Trouble

My car's idling at yet another traffic signal. I'm stuck at the red lights for the third time already. I want to whack someone, yell my lungs out at the bumbling rickshaw ahead to move his rickety ride, godammit! Traffic in Mumbai can test the patience of a saint. Just as I was thinking of new ways to vent my anger, John-McEnroe-style, there's a knock on the car's window. I roll the windows down and see a suave, criminally gorgeous fella - smile on his lips, hope in his eyes. I had a sullen look on my face and swiftly try to repair it, replacing it with mild incredulity. "Yeah?" I manage. "Are you going to Malad?" he asks me. Incredulity is now replaced with disbelief. That's the last thing I ever expected him to say. I continue to give him a dumb look. "Could you give me a ride to Malad, please?" he persists. 'Yes, yes yes!' my mind shrills. I mean c'mon! He's a Greek God, for crying out loud. I would be but a mortal fool to refuse. I began to reply in the affirmative. And then, swift as lightening, a voice creeps into my head. It is the voice cultivated out of years of education that is indoctrinated into every girl. 'You fool,' it admonishes. 'Are you out of your mind? Don't you know that thing they say about talking to strangers? This guy could look like a fashion model right off the rampwalk, but that doesn't mean he couldn't be a mugger. Or a rapist. Or a serial killer. Or a psychopath. Or a dangerous combination of all. Refuse right away! And roll up those windows. Lock your doors. Yell out loud if Greek God lashes out. Do you have a sharp object that you could use? A knife, a filer, a scissor? Nothing? ARRRGH!'

I draw a deep breath. Had I let that control-freak-of-a-voice possess me, I would have been classified as a nutty oddball and landed myself in a room full of padded walls. Instead, a calm voice takes over. "I'm awfully sorry," I say, "but I have friends to pick up at the next signal. I can't help you." Greek God looks dejected. "Its okay," he politely says and moves away to search for alternatives. I kick myself. Had I not been a girl, I would never have faced this quandary. What does that station master say in Jab We Met? Akeli ladki ek khuli tijori ki tarah hoti hai. Sad (and slightly crude) stereotype. Substantiated by countless horror stories of women being victims of brutal crimes, simply because they were careless or just plain unlucky. No matter how well trained you are in self-defense or are Wonder Woman yourself, you don't go around talking to strangers, even if it means genuinely helping a person in need. You don't take risks. That's what we are told, and most of us dutifully follow.

Not that I regret I was born a girl. It doesn't matter much whether you are from Mars or Venus, not in today's world anyway. However, more often than not, we become subjects of stereotype, which forms the basis of gender prejudice. You're a girl. So it is presumed you are weak and vulnerable. No late nights, no traveling alone, no talking to strangers. I find it highly regressive; although, it would be premature to conclude that the premise behind these restrictions is entirely wrong. Some of us may know how to take care of ourselves. There are countless women who party late at night, travel to far-flung destinations alone or can confidently handle a conversation with a stranger, without getting the heebie-jeebies. Good for them; I wish there were more of their kind. But maybe, just maybe, our parents are right Maybe that voice in our heads, control-freak or not, has some credibility. You can't push your luck too far. Its an insane world out there, increasingly unsafe for women. And sometimes, perhaps just sometimes, you need to take a step back. Even if you're raring to go. Take precautions. always. Better to be safe than sorry. After all, its only for your own good, as our parents love to say :)

Not Again :(

If another soul even as much mutters 'Women's Day' another time, I might just break into a dance. Not a happy jig around a tree, mind you. A very elaborate tandav is what you'll have to endure. Bhagwaan ke liye, stop marking this day on your calendar every forsaken year, to patronize, validate and venerate us. A woman these days, atleast in civilized parts of the world, is NOT defined by her gender anymore. Now, before you brand me as another impractical, star-gazing, dissing, humbug idealist, think again. Yes, I am aware that many of us are still ill-treated, pushed around and bossed about today because of our very sex... the menace of dowry, physical abuse, denial of education, mental trauma still haunting countless women, even in the present, much-hailed 21st century. Yet, half the women I know despise the very idea of having a hot summer day per annum dedicated to pseudo-venerating them... their TVs, newspapers, radio stations and even workplaces densely dotted with a bunch of oddball czarinas talking through their heavily made-up mouths about 'empowerment', 'winning-against-all-odds' and 'liberation' - SO BORINGLY done to death now. All this should no doubt happen. But not just because you're a woman. Why, I know so many men too who have won against all odds. Whether the odds in question are a caste issue, a coming-out-of-the-closet issue, a class issue or a medical issue. Why doesn't anyone celebrate such individuals? Why focus on women, apparently the 'weaker' lot, who have defied convention and carved a place for themselves in society? That's not to take credit away from them... all I'm saying is DO NOT chant for us or pedestal-ize us, because we're women. If need be, go educate those sections of the society - the socio-economic backward regions, about how its not fashionable to ostracize women anymore. Because it simply does not make sense in the world of today. There's nothing a man can do that a woman cannot and vice-versa. (yeah yeah... except for the you-know-what stuff, of course). I think many of us have realized that and can relate to that.

