Sunday, 8 March 2015


There is nothing interesting that you will read in my blog today. There is nothing funny in here, nor anything thought provoking, just like all the other times. This is simply a gratitude post. A gratitude post to a minor section of men.

It seems like my grandfather did not know that he was married to a woman.  Actually, I think my grandmother thought it was her duty of never letting him find out about it. She also made sure that he did not know that there was a daughter among the three kids that they had together. Funny, but true! Ok, let me come clear and tell you that my grandfather lived in a house where the women pretended to never have periods.

It was fun to watch you know. My mother sneaking in sanitary napkins into the house as if it was a stash of cocaine, just because my grandfather was reading newspaper in the veranda. How one second I would be holding my stomach, whining to my grandmother about the first day of absolute pain (the kind of pain you get when your uterus squeezes out blood) and the next second I would be sweeping the house clean because grandfather spotted some dirt on the window sill. We made sure that he never knew about the monthly issue that came our way. We PMSed in private.

My brother too was kept in the dark. Every time he innocently pointed at the Whisper advertisement and asked what it was for, my mother and I became the most creative people on the face of earth. We just could not muster enough courage to tell him about womanhood. It’s like we were ashamed of what made us, us.

And then something magical happened. I heard my mother on the phone asking my father to buy pads on his way back from office. I looked at her and she simply said to me “He is not like your grandfather.”  And mind you, my father did get sanitary napkins on his way back, that too the right kind.

Last week I went to the medical shop to buy Crocin. Now, it was around 6 pm and the shop was crowded. I was waiting to be attended when a man standing nearby said “Bhaiyya, ek packet Stayfree deejiye”. It was amusing how every other man in the shop stared at him as if he had broken some code of masculinity. It was even more amusing to note that this man wasn’t a tad bit uncomfortable with the attention he was garnering. He spent a while choosing the correct sanitary napkin, paid for it and left the scene. I looked at the men around me, all smiling slyly. I wonder if they felt this uncomfortable while buying condoms.

I think I now know what my mother meant when she said that my father wasn’t like my grandfather. I also think I know how difficult it must be for a man to be different from the rest; to be someone who understands women. It’s embarrassing to be someone who acknowledges the strength that is required to be a woman. But yet, these few men continue to be different from the rest because they know their women matter much more.

Women are to be blamed. We keep menstruation a secret, as if it’s a sin instead of an inevitable biological process. Imagine discussing periods with your father or any male member in your life. Trust me, they would prefer you menstruating than being pregnant and not doing so. So why do we hush it up? Why not give them the opportunity to accept our reality?

So today I want to thank the men who are not like my grandfather. We need more men like you. We need more men like the guy I saw in the medical shop and lesser like the rest who were mocking him silently. Thank you for being real.

Dear men, this women’s day gift the women in your life, a better you.

P.S- Dear women, let us promise ourselves one thing today. That we would stop outsourcing our life. We must start making our own decisions instead of letting someone else do it for us. Promise yourself that you would never outsource your life.

Monday, 16 February 2015


I am not particularly good at remembering names and dates. When I meet someone for the very first time, I skip the usual “what is your name?” question and directly jump in to enquiring about the place they belong to or their thoughts on mint chocolate ice-cream. I am also bad at remembering dates and if you have known me for a while, you would know how I have never wished you on your birthday or the fact that I didn’t give a call congratulating you for getting married until you returned from your honeymoon in Bali. Even if I have surprised you by wishing you on time, you are just plain sure that it was because of the Facebook reminder. Actually it would be justified to state that I have never cared enough to remember milestones, including mine.

Today is my blog’s 4th birthday and this is a scheduled post written a week back because I am sure I will forget about it. Now since I have established the fact that names do not matter to me, I had kept this blog anonymous but never letting that filter out the content that goes on it. If you have been reading me from the beginning, you have pretty much figured me out or at least the kind of person I am. I like being anonymous, not because it helps me write better or because I am scared of being judged, but because this works for me. I am anonymous because I am not a writer and I don’t intend to publish a book. This is just a blog and I am just a blogger. Plus, I find a little bit of mystery, attractive.

