WELCOME TO TROPHYCUS....

Once upon a time, in a land that is your present, there existed a kingdom.  A kingdom named ‘Trophycus’. In that kingdom, according to the revered yet secretive laws of the land, the status of a plebeian was decided based on the number of trophies his family could garner and showcase in their cemented abode. The social acceptability, repute and honour of the ‘Trophycus’ clan, depended solely on the quantity of trophies glistening in their shelves. I belong to ‘Trophycus’.

Like every other house, our house too had a main room or as I call it, the drawing room. The drawing room had a big diwan strategically placed to get the best view of the television, a brown sofa, two nilkamal chairs and one big cabinet. A big cabinet of trophies, big and small. Being the only child in the family till the age of 8, the task was bestowed upon me to fill up the shelves with the fruits of my victories. The cabinet was divided ‘generation’ wise. The lowest storey held the trophies and medals that my grandfather won. Trophies so old, that they resembled the artefacts collected from a lost ship. The latest addition and the only shining piece was the medal he won for winning a game of carrom in his company’s anniversary celebration in 1981.  The next row, contained the metallic accolades that my father and his two siblings managed to acquire. Trophies ranging from ‘Best Student M.Sc (Physics)’ to ‘2^rd Prize Javelin throw’ to even ‘Complimentary prize Fashion Show Year 1983’ were all part of this row. The above mentioned three, won by my father. I was a proud daughter who had to accomplish a colossal feat and usurp the record maintained by my father.  

When I was born, the top shelf was cleaned and the show pieces that had been a substitute till now were removed, except for the giant face of  Kathakali because you are not a Malayalee family, until you have one of those on your shelf. I was the rightful heir of that tier and I had been assigned the mammoth task of filling it up. Fill, I did!

The little me participated in everything. Patriotic song competitions, lemon & spoon race, handwriting competitions, essay writing (mostly written by my delegate Dad) and the horrific ‘best out of waste’ competitions were all participated in. Some were won and many were lost, but the mania for trophy never stopped. I even joined a French class in 5^th grade, imagining myself receiving a trophy at the end of the 6 month course at ‘Alliance Francaise de Bhopal’. Buggers gave me an odd looking certificate. The essay competition on the importance of ‘ZERO’ organized by the Lions club where everyone looked quite human, was also won, but it won me some cash. Who wants cash? Let’s talk about trophy!  

 

That is why I love ‘Bhopal Malayalee Association’ where fellow malayalees understood the importance of trophies on the shelf and where even a participation rendered you a medal or a cup that you could proudly take home to your beloved drawing room trophy cabinet. They understood my true intentions. My all time favourite is the dolphin shaped trophy and the three hundred rupees they gave me for getting a full house in Tambola .

 

And then it all went downhill. During my 3^rd year at Law school, when I was states away from my shelf of accolades, we sold our ancestral house. So, we sold our old house and moved to a new one. A new one with no shelf in the drawing room. No place to showcase my genius in the form of golden trophies and silver medals. The metal prizes of three generations sat orphaned inside cardboard boxes, with no room for future accommodation. I still remember that dreadful night in 2012 when a call was received my me, where the person on the other side of the receiver sought my permission to sell the trophies to a local kabadi wala who was offering us five notes of hundred for three boxes of trophies. 500 rupees for 3 generations of talent. I mumbled a faint OK and kept the receiver, welcoming a sleepless night ahead. That was the end of an era.

 

So, you ask me, why do I write of it now. Well, the place I stay in currently, has a shelf. A shelf where my little 7 yr old cousin keeps her Barbies and fairytale books.

And It aches!

 

P.S- I am extremely homesick. You should meet my family. They are amazing. :)

 

PERIOD POPULARITY....

“She got the period. She told me herself. She got the period!!!! “ and with those words I became the most popular girl of junior high.

I was in 6^th grade when I got welcomed to the kingdom of muliebrity. Panties replaced bloomers and suddenly I was a woman!! My mother wept while my father fed me sweets and I was told that I am now a woman! I was sure I had cancer and I would be dead soon. Turns out, I am still alive.

I went to school and told my best friend I have caught the Period disease. Period, the existence of which was only a rumour till now, was suddenly a fact and I was the discoverer. I was the first to get the Stayfree disease.

