Song of the Sirens

"You got a photographer yet?"

"No"

"Are you travelling some place after?"

"I don't know"

"What are you wearing?"

"I haven't seen it yet. I trust Mom"

"How the fuck are you not losing your mind?"

I arrived three weeks in advance. Everything was almost done and as for the silly, trivial things, I was not going to let them get in my way. I would be a cool bride. I'd  be the opposite of cold-feet, anti-bridezilla. I'd be composure pacified, chilled in the freezer. My friends were impressed.

Reality hit three minutes after I walked out of the airport. When was the last time I was in 38 degree Celsius heat? At 10:30 in the night? Someone once described "Jahannum" to me - "It'd be burning hot and the water would be boiling. You'd drink it, but it'd NEVER quench the thirst." That was what I landed in. But, what is a little heat stroke when you are set to marry the love of your life, right? WRONG. This good man, this sweet soul had never seen me under yellowed skies of dusty Indian summer. Or hung out with both my parents. Acclimatization was in order for both of us.  No amount of chilled beer was going to help and it was too late to elope now.

I had heard all sorts of sordid tales of people getting  married back home. I laughed and I sympathized. I never understood. "You are happy. Don't give a fuck and you'll be fine". But does that ever work? Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, has an opinion and a constant urge to share it with you. I was told by a neighbor Aunty to not sit cross-legged in front of his parents. "Yes, let's pretend they are old-fashioned fascists and my exposed feet will make them reject me as a sanskaari bahu. More importantly, do we even know each other, Aunty?" A saree salesman did not even bother veiling his indignation at my bias for light colored sarees. "Aap dulhan ho, inhe dekho bhi mat." I was left speechless. It always takes a little while to rediscover the existence of my tongue there. Enough of this Amreekan niceness. The ennui of an ordered life is not for the motherland. When in India, do as... Beast Mode On! I embraced the chaos. Morning runs, Bisleri hunts, seamstress woes, rings for toes - all of it.
And so it started. Multiple poojas to bless an agnostic couple seems hardly misplaced in India. Like good kids, we listened to the mothers. They don't ask for much anyway. Or so THEY think. Mine was determined to be perennially stressed with sudden bouts of absolute joy and then of categorical melancholia, surroundings be damned.

"Aww, we brought you home that very day from the hospital after you were born. And now you'll leave home on the same day again."
"Mom, I did leave home. Years ago. And who on earth remembers this kind of detail?"
"Aww you look like a bride (crying in the department store)."
"Mom..."

I gave her a hug and then I gave up. After all, what is an Indian wedding if you don't break down in boutiques in front of a hundred strangers? If you aren't found in vulnerable positions in "beauty" salons where at best you'd be naked and at worst in real, scream-inducing pain? If you aren't stuck in traffic en route to your own wedding? If your friends don't go looking for alcohol for you in the middle of  the ceremonies. All this in search of socially acceptable means to be with a man who is as willing to jeopardize his own sanity for you. There exists no bigger test. I would have said we aced it. But then, that'd be egotistical indulgence. We barely survived. Our sanities have been on a break since, at a spa in the Himalayas. We wish them speedy recovery. And that they find their way back home soon or we be able to join them there.

We, the people of India, having solemnly resolved...

Aah, a unicorn!
I found her last year. While we sat submerged in it, she was only dipping her feet in the hot tub. I stared at a few D-cups in front of me. Scared, and a little tipsy. 
"I am hearing things. Am I drunk already. This is only my second". 
"That's true."
"Wow. So, you survived India (quite literally sometimes) without having gone through foeticide, infanticide, child sexual abuse? You weren't beaten up outside a club by our moral custodians? And you want me to believe that you were never even manhandled in public even though you were totally asking for it being inebriated and loose and what not?" 
"I just had a protected child-hood"
"I wasn't particularly on the streets either, you know"
"Hmmm.."


I never thought this day would come. All my confidence in our grand democratic republic is now shattered, and with each falling piece I realize how much I miss the ogling eyes of men (so many men) on the streets of Delhi. While our police, law, and politicians can give KKK a run for their white hats when it comes to prejudices, general junta of the city- the proud owners of the y-chromosomes, are pretty indiscriminate. They would bestow any pretty, young thing with their completely unwarranted attention, no-bias-attached. How, you ask I see. Well, that PYT doesn't even need to be pretty or young. They will grope anyone/thing with a general female form regardless of age, beauty, length of hemlines, state of mind etc. All that equality gave me sniffles any time I traveled in the DTC bus or walked down in "modern clothes". Natasha Smith could have taken lessons on how to feel self-disgusted from any woman in India, instead of feeling wronged. Now that I am safe, it feels weird. The phenomenon of walking in the dark with sudden increase in visual and aural senses' acuteness largely remains inexplicable.