There is no story behind this blog being named ‘THE RED HANDED BLOG’ or that there is ‘AN UGLY HEAD’ on its web address. They just came up in some corner of my mind and I found it catchy. Many like to put my blog in the ‘HUMOUR’ category. I don’t know how that happened, especially when my first ever blog post shows me as 21 year old girl who was depressed because college wasn’t treating her well. But over a period of time, humour started to define everything I wrote. There is no creativity in the posts I write, I suck at rhyming words and I never have been much of a story writer. What I am exceptionally good at is self mockery and it has helped me see that life is beautiful if you see it from the right perspective. This blog has made me a much happier person. I am thankful. I also made some new friends through this blog and decided to make my anonymity conditional. These people would forever be a part of my life; of that I am sure.

I don’t participate in contests, I have due to my anonymity not been able to be part of amazing blogger meets and I don’t earn a single penny from my blog, but it was all a personal choice and is something that I hope to continue. I am also not a regular blogger and I am extremely humbled by the readership that this blog has been able to garner. Someone recently mailed me that the only reason I have readership is because I am anonymous. That someone was anonymous too, but without readership. Well, I don’t know why you read me, but I am thankful to you for doing so even if it is only because I am anonymous. Thank you.

4 years of blogging! This is surprising to me because I am the kind of person who loses interest quite fast. My family knows that I blog but have never been interested enough to go online and read. They say why write when it’s never published in print. They ask “What do you get out of it?”  I don’t know. Some write just because they like to.

So to all those who have been reading this blog, regularly or occasionally, I call you family. Thank you for commenting and thank you for laughing at my expense. Your every single comment means a lot to me and I value your inputs. I hope you continue reading this blog.

Dear ‘THE RED HANDED BLOG’. Happy Birthday! I don’t normally tell you, but I love you.

But most importantly, thank you Dad for instilling in me the love for writing.  

P.S- Please appreciate the Photoshop!

P.P.S- Today is also my first day in my new workplace. Coincidence much? 

Monday, 2 February 2015


Last week, when Barack Obama and his wife visited India to be a part of our Republic Day parade, rumours had it that Mr.Narendra Modi might gift 100 Benarasi sarees to the first lady as a gesture of goodwill. Now this way of tightening cross border friendship deeply troubled me because our Prime Minister failed to answer one important thing, ‘Where will Michelle Obama find a good Blouse tailor?’

Once a girl reaches the threshold of womanhood, she begins to understand that she can no longer inveigle herself into believing that her T-shirt can make up for a saree blouse. It is then that she begins her pursuit to find the one who understands her enough to wondrously stitch out the perfect saree blouse and mind you, a good blouse tailor is not an easy catch.

If you think about it, blouse making shouldn’t be an arduous task. You provide the tailor with the matching piece of cloth which you spent hours to select, leaving you wish that you were colour blind and all he has to do is stitch out a decent blouse by following your measurements. You even ignore it when the tailors, irrespective of the gender, use more of their hands and less of the measuring tape to chalk down your size. You brave it all, just for that one perfect blouse. The result is almost always, disappointing.

My first blouse tailor was obsessed with Egypt. Why else would he stitch out a blouse that made it look like I had pyramids built on my chest? Another tailor made a blouse so tight that I began to think that I had deceived puberty and was continuing to be flat-chested. The tailor I went to get a blouse stitched for my college farewell ardently took down all the measurements and promised to not disappoint me like the others did. Interestingly, I attended the farewell wearing a blouse that resembled a shirt because the tailor didn’t want to upset my family by cutting my back low. Then there was this particular tailor who added pads inside my blouse and his reasoning was a classic “Medem, aapke wo jo haina, wo kaafi nahi hai.Sleepless nights were spent considering a boob job.

Now it is a universal fact that all women secretly hate each other. There is this woman my mother is friends with whose blouses are so perfect that you might doubt if they were pasted on her. Others including my mother would regularly swarm around her encouraging her to divulge the name and whereabouts of her tailor. Her answer was always, “Yahan ka nahi hai. He belongs to my village. I got this stitched when I went home.” Such a bitch!