So you may be wondering what is a (scary-looking) Rihanna video doing in this crusading post of mine. For me, women like her symbolize how the woman of today has truly arrived. She is confident, aggressive, even a tad brash and abrasive (qualities we usually tag men with) and does not expect brownie points for being a woman. Oh, and she made life miserable for her jerk-of-a-boyfriend who physically abused her. I'm sure we will soon have her clones everywhere. We don't need a special day in the year to applaud all this. Let this be a continuous phenomenon - day in and day out.

PS: For those of you who've dozed off by now, I apologize for this humdrum topic that I've chosen to rant about. Its just that I'm being harrowingly stifled by all this talk about Women's Day around me... today there is this workshop on the same being organized by my organization and I'm SO dreading it. Not the gaseous talk, of course. The ensuing tandav is what I'm worried about ;)

A Tale of Two Traffic Violations

This was my second run-in with the law. However, I don't think I will garner any empathy if I insist that I was innocent both times. As Morgan Freeman says of the prison in The Shawshank Redemption - "Everyone in here is innocent..." The first time I had to swerve into the first lane to avoid colliding with a materializing-out-of-thin-air jaywalker, streaking across the road when the green signal was on for us motorists. He was gone at the speed of light and obviously, the Pandu on the prowl at the corner did NOT notice him. Sweet. His bakra-mila-antennas stuck right up and you could almost see the $$ sign flashing in his eyes. What's more, its a lady driver! Even better. Another $ can be added to the previous two, already doing the bhangra in the sockets. He is quick to come and park himself right in front of my car, signaling fiercely to step aside. Trust me, there's nothing more embarrassing than a cop stopping you, making you look and feel like a petty criminal. Wretched feeling it is. But its no time for assessing one's feelings. I aim to wriggle out of the mess. I put on an are-you-serious look on my face. And brandish it to the pot-bellied cop. "Did you see that guy running across the road when the green light was on for me?" I asked the cop. He is not amused. "Madam, fine bharna padega... aapne lane change kiya..." I am incredulous. "But I did that only to avoid colliding with that moron!" Imagine my surprise when he tells me, "Woh toh hai 'maidam'... par aapne rule break kiya.... ek kaam karo.... sau rupaiyon ka chota-sa fine bharo." I was fuming by now. Had I broken the rules with dubious intentions, I wouldn't mind paying up for my mistake. But this was completely irrational. Bordering on exploitative. The guy who put me in trouble must be thanking his stars right now while I was left counting them over the cop's thick head. I reason with him again. "That means I am getting punished for saving someone's life. How can you do that, Sir?" No use. "Fine bharo 'maidam' (again! ugh!) ... phir aap jaa sakte ho..." What the heck? This guy was turning out to be dumber than Paris Hilton. "Tell me one thing Sir," I say patiently. "Had I not switched lanes and continued on the original happy lil' one, you would probably be booking me for murder right now. I chose breaking traffic rules over killing someone. Now you decide which one's wiser." (I wanted to add - grow a brain, you idiot!!) He thought over that for a while. Almost as if it finally dawned on him, he let me go. Whew. Did someone say the truth will set you free? Well, not after you've had to really fight for it. Round one to me.

