardwork.
“The TG wouldn’t understand.” is the Servicing guy’s precious feedback that I should take professionally (nothing personal). Although he questions my creativity whenever his dwindling sale figures gifts him a backlash from the big brothers.
The big brother who is extremely market savvy (but hardly visits the market) and is the supreme blessed one. Knows the latest trend. So this month he has proclaimed “Two worded headlines” as victorious. Last month “Full two sentence headlines” were the trend. So anybody who mentions about market surveys now knows whom to contact.
Just few of the professional hazards. Everyone seems to write well apart from me. Who needs a copywriter in this world? Are you in the same boat as me? Do write then.
Client has an undying passion to write which couldn’t get fulfilled in the pursuit of a lucrative career. So finds that this is the right channel to revive the undying hobby. (Now, I always knew that good luck doesn’t have a liking for me.)
The Art guy feels the copy is long and comes to his own conclusion that it demands an encroachment on specialization. So, takes the free hand (without my knowledge) to assault. (Although, I am the only one he pleads for when there is a mail to compose.)
“Who reads the copy anyways?” is my friendly Client’s comment. And after all he is paying to run the show. So off comes the scissor that literally tears away my labour of love and mindless hours of hardwork.
“The TG wouldn’t understand.” is the Servicing guy’s precious feedback that I should take professionally (nothing personal). Although he questions my creativity whenever his dwindling sale figures gifts him a backlash from the big brothers.
The big brother who is extremely market savvy (but hardly visits the market) and is the supreme blessed one. Knows the latest trend. So this month he has proclaimed “Two worded headlines” as victorious. Last month “Full two sentence headlines” were the trend. So anybody who mentions about market surveys now knows whom to contact.
Just few of the professional hazards. Everyone seems to write well apart from me. Who needs a copywriter in this world? Are you in the same boat as me? Do write then.
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