The kids started pouring around me with doubts regarding the ‘Period’. Questions ranged from “Will you have the breasts now?”, “Why don’t I get the Periods? Am I a man?” to even “Is the period blue in color like in the Whisper Ad?”. I answered all of them diligently and patiently. A girl who was made fun of because of her differently coloured eyes was suddenly on the spotlight. Happy Period indeed it was! I felt like a war hero who survived a battle and was surrounded by people who needed the story!

I also was the drug  pad lord, forever equipped with a pad in my bag lest some other kid caught ‘the period’ and I also gave a few pieces to those who were curious to see the thing. I exchanged it for a ball point pen. Rotomac only.

During those days, especially since I was in a convent school, sex ed classes were held now and then. For the first time, the 6^th grade students were invited to hear the seminar on 'The Butterfly Story-THE PROCESS OF A GIRL BECOMING A WOMAN'. The counselor called the oldest teacher of our school to wear a chart around her neck that showed the drawing of female body parts. There was our aged teacher with dye stains on her forehead standing on the podium, wearing a chart that depicted the insides of a woman’s private parts.  While the counselor lectured, all my classmates looked at me as if I was the dead body on the autopsy table and the counselor was the doctor dissecting my very existence. I was the only butterfly between a pack of caterpillars. I smirked and nodded my head to display my superiority, while the other kids looked at me with awe. I was the Period girl.

But with time everyone got their period and suddenly the spotlight was no more on me. I was now just one among them. The girl who sits on the third bench. The weird eye color girl.

SIGH! How life snatches away your crown and pushes you back to normalcy.

Maybe menopause will make me famous again. That is my only hope.

P.S- WEIRD MODE ON..

GOOD IN BED !!

Not boasting, but I am extremely good in bed. To be quite frank, I am amazing in bed. There have been occasions that go beyond what my fingers can count, where I have been told about my approach in bed by many men and women, men mostly minors.

They love me and want to sleep with me. They play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to sleep with me, defeat rarely accepted with grace. I am the mistress of their sleep. I can prove it to you. 

My Aunt who happens to be a tour coordinator, had to leave her daughter under my careless supervision for 5 days while she was out there collecting sea shells in the beaches of Pattaya. The cousin, a 7 yr old kid, knew that I was no good and we both had that hypothetical agreement going on, whereby we will not cross each other’s way. She was a good child except during the night. She demanded princess tales and all I could give her were futile attempts of narrating the tales of Julius Caesar. She wanted Lullabies and all I awarded her were songs of Slipknot. In the end, a consensus was reached which was based on the principle that she would be the story teller and I would be the one to sleep. I did sleep off and she too did after tucking me in.

Yesterday, the Aunt returned and somewhere down the chain of conversation, she asked her kid if she had any trouble sleeping. To this the little one replied “No problem Amma. Chechi is great in bed”.

So there you have it, one more person bluntly stating how amazing I am indeed in bed. I do not kick off the pillows or pull the covers off you and heck I never ever have to make my bed! I do not move like the needle of a clock during sleep and my approach is like that of Count Dracula taking a nap in his coffin. I sleep straight, positioning the hands neatly on my chest and legs so placed, that they could humiliate a soldier standing in attention. I stay this way till the moment I wake up. I take a defined and moderate space in bed to sleep, never moving an inch and this is why everyone loves to sleep with me.

Be it some Family wedding where the house is swarming with unwanted relatives, start 9 pm, the game of who gets to sleep with me begins. Mothers inadvertently love making their kids sleep with me. Farting aunties love to sleep with me. They love me!

I don’t think I am a vixen in bed. Actually, I am the Count Dracula himself in bed.

What about you? Are you as good in bed as I am? I don’t think so.

P.S- I think I need to meet my cousin's English teacher. 

ANTI- RAPE MAKEUP.

Be it the internet, television, newspaper or even the dying radio, they are all flooded with news regarding rapes. Statistics regarding rape, documentaries about rape survivors, updates on candle light march against rape, uproar against rape and blaming the government for rape, are what we feed our system with on a daily basis. More than the uproar against rape, we are more bombarded these days with the justifications for rape. How women act like a catalyst and how she attracts an Iron filled rapist like a magnet. While a Maharashtra state women’s commissionmember states that a woman’s clothes, her behaviour and her presence at inappropriate places causes rape, another ex Mumbai police commissioner confirms that countries with sex education in their curriculum have an increased number of crimes against women. Then there is a Rajasthan lawmaker demanding ban on skirts as school uniform to keep girls away from the ‘lustful gazes’ of men and there is also a Khap Panchayat leader who vouches that Chowmein causes rape. Since we have successfully blamed a woman for her lustful gaze, her short skirt, her inclination towards wearing jeans, towards owning a mobile phone and on loitering around the city with the man she loves, it is only but fair to cover a topic that has been left unattended. A woman’s makeup, because in case you did not know, they have even brought out an anti rape underwear.