The second time, I admit I was the dumb one. I have this stupid habit of following the car immediately before me at a traffic light, even if the lights turn red. I don't bother to check the lights. My (senseless) reasoning being - If the car ahead is moving, then so should I. But lights do turn red when you are at the zebra crossing, regardless of whether the car ahead has moved or not. Something similar happened, only this time there was this huge truck in front of me. Blocking my view of the signal. So I happily follow him. Me and a few cars next to me. What happens next is anyone's guess. Enter jet-black-sunglassed Pandu, materializing like my worst nightmare in front of me. Ordering me to stop. Not again, I think!! I am getting (in)famous for this now. Said cop has this smirk on his face that I was determined to wipe off. Whether I was in the wrong or not. So the entire gig repeats itself. You broke the rules, pay up and blah blah. Only this time I adopt a different approach. I asked him why he targeted only me when there were atleast 4 other cars that also jumped the signal. When that didn't ruffle him, I used the one card that was sure to get me out. Not a fair thing to do... but hey, it was important to save my arse too. So I put on a victimized face and accused him of harassing me only 'cause I was a woman. This threw him totally off guard! Sensing a possible winner here, I went on. Told him how we women are always careful while driving (the Haveliwala incident notwithstanding) and how my record was clean (lie, lie!). This seemed to perturb him and he let me go! But not without a repartee - "Agar main aapse fine le leta, toh aap mujhe aur bhi gaali deti...." I gave him my most winning smile and told him how much I respect the police and I would never abuse them. That seemed to inflate his already inflated belly and he laughed. Hasa toh phasa.....! I was a free bird, again! Round two to Avanti, very well done!

There isn't a round 3 (yet) and I hope I NEVER get caught again. I barely got away the last two times and I can't expect to push my luck too far. Besides, after the horrific Noori Haveliwala accident, I am much more careful. Proof? Didn't cross 100 km/hr while on empty streets at 11 pm, all the way from Marine Drive to Borivali via the Sea Link this weekend, though I was itching to go faster. Proud of myself :) Guess I won both rounds, but the cops had some good effect on me nonetheless ;)

Wedding Wows

PS: (added on 8th Dec, '09): This post has been selected as a 'Tangy Tuesday' pick at Blogadda, here!! Thank you SO much guys!! I am so delighted - this is my first blog award!! :)

'Tis the season of happy unions, and for some unfortunate fellas - a fate worse than a lifetime of prison. But why oh why, do weddings throw up the same cloud bubbles over your head - of the grinning, marked-for-life couple with garlands (noose, anyone?) around the necks and never-ending rows of the world's yummiest cuisines awaiting thy much-emaciated presence? What about us, the harassed invitees (womenfolk, mostly), who are hounded from the day the wedding invitation arrives at the doorstep? Right from which outfit to wear (gentlemen please ignore, this does not apply to you.. I mean, how difficult is it to pick a shirt/kurta and a trouser?), which shoes to trot in, what purse/bag/clutch to hold (it should be 'matching-matching' with the outfit - Ma says), what accessories to wear, what gifts to buy and..... oh wait! This is most crucial - how to lose those extra kilos gained by OD'ing on your favorite cheese-burst pizza at Dominoes last week? Ok, ok... I admit... I don't have to worry about the last part (yet)... I am blessed with a terrific metabolism... a big *muah* to God! I must be your most biased creation! ;)

In case you don't have an outfit saved aside for a rainy day, one that your relatives/friends haven't already seen.... you are doomed, woman! Repeating outfits is a total no-no, a fashion crime, an unforgivable sin! A quick and desperate departure is made, to the nearest mall/boutique or wherever it is girls buy their threads from. In case a tailor (call me a stylist, dahling!) is involved - 'Bhaiyya, bahut urgent hai.... kal hi chahiye' is hastily muttered, only to be met by a pair of severely arched eyebrows that could give the Arc de Triomphe a complex - telling you you're not the first to order him around, so don't 'bhaiyya' him please. But you coo and boo-hoo, and he finally relents. Ha! One down, several more to go! Hasty purchases of shoes, bags, accessories are then made at the speed of light, that long-impending haircut is niptao-ed and your nails are scrubbed until they scream luminosity. The more enterprising will go to the lengths of fixing an appointment with the local salon to turn them ugly ducklings into beautiful white swans (I never understood bleaching, scrubbing and whatever it is that women do to their faces). A hairdo is picked with a carefully manicured finger from a glossy magazine - that should make me look like Angelina Jolie.... huff-puff..... damn! The 'pitts' we go to!! ;)