And I haven't even talked about the liberty of thought, and freedom of expression yet. So naturally, I asked a Dude who actually exercised it. "You see all these women with dheela character in the pubs, or for that matter even juice shops? Forget even those, see these women from the north-east, they roam about in Delhi like it is their homestate, with their fiercely free attitude which just screams I need to get some right now. I need YOU baby. Yes, their eyes scream that out." "How do you know? I don't see anyone even looking at you. Are you going to go talk to her?" Obviously the Dude is not going to be bothered with making small talk-shalk. Not like the women can ever say no to him. "And anyway, no is yes said with just eyes." Even in his village adjoining Delhi, all the women present (albeit invisible) at the village meeting voted to give away their rights to own mobile phones or marry with their own choice. Face it, honor killings are just expressions of dissent and disapproval. "Arre, Dhoble and Shri Ram Sena are not the only saviors of morality and decent women. We don't even need these outsiders for safeguarding our women here above the Vindhyachals." Surely, self-censorship is not an issue here. And this is India and not the US, where calling a woman a "slut" for asking insurance cover contraceptives on the radio would in any way be penalized. Women are killed for much less here. Freedom of expression for the win!


If you thought that unity in pluralism was a mere political rhetoric for grandiose thumb-waving in front of Pakistan and to keep Rahul Baba in business, think again. Through the ranks, the urban and the rural, the elite and the masses, everywhere the thoughts fuse together to form a beautiful harmony. Screechy altos or coughy tenors will simply not be tolerated. These men would put frat brothers, from party schools here, puking into each others mouths to shame. They stand together and stay silent together. So lest you want to lose a life or limb by interfering if a girl is being molested or paraded naked in full public eye, be like Gandhi ji's bandars. Better still, go get a camera to record it all. The entire charade afterwards is so wonderfully choreographed that it goes exactly the same way EVERY time. The cops say the loose woman asked for it. The media screams "no fair" and insists on asking people on the streets. People blame law, society, and indulge in some social-media activism (of course no protocol followed).  All this while the Fab India saree clad representative from National Commission for Women hides the woman's face and ensures her own matching pearls are seen clearly on the tele. One needs to give the judiciary due credit though. With half the laws for women not codified for they fall in the realm of religious freedoms and the other half just plain shitty, they fall back on known guidance of choice wherein lie the eternal truths. So where a Muslim woman can be divorced anytime with no rights whatsoever, a Hindu woman can be completely denied inheritance from her own father's property (Oh might I remind, she was also not given any dowry because it's against the law). In cases involving fuzzy logic (ha) a judge may look at Ramayana and decide that the wife should follow the husband wherever he goes. Umm, except Rama was a crappy husband (yes, Uma Bharati, I said that). So if you are gonna be damned if you do and damned if you don't, you might as well do.

Dilli

चार साल की मिठास से थकी हुई ज़बान पर नमक की तरह है

झुलसाती गर्मी में चले जाने वाले बादल के साए की तरह है 

बस घर है

तसल्ली तब भी कितनी है 

Wasabi, not Guac!

Context: Running through the living room, getting late, combing my hair, swinging my faux Aarti thaali in front of Dad for money. Him laughing.

Mom: "Where do you think you are going in your torn jeans and bathrobe lookalike shirt?"

Me: "Movies with friends."

Mom: "Don't we get you nice clothes? Can't you act lady-like EVER?"

Me: "YOU should know better than to ask that. Besides this was an acid accident in the lab. I don't hide my bruises, why my bruised jeans then. You should have seen Ankit's shirt when acid spilled over. It had tiny holes all over"

Mom: "Uff.. Atleast, this is better than your neck piercing. Is this why we sent you to a convent school?"

Me: "Why exactly did you send me to an all-girls Catholic school?"

Mom: "It is a good school and not far away."

Or that is what my mother said. I argued they had different intentions though. 

1. Keep the boys away from me
2. Be able to start a matrimonial advert, if it ever got to that, with "Fair, convent-educated, Punjabi girl..." 

The pursuit of either of these ends has been pretty abortive till date. 