Recently, I happened to come across this particular guy who ran a small tailoring shop named ‘OOH LA LAAA’ near my brother’s school. I wonder what might have been the reason behind me choosing him. May be it was the proximity to my place or the fact that he was ready to first stitch a trial blouse to clear my confusion. I was sold! After a week of questioning my patience, this gem of a guy gifted me a blouse that made me wonder if he knew my proportions better than me.  I had finally struck gold after going through so much dirt.

A woman’s relationship with her blouse tailor is unique. He knows what she means when she requires a Vidya Balan style blouse, or when she says “Bhaiyya front deep chahiye. But not that deep ok?”. He knows the contours of her upper body better than her boy friend and he is ready to make alterations to her heart’s desire. He is true to his words when he says he will give her the blouse on Saturday and he never messes with her cup size. He knows when she has gained a couple of kilos and silently increases the length of the blouse to cover up her peeping back tire. He should be declared an Indian Super hero.

I wore my new tailor’s creation to a wedding recently. A friend asked, “Kahan se silwaya?”. I flushed a bit, looked at mother while replying, “Yahan ka nahi hai. He belongs to my village. I got this stitched when I went home.”

I blame it on Muliebrity!

P.S- I am not dead. :) 

Friday, 26 December 2014


So, I love chocolates and anything or anyone who smells like one. A few months back a friend of mine gave me a box and told me that inside it were some bars of soap. Now this made me furious. Why would anyone give someone soap unless they think that the person cannot afford to buy one from the local supermarket because of which his/her personal hygiene has been compromised. But then I opened the tiny box it came in and was immediately compelled to dig my teeth into a divine bar of soap. It was the ‘Chocolate Crème Silk’ soap by ‘Gia Bath And Body Works’.  Ladies and Gentlemen, GAYATRI BROWN made me eat soap!!

Gayatri Brown is professionally a makeup artist, celebrity stylist, cosmetic formulator and a gourmet artisan soap maker. Fancy eh?! She is personally an amazing person and a mother of an equally amazing little girl named Georgia, who was the inspiration behind the brand name ‘GIA BATH AND BODY WORKS’.

Disturbed by the amount of chemicals that the skin care products in the market contained, Gayatri decided to launch her brand of skin care products that were untouched by any harmful chemicals. Handcrafted with love, her products contain no SLS, SLES, hardeners or preservatives, but are instead packed with liquid silk, fresh cream, sweet almond, cocoa, jojoba, avocado, shea butter, virgin olive oil and other such delicious ingredients.

Since Gayatri specializes in Gourmet Artisan bath and body products, where her soaps resemble a pastry, a cake slice or even a cupcake, I won’t blame you if you actually lick it or eat it. They smell irresistibly good, feel good, taste good and are suitable for all kinds of skin type. She also makes shower gels, body butter, perfumes, body mist and body polishing scrubs, all of which are made in a smoke free, pet free and a germ free environment that is her home kitchen. How cool is that?!

Now I have a problem. If I really like something, I keep recommending it to others till they actually try it out and eventually fall in love with it. Since I am addicted to this particular brand, I have been off late recommending it to almost everyone who I believe takes a bath. Gayatri stepped in and decided to help me by generously agreeing for a Giveaway.

You have got to participate and support!


1st PRIZE-  Gia Bath and Body Works gift hamper worth Rs.1500/-
2nd PRIZE - Gia Bath and Body Works gift hamper worth Rs 1000/-
2 winners, 2 humble prizes

Now participate in the giveaway already! For Indian residents only, but if you have an Indian address where we can possibly ship these goodies, hop in!


GIVEAWAY STARTS TODAY, 26th December, 2014 and ends on 6th January, 2015. Support!!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Friday, 19 December 2014

An Ode To The Indian Toilet...

Dear Indian Toilet,

Nothing screamed of your slow demise more than the Harpic advertisement, where you were heartlessly replaced by your western counterpart. Renovation after renovation, you were destroyed, only to survive in areas that were yet to be touched by westernization and joint problems. In a world where everyone and everything pretends to be urban and red carpet, you have become a symbol of rural living. But I shall miss you.