The D-day finally arrives. You're more nervous than the poor groom himself. Who will come today? I hope that irritating aunt doesn't come, she always bores me to death (beta, when are you getting married, tee-hee... as if she cracked the world's funniest joke) and I hope uncle forgets to set his alarm - he is always cracking dumb PJ's, to a sparse audience of mostly - me! Oh, but I hope... really really hope *insert-droolworthy-crush-here* DOES come, I have gone through SO much effort for him! Once you've made a mental list of who is worthy to come and not come to the wedding, you arrive only to find all those you detest are there first! The entire place reeks of dirty, sexy money (I borrowed that phrase), opulence and some heavy-duty flaunting about. You have the fattest aunties bedecked in more jewellery than the bride and her mother put together, you have all the mota-boys (uncles) flashing their multi-ringed fingers and dual/triad mobile phones at each other. The kids are running helter-skelter, dropping a drink here, sullying the carpet there.... and the waiters (poor things, they look the biggest lost souls of all!) are hurrying around, catering to many whims and fancies. The whole occasion is of apparent merriment, but it is also of muted, and more often - vicious jealousy - 'how the hell did that tramp manage to get her hands on such an expensive sari?' Or, 'look, how much gold she is wearing - is she a walking-talking goldmine?' Or, the judging 'look, such a short, tight dress.... I wonder how she breathes!' Note that all these observations come from women (surprise, surprise!). The most vile of creatures!

But not all behave in a petty fashion - some are really happy for the bride and groom.... especially me - whenever I am witness to a love marriage! So lucky these chaps are! To find your love and then to marry him/her.... just wonderful! You greet the newly-weds and wish them all the success and happiness in the world!

Who can ignore the protesting, growling belly by now? A beeline for the food counter is made; suddenly people appear from nowhere - 9 pm is when the guests actually start trickling in... JIT.... what a coincidence, na? You have to contend with large plates, larger bowls and that stupid napkin under the plate that threatens to slip away anytime. Soon you are juggling them all like a jittery circus clown on his first show. Paneer is inevitably the hot favorite and you find the long queue clogging up at that one mecca of gastric indulgence. After you've cleaned up the Chinese, Chaat and Mexican counters, you hop over to the dessert section and maul it. After you've let a belch or two out (yes, I heard that Uncle... it must be yucky being you!) you know you've had enough. Haath khaali, peth full. Time to go. Another day well wasted.

I haven't even given you a full glimpse into the Great (Indian) Wedding Tamasha. Lest the reader (yes, poor you.... if you've managed this far, you deserve a large medal for tolerance) doze off, I have curtailed my severely itching fingers to type more. I would love to hear from you guys any anecdotes/tales of a big fat wedding that you have attended. They always fascinate me.... nowhere will you see such a kitsch of emotions, blessings and colors blend into one perfect product - the Indian version of the 'happily ever after'. The bottomline being - *addressed to the couple in question* - you better not break up, dearies.... after all, we spent so much on the wedding! We don't want all that to go in vain!

The Devil wears Heels

They may be only 3 inches high (or more, but that's just being bombastic), but they add a full 300% to your confidence level. Feminists scoff at it, health experts are horrified by it and Moms cluck-cluck at it. "I used to wear them too," mine wisely informs me. "But look at me today. My knees hurt and my feet feel like two slabs of pain." And she isn't wrong. She's taken a shot in her feet (ouch!) and is currently showing signs of mild rheumatism. After chucking her heels for flats, she now wears huge, chunky soles inside her shoes, so that her feet don't give her a piercing pain whenever she walks.

Now you'd think this ominous aftermath is dismal enough to make you dispose your Manolos & Jimmy Choos, but since when did women display rationality when it comes to matters of style and fashion? Take for instance, those huge, luxurious hats that women not-so-demurely display at derby races. Such outlandish and useless inventions. Now why would you want two cuckoos (or any other bird)/wild berries/bushy, furry flowers/large bows or any such comical objects sitting atop your head, the extensive hood of the said hat meanwhile curtaining your entire face, making it impossible to recognize you? Yet, Page-3 divas strut in them as if they were the most aesthetic things on this planet. Personally, I prefer smaller hats - the more humble ones, who have just one function - to keep out the blazing sun; not to make you look like you just came out of the Jungle Book.