Perfect timing for plan-change. My younger sister (referred to henceforth as MS) who was going to drive me (because that is another thing I do not know) decided to make a pit-stop at our old school. She likes going there to meet up with teachers, unlike I, who showed up there after 5 years of leaving. Come on. I was there for 13 years. THIRTEEN frikkin years. I was there for cursive writing, through summery pink tunics and white skirts, wintry red blazers, with long well-oiled plaits that hung below the hips, for Mental Math, stories of Adam and Eve and of Our Saviour.  I called the teachers "Miss", was duly scared of Mrs. D'Souza who would call us "Junglees from the fish-market" if we created ruckus, participated in prayers that took place four times in 6 hours (much to the dismay of my grandmother who would get a shock every time I started my prayer at a pooja at home with "Our father, thou art in heaven". "Why do you not know any good Hindu mantras? Why only Angrezi mantras?" But, I digress..). That was how it was. Nuns were nuns, teaching us docile girls to be seen before we were heard, and using base verbs with our dids/didn'ts. Teachers came in all kinds of packages- nice, sarcastic, helping, or just plain bad at teaching, standing akimbo while kids ran amok. I had had enough. 

First teacher to meet at the gate- Mrs. George. She hugs MS, asks her welfare, while I shuffle restlessly trying to stand with one leg covering the other one with the acid tear. Horrors of having to open hems of our short skirts at the entrance of our school suddenly came alive again. But, that was not for long. A protest happened (the reason of which eludes me now), became political, and caused enough grief to our school administrators to punish us by changing our uniforms to salwar-kurta. The punishment had to be tantamount to the offence. We got the ugliest new uniforms. They were not just a fashion-disaster, but also climatically wrong (too hot in summer, too cold in winter). My more fashion-conscious heart would go out to the 13 year old me, except I know she did not bother so much about it. 

Mrs. George asks MS about me. I am still here. Nope. No sign of recognition. "So you do not recognize me out of my school-uniform?" But, that was not it. I just was not an impression-making kid. I read during the lunch-break, stayed away from trouble, kept quiet, was not even class-monitor material. In all, a boring kid that gets good marks and is remembered as "the girl who gets highest in English/Hindi". Not by name nor, sadly enough, even by "the girl who gets highest in Math". College saw me with a different struggle of trying to be anonymous in front of professors. Well, I made an impression on Mrs. George now. 

I have grown up since then, from a quiet, shy girl to a person with strong "dislikes". I am taller, hair is shorter. I have a couple of degrees and do my own taxes. Still wear the tunics though. Matrimonial ad is yet to come and the boys need to leave for that. Wiser? I don't know. But, myths have been broken.

1. There are Indians other than me who do not like mangoes. And we have all been disowned by our beloved fellow countrymen. But, they are rather cloyingly sweet and...Ahh, nevermind.
2. Fantastic, long-distance relationships do not last. Conversely, neither do bad, close vicinity relationships.
3. There is a world of make-up beyond the red sindoor bindi mom wears.
4. Just because people preach integrity does not mean they practice it too. In-the-face immorality is more acceptable to me over fake, vacillating sincerity.
5. Hypnosis does not shrink a butt. Especially if someone else tells it in a loving, but firm, voice to stay as it is. All you get is a confused butt.
6. Benefit of doubt is a finite resource. 

Chandni Chowk

A man taking a moment to button his shirt.

Credit for the most breath-taking reference picture goes to Ankit. Yet again! I live my India through his pictures nowadays.
And I deserve a better camera too.

42?

It was recently brought to my attention that identity and questions of the like "Who am I and the meaning of it all?" hold a special place amongst existential conundrums. Not that prior to now I could not have fathomed most of the humanity being tortured by this elusive, mystical riddle. I am and have been completely aware that this is a very prevalent and legitimate question people ask themselves, probably with more frequency than highway travelers ask for restroom directions from 7-Eleven employees. Even the Paranoid Android has devoted much maniacal moroseness to the subjects of tantamount enigma. This time, though, it encompassed an allusion to a dear friend which led me to believe that I must be nuts to have gone so long without falling prey to my own bitch of a brain's manipulations regarding the meaning of it all.  This could be because I stopped listening to that little inside voice long back. (Now that I think of it, it explains a lot more). So I decided to pay my dues. 

Beyond the obvious address of name that my parents gave me, I have been called many other things. Some good, some bad, sometimes both by the same people (One person is doing that right now a few miles away. Yes, I know. You, be very afraid of the memory of my big eyes and soon-too-follow cold shoulder). Going further though, who?what?where? transcended from midnight gossip sessions to an uncomfortable, as-per-convenience self-interrogation. While I have mostly thought of myself as just a bona fide anxious coffee-drinker and a pure carnivore (till recently, when I decided to give vegetarianism a go), I have in the past year also been labelled cow-belt wandering Hindi speaker, a psycho, way-too-free a spirit, yadda yadda yadda. So I summarized the answers to some aforementioned FAQs to:

• Hindi
• Hindu
• Punjabi/Garhwali
• New Delhi, India (I like writing answers in points just like Mrs. George taught us)

THIS, apparently, is supposed to define me now. WTF!(Mrs. George said this was a bad thing to say). My dad and sister talk to each other in FRENCH. Frikkin French (Mrs. George is very pissed now). 