You my friend taught me my first and only known yoga pose, Malasana. You made me squat before squatting became mainstream. You would be surprised to read this but you also taught me the art of meditation. You see, with you I only had the option of staring at the opposite wall or the ant steadfastly walking on the handle of the red bucket. Sometimes I would work on my predilection for peeling the paint off the opposite wall by counting the numerous bindis my mother had left on the washbasin mirror, permanently stuck because she found them too unhygienic to be used again. Our romance was always interrupted by the numbness creeping into my feet, forcing me to leave you temporarily. But you knew, I would always come back.

I still remember the day those men came to my house. We already had an English version of you on the first floor of our place, rarely used because we all loved you. But my grandfather was 78 and you knew that he couldn’t garner enough flexibility to use you. He needed a seat, which the western toilet with its ceramic throne kindly provided. Your demise was inevitable but let me tell you something; you served us well my friend.

You are well aware that innovations make life easy and I know that you would scream “traitor!!”, but I have to tell you that it did not take time for me to fall in love with your western avatar.  On the day following a strenuous workout at the gym, I didn’t have to scream out a cuss word or two every time I had to attend the nature’s call because unlike you, the western toilet understood my limitations. But as much as there are pros to something, there are cons. The western toilet has sprouted my yearning for extra entertainment like replying to important mails through phone, watching viral YouTube videos or stalking the ex, which wasn’t possible with you because all available energy was utilized by me towards keeping myself from falling into you.

You might be thinking, why a letter now? Well, I was forced to squat yesterday while fitting accessories on the lowest branch of my Christmas tree and guess what, I fell backwards. Wouldn’t have happened, had I stayed loyal to you.

Until we meet again (courtesy-Indian railways).

Your once devoted user.

P.S- I know that blogging works on a give and take basis. I also know that I haven't stalked other blogs for long, owing to being a junior lawyers who gets excited at the mere mention of the word 'sleep'. I humbly apologize. I shall stalk you soon! 

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

I am a winner.I don't even lose weight.

I need to lose weight. The mirror in my bedroom seems to have a concave surface every time I look at it. This reader’s digest with its every damn issue wants me to lose weight. I am so desperate!

Ok, enough, I will start today. I will start my day with a glass of warm lemon water in the morning with a drop of honey in it. Priyanka told me that this chick from college who resembled a vermicelli strand, used to drink boiling hot water after every meal. Helps with the digestion she said. I will also drink boiling hot water. I have heard that lemon water also helps you pass the stool easier. Stool! What a funny word. A stool also means a small bench and it also means faeces. Faeces, even that is a funny word. Reminds me of the cosmetic brand Faces. Boiling water after every meal it is!

I will start working out in the morning. 30 minutes on the elliptical, 15 minutes on the treadmill and some floor exercises, that would be enough to chisel my body to perfection. Actually, I have heard that Jillian Michaels has this video online called the ‘30 Day Shred’ which is an exercise video of 20 minutes but it is said to kick ass. Last time I saw her video, she claimed that giving her 20 minutes is equivalent to ‘spending hours of phonying at the gym’. I will give her my 20 minutes. She is so hot! Lesbians are hot, except those who pretend to be men, like the ones they show in ‘Orange is the new black’. 20 minutes I will give her, every morning. But I have to be at work 9 am and this is when I don’t have a case to attend. Stupid law! Why did I become a lawyer? Ok, I will wake up at 5 am and workout or maybe I will work out after work because then I won’t have that morning ugly face which needs time to fix. Also, because of the food I ate since morning, I would be having high energy levels. Evening workout it is!

Or maybe, I should just diet. I will start with some cornflakes in the morning. Deepika Padukone feels special after having cornflakes. So, what if I don’t drink milk? I will just have cornflakes dry, pretending that it is Bhel Puri. I will not eat the snacks that the cycle chai wala gets us at work. Also, two chappatis in the afternoon for lunch and two cups of green tea throughout the day. I hate green tea! Ok, I will let it cool down completely and gulp it down in one go. I even read somewhere that cold green tea has more anti-oxidants than hot green tea. My problem is solved. I eat so much at night. I will skip dinner. Actually, I won’t eat anything after 6 pm. In that book ‘Lose weight and not your mind’ the author said that your stomach gets sleepy and that it’s at its best between 7 am -10 am. Oh! The book's name was ‘Don’t lose your mind, Lose your weight.’ Maybe I will follow the reverse diet! Have heavy breakfast, comparatively less heavy lunch and little dinner. May be I will just have fruits at night. There is an apple lying in the fridge.