Coming back to the topic of heels (and the atrocity they make you go through), again, they may be perfectly irrational inventions, but they are a God-send to us women. They make shorter women look taller and taller women look ...well... even taller! When you first don them, the ground beneath your feet begins to look much more distant. Objects look smaller and you tower over people. When I wore a set of black heeled-beauties, the first starking difference it made was in the train. Earlier, I was taller by a few inches than most ladies in the packed compartment, but that meant someone's hair would end up near my mouth/neck (very irritating!). Now I am a good feet above the entire swarm, so much so that I can almost feel the clean, unadulterated and uncluttered atmosphere above. Next difference it made was when I was with taller men (feminists are not welcome to give their opinions). No longer I feel like a midget (though 5'5 is not exactly one). But I'm 5'8 now and it feels heavenly. No longer do I have to 'look up' to them. Its definitely liberating! And yes, it is also the best weapon for self-defence. If any goon tries to act fresh with you, jab your heels below the belt. Unbearable pain guaranteed.

Yes... I know, I know.... heels are lethal for your legs, back and posture. But oddly enough, I'm okay with the pain. Don't ask me why. We women are dumb-headed when it comes to heels. We will scream and yell at the sight of a pair of sleek, gleaming stilettos, wanting to grab it before the next girl. Rationality goes out of the window.

Until the first pangs of pain hit us, we will happily click-clack in our heels!

Yap Masters

Ever wondered why men never listen to what women say? Simple. Because we yap too much. To add further anguish to agony, we don't just beat around the bush, we take 'em poor men for a royal-safari-ride around an entire friggin' jungle. Why go far, take this very blog as a shining example. How many times have you muttered to yourself - 'why doesn't the pompous lass just come to the point!?!' What prompted this post was one extremely annoying incident in the train this morning. This motormouth-of-a-woman was faffing to the hilt about her righteousness at the workplace. On and on she rattled - 'bout how her boss was one mammoth pain-in-the-arse, 'bout how she told this prick of a colleague to back off her territory, 'bout how she challenges the HR with intelligent questions, 'bout how some Vikas-guy is as adept as a limp monkey and blah, blah, blah. I didn't bother to listen to the rest of her moan-marathon. I had tuned out by then. On came my earphones and the rest of the journey was spent in casting occasional glances at the loud, stupid woman to see if she was done boring her audience to death. No such luck, she was still jabbering loudly, evidenced by flailing arms, her rotund eyes ablaze and eyebrows shot-up to their highest-attainable point. The only reason she's still alive is because it was illegal to kill her right there n' then. I know I sound like some Nazi by-product, but this obnoxious woman simply got on my nerves today (very few people have that kind of an effect on me). Left me wondering how the she managed to stand her sorry self.

Moving on to the more pressing point/moral of the story. To all the women around the world - You may be the most successful dame in your profession, you may look like a billion bucks or may have the entire freakin' world eating outta your pampered hands, but forget this not - For mankind's sake, STOP YAPPING! Beyond a point, that is (Cause a tight-lipped person is a more irritating phenomenon). State your point briefly and then wait for a response. I guarantee you will get it.

Oh and BTW, this only applies when you're talking. Not blogging. So don't book me for hypocrisy!

Retail Therapy

I tell you, its simply the best remedy that can be offered to a distraught mind... Its liberating, extremely satisfying & presents you with paroxysmal happiness. It also burns a hole in your pocket big enough to see a piping hot mexican-green-wave pizza (slurp!) through.... but who cares! (as long as your deserving salary's credited next month). Out goes the pocket-with-a-gaping-hole & in comes a brand new 'un. For a clotheshorse like yours truly, the smell & feel of new clothes is nonpareil. Almost orgasmic. The slightest urge to shop & I'd even brave Mumbai's fickle & unrelenting rains, the resultant slush & the general chaos around, just to quell that drone in my skull yelling - YOU NEED TO GO SHOPPING, GIRL!

So, to all those gloomyheads out there, one piece of advice (sigh.... another gyaan-baatofyer in the house, didn't we ban them all???) Say goodbye to those blues and say hello to colorful hues (ok.... I sound more like an annoying, poorly-rhyming saleswoman now).

I hereby invoke Occam's razor (Occam's...WHAT!! I've totally lost it) and say - Go shop till you drop. And watch your money go pop!