It is only but reasonable to now believe that even a woman’s makeup causes rape. It could be the smokey eyes or those lip stains or even that winged eyeliner, you never know what could be the reason behind your impending doom. So before you make such a catastrophic mistake, I take it upon me as my moral responsibility to introduce you to an ‘Anti-Rape Makeup’.

Start with a clean face because apparently, only women with dirty and loose character get raped. Thus, always clean your face so that it reflects your clean character. No excuses there. Now that you have a clean soul, follow the below steps.

Primer- Many women forget to apply primer before layering their face with makeup and this has been the main cause of rape. A primer evens out the skin tone, minimizes pores and provides a smooth base for all your makeup. Without a primer, your makeup will wash away in a matter of few hours, thus exposing the real you. Exposing or Nangapan causes rape.

Foundation- Invest on a good foundation that matches your skin tone. Manohar Lal Sharma, the lawyer who represented the Delhi rape case accused, claims that ‘Even an underworld don would not like to touch a girl with respect’. Having a strong foundation in life brings respect. So apply a good thick layer of foundation. I use Revlon Colour Stay in Natural Tan.

Concealer- Conceal everything you possibly can. Blemish, dark circles, hyper pigmentation and even moles, cover it all. Cover everything that sets you apart and hide everything including your basic wishes or dreams, because yet again, exposing causes rape. Women without concealer get raped. Use a waterproof concealer and I recommend Chambor Radiant Touch up concealer.

Blush- Select your blush carefully. Skip those common colours like Peach, Coral, Pink or Brick Red and go for deep colours like Black or Dung green. Apply a generous layer of this dark blush on your cheeks since this will make you look like a soldier camouflaging his way through the battle ground. Stepping out of your place like a Kargil soldier will prevent rape. I am still on the search for a dung green blush. Lakme needs to come up with that.

Lipstick- Nude lipsticks are for western women. We as protectors of Indian culture should abhor nude lipsticks. Any form of nudity can cause rape including going nude on the lips. You could choose a bright button red, saffron, white or blue lipstick since it might remind the rapist of a political party and thus rescue you from rape.

Eyeliner and Mascara- Tightline and waterline your eyes. You need to set and mark the boundaries of your eyes because a Madhya Pradesh minister once said ‘Only when Sitaji crossed the Lakshman rekha, she was kidnapped by Ravan. If Sitaji crosses the Lakshman rekha, then ‘Sitaharan’ is bound to happen as Ravans are  out there.’ So use your eyeliner diligently and mark your boundaries. Use your favourite mascara to enhance the fences on your boundaries. I use Maybelline Colossal Kajal and Rimmel London The Max Volume Mascara.

Now that you have successfully applied the ‘Anti Rape Makeup’, takes a tissue and do the next best thing you can do and that is to wipe it all off. Because if women need an Anti rape makeup, men need an Anti rape thought process. If women need an anti rape underwear, men require an anti rape penis binder. If women need to forgo skirts to escape rape, men need to start wearing high moral standards. Women cannot escape rape until men allow them to.

I am not saying that the makeup I recommended won’t work. All I am saying is, pepper spray is still your best friend. But in case someone does carry out an attempt to rape you, take the good God’s name and hold the hand of perpetrator and say ‘I consider you as my brother’, because according to a self proclaimed Godman, this will work just fine.

Be safe. Initiate a trip back to Venus..

Image Courtesy- GOOGLE OF COURSE. 

TO SPANK OR NOT TO SPANK...

Yesterday my Aunt barged into our place infuriated. It is not every day that you get to see a woman as calm and composed as her, all red and fuming. Without as much as a warning, she began pacing on the verandah mumbling “How can they hit their child. He just broke a few glasses. Kids do that! Why would she hit him! My own friend hitting her child!” And in my mind, this was going on, “Why is she making such a fuss? The kid deserved a tiny hit”