Ma has to coerce me to shower early on festivals (Sarees, I wear on my own to look pretty). I listen to her and do all of it now just because it is easier than arguing against the ritualistic bunkum. I have spent good six years of my precious teenage arguing, when I could have learned more profanities and faster. It was exhausting. And still my mom mutters the Gayatri Mantra under her breath while cooking. Apparently small intestines have an ability to digest blessings as well (okay, I agree, that is just sweet of her). 

And don't even get me started on that half-n-half thing that I am. Don't know any of the languages. Don't know one's culture and don't care for the other's. Even the Hindi-speaker labeler speaks better Punjabi than I do while teasing me for all that I am (or am supposedly defined by). I need my Garhwali Ma to interpret things while conversing with my Punjabi grandmother. Ain't that sad? 

New Delhi? Dilli. Dilli of big roads and manicured lawns, of Metro-rides and crazy traffic, of sweltering heat and freezing cold. I love Dilli for all that. But, I love it most for the food. But then, any good food would make me a turncoat and change loyalties. I do not even need 30 pieces of silver. (I wish food was a nation right now). Anyway, no one outside India is ever particularly interested in knowing what part I am from. Just India suffices. Always. Errr. Almost always.Yeah, I do meet a couple of people here and there who ask "Are you from Gujarat?" or "Do you speak Hindi or Tamil?". This is more out of equating all Indians to that one you know better, just like every time I meet someone from Iran I go "Oh, I have a Persian friend. She runs Marathons. You do too?". You get the drift?

So while this turned out to be a good exercise in moot-point making, I remain as blithely cavalier about my non-existent identity as always. I have been very mutable and will keep evolving, just like I hear the apes did. I can be yours. I can be you. But, I speak only in capacity. In reality, I would neither be of you nor you. I would rather be nothing.

Bringing me up!

Him and I,

Of same blood and flesh

And cloned dimpled chins.

My own believer, with a twisted arm,

Who silently bade me farewell  

To cynicism.

Thank you DCE

For:

• preparing me for the worst as life is only easier than it ever was there
• convincing me that smoking/drinking/smoking up are not defining characteristics of people
• demonstrating that political correctness can go fuck itself in the ass
• being utterly sexist and treating women as second rate citizens 
• making me deal with government officers, horny men and condescending professors. Nothing else could have inculcated more patience in me.
• introducing me to the most amazing and the most unbearable people, all in one place
• being so very pretty during the monsoons
• fantastic canteen bhaiyyas and their custom prepared coffees
• denying us the most innocent of pleasures like climbing on to the terraces of the hostels
• being a big name in the education market. It helped for a little while.

Disclaimer: Most of the list is based on my own experience that may or may not be reflected in that of other students, although a lot of women would concur with it. The list may expand as and when I remember more, or bother to do so. 

I pine for thee. Hence, I paint thee!

Missing home is usually ensued by looking at photographs taken by friends or me of signature Delhi-ness. This is based loosely on a picture, taken by a dear friend Ankit, in Mehrauli Archaeological Park.

Inters(j)ections

Walking across a street in Delhi is an ordeal. Bonne chance if you appear on the other side alive. People give you dirty stares if you land in front of their car and they have to stop for you, almost like they are doing you a favor. And you give a dirty stare back. In this country, on the other hand, people stop, wait for you to cross the road, and sometimes even pass on a smile. Freaky, eh? Funnily enough, I hate crossing roads here. It seems equivalent to performing for an audience who stands at the traffic signal, looking through the windscreens like you are on the television, measuring you up and waiting for that trip and fall. Uber entertaining an act, if I may say so myself. Like Jo from Little Women, I never know what to do with my limbs either, or even my face. Do you walk slow, fast, look down, look unaware?

In my city, people have no time for any of that. They jostle on their way to work or back or just anywhere. Everyone is more concerned about whether they are are going to be late for their appointments, if the other car is going to manage to swerve and miss the red light while they remain stuck in the synchronized pattern henceforth, or if the kids would still be awake by the time they do reach home. I know that a moment after I get the dirty stare from the unfortunate person who had to stop his car for me to cross the road, he will forget me. He does not give me more thought than he would to paramecium. And THAT is the most comforting thing about the dizziness-inducing, disillusion-fostering crowds of "Dilli", where everybody is a nobody and anonymity is so under-rated.  I miss it.