Fridge. There is ice-cream in the fridge.

P.S- I am in the ‘last line’ stage. Everyday
P.P.S- I missed blogging. Lawyering is keeping me on my toes. So many blogs to read!

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

Just another woman's take on 'Kiss of Love'...

So suddenly out of nowhere,  kissing in public makes you a rebel, an activist against moral policing. It makes you the flag bearer of justice and a soldier of free living. The youth of India want to kiss.

It all started when a clueless political party decided to vandalize an uptown café in Calicut, because a news report proclaimed that immoral activities in the form of kissing and hugging was happening inside.  Angered by the depravity that the political party was indulging in, a group of young bloods decided to launch a drive against such moral policing.  Thus, ‘KISS OF LOVE’ was born and now everyone wants to kiss their way to a massive social reform.

Now would I kiss in public? Ok, let me rephrase this. Would I as a woman, have the audacity to smooch the one I like, before the lovely audience that the citizens of my country make? Would I ???  NO, and it is not because I hate kissing (don’t be obtuse) or because I have truckloads of respect for our sanskaar and sabhyata. It is just that I don’t think that our country is mentally developed enough to accept public display of affection.

Let us for a minute imagine a scene. You and the one you currently love just got out after enjoying a lovely meal at the restaurant that you frequent. Everything has been perfect and the day is beautiful. The gentle whirling of the wind suddenly sounds like a John Mayer track and you two are having that moment which just has to be made better with a kiss. And Kiss you do. Kiss you do, a little afraid that your relatives might be around somewhere . Kiss you do, as aunties and uncles of your colony pass by. Kiss you do, as a lone auto driver stares on and kiss you do, as a biker records a video of you smooching, for his own private enjoyment later that night. Now, tell me, was the risk worth it?

I was not aware of the ‘Kiss of Love’ event until one of my colleagues told me about it. “Hey, guess what? People are going to gather at Marine drive on 2nd November and kiss. They are saying that it is some kind of a protest against moral policing” she said, showing me the Facebook page of the event, which had by then crossed 60000 likes, with around 7000 declaring that they will be a part of this drive. We laughed about it, imagining Emraan Hashmi style kissing happening outside the TV box, in our own Marine drive.  In a country that has redefined porn to include MMS of a woman sleeping in a public transport bus, unaware that her saree is innocently displaying her navel, much to the pleasure of the onlookers; we were planning a kiss protest, which can easily be mistaken for a Guinness book of world record attempt.

The problem does not lie in a few politicians who have taken up moral policing as their latest political propaganda. The problem lies in all of us. We perceive a kiss as the initiation of foreplay, a sexual stimulation and not as a way of displaying love or affection. A kiss according to us, has more to do with the fire in the loins than the spark in the heart. We are structured to think that way, thanks to the years of declaring everything including love, a taboo. We as a country, need to change.

They share images of the sculptures in Khajuraho, validating that India is the land of Kamasutra and that kiss is part of our sexy culture. They say that we live in a society where hatred in displayed publicly and crimes happen in broad daylight. They say that if hate is publicly allowed, why not love? They even seriously point out that kissing is their fundamental right, part of their liberty. It is all very true, but we should also remind ourselves that we have bigger problems to counter than the denial of street kissing.

The kiss of love drive that happened in a quaint little town in Kerala, has taken over the country by storm. Every college is suddenly flexing a muscle and hosting a kissing party. All in the name of social reform. But the true intention behind it is lost. Moral policing has taken a back seat. It has become more of a comical outburst than a fight. The ‘Kiss of Love’ event that happened in my city, saw only a handful of protesters, but a tsunami of men who had come to watch the live lip-lock ceremony.

So, do I want to kiss before an audience like that? I don’t. Do you?

P.S- Not every city in our country is metropolitan .Not everyone is modern.
P.P.S- Let me ask you something?Would the protest against moral policing have received such publicity, had it been a candle march  instead of a kiss drive?