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 :)

Man vs. Food

Have you ever lunched/dined out with that remarkable species on earth - the insatiable, ravenous, voracious, mindblowingly incredible, true-blue Punjab da puttar? No? Count your blessings then. Yes? Pat... no, thump yourself several times on the back, 'cause you've come out of the tribulation alive and have survived to see another meal - a humbler version of course, the kind that befits the average homosapien. It may not mean such a great deal for the more piggish kinds out there who impulsively develop multi-appetites (and consequently, multi-tiered bellies) at the mere glimpse or scent of food - the ones who can down the entire menu in one tremendous gulp; BUT to a barely-there, gangling, tweedy weed like yours truly, the sight of an acre-wide dining table grandly laid out in its full, leg-wobbling glory makes me weep, even furiously chanting silent prayers in yesterday's case, because it may have very likely been *My* Last Supper.

Goosebumps. I have several of them now. Its all replaying in super-slow-mo in my mind. The said Punjab da puttar thundering in a guttural voice - 'AUR LAO!!!' and Auntyji running... no, flying to the rescue - like a Goddess with several arms - each bearing a dish more sumptuous, more greasy and more fattening than the other; she apparitating in front of my pleading (for no more) self, and again, like a Goddess that is mighty pleased with her disciple, bestowing more of the dreaded, sinful stuff on my quivering plate, meanwhile beaming a splintering smile that is akin to a thousand arrows puncturing my feeble body; what's left of it atleast. My stomach's at war by now, my mouth is so stuffed that no requests for mercy are able to escape it and my brow is lined with fine sweat; while Auntyji is on a blitzkrieg of sorts - serving scoops and mega scoops of her largesse (both food and that smile.... oh that wicked, wicked smile), making me fervently wish I was stranded in the bleak Saharan desert instead. As if in endorsement, my stomach gives a low rumble now. In testament to all the wadis, dhoklas, 3 tiered rasmalais, pistachio cookies, dry fruits, crispy veggies with schezwan sauce, veg seekh kababs, paneer manchurians, paneer makhanwaalas, dal fries, aloo parathas and veg kadais that I downed yesterday, ALL within a tormenting span of 2 hours. Burrrrrp. Its a record of sorts for me. Something I can brag to my grandchildren about.

HOW does one eat so much? And make it look SO easy at the same time? I mean, you can't have bottomless pits for stomachs, can you? The said puttar, his wife, his son and the latter's wife - all fine Punjabi folks - the most amiable, genial, gregarious and friendly lot that I have EVER come across (they can even make a grumpy bear feel at home) - they have appetites the size of the Himalayas (they mauled the ENTIRE menu), while mine huffs and puffs its way to a measly 10% of theirs. The said hosts looked down at me with the slightest hint of pity, making it a mission of sorts to kinda beef me up before I leave their abode. They tried their best to stuff me, and were wildly successful too, obedient child that I am. But whatever aspirations they had to land a spare tyre on my belly, it failed. The waiflike Avanti reigned supreme and still does, neither lard nor fibre able to flab her up. In the case of my well-meaning, generous hosts, the food always wins, while for moi - it is always me thoroughly beating the food by a couple of miles any given day! So go ahead Auntyji, beat that! Or should I say, catch me if you can! ;)

And the show (down) begins!

Its back! And it promises to be larger, louder and meaner than its previous two outings. On the flip side, it also guarantees (embarrassing) situations where grown men behave like a bunch of tribal Aborigines hollering and dancing at their annual jungle grassraiser event. You would not be wrong in saying that one could, in all probability, witness a rise in divorce cases (or atleast separations) during this dratted season. Because wars erupt at home. Over something as humble as the modest remote, God bless its existence for lazy-loafs like us. The charged up, tongue-hanging-out, jumping-on-the-sofa, dumb-as-a-pin bloke, along with his entourage of boisterous, unruly and equally brain-dead buddies, refuses to zap channels from Set Max while the thoroughly repressed and depressed woman insists on her daily antidose of tear-jerking, over-the-top family, ageless (literally) family dramas. Tensions are bound to rise and tempers are liable to be lost. Soon, before he could realize what's just hit him, the poor guy could find himself biting the bullet and signing a hefty alimony cheque.

Ohkay. Maybe I've over-dramatized the entire sequence of events that may occur during the IPL season. But wouldn't you agree you'd find the sexes battling it out, throwing abuses (and dishes, perhaps) at each other, mainly because they cannot STAND the other's preferred choice of idiot-box-entertainment? I don't know why the women-folk are complaining though. I mean, you just have to switch on the TV whenever you want and watch one of them regressive, numbing daily soaps; never mind if you've entirely missed last week's episodes. I guarantee you will STILL understand every single scene. You may even be in the applaudable position of predicting what's gonna happen next. No replays needed, no sleepless nights mulling over who cheated on whose domestic donkey, who married whose toothless grandmother, who slapped whom (with 3, it is ALWAYS 3, back to back slow-mo repeats and fake 'chaata' ka sound) and who returned back from the (ir)reversibly dead lot, for the three hundred and forty seventh time in the show's short history.

That said, one cannot deny or for that matter, ignore the tremendousness that IPL brings alongwith its flashy, glittery arrival every year (although this year's opening was a damp, flop affair). The eclectic crowds, the shenanigans, the star team owners, cheerleaders (aren't they, by far, THE biggest draw?), the ridiculous pay packets, the jumbo prize money and the 2-month-elaborate-shindig conducted by all possible media worth-their-salt, going gaga over the teams... it really is, at times, larger than life. Everything else comes to a screeching halt for these 2 months. Producers shy away from releasing their movies, travel plans are delayed, the workplace/college canteen is a riotous place full of heated discussions and school-children beg to stay at home on match-days. Even non-fans of the game have switched loyalties. Mention the word cricket in India and you're bound to get flashed by a toothy grin that starts from one ear and ends at the other, like a drunkard does on spotting a bottle of his favorite rum. We are a mad, mad nation of cricketophiles.

Speaking of madness, I was witness to one such insane IPL match in its inaugural season. At the magnificent D.Y. Patil Stadium in Navi Mumbai. Started by cheering for the home team - Mumbai Indians and ended up rooting for the winning team - Deccan Chargers. Who the heck cares anyway?? Spectators were only interested in dancing and yelling every time some batsman (never mind which team's) hit the boundaries or a bowler took a wicket, hooting at the cheerleaders and making paper planes and throwing them from one stand to another. Match gaya bhaad mein. People were there to enjoy themselves and scream as though the Texas Chainsaw-wielding baddie himself is chasing them, baying for their collective blood. No wonder the firangs consider us a weird lot.

Here are some of the pics I took of Mumbai Indians vs. Deccan Charges match at the gorgeous D.Y. Patil Stadium, a place best experienced at night when it is in its full floodlit glory. Stunning!

I'm gonna visit again this year, this time - the Brabourne stadium. Which teams, you ask? As if it matters! ;)

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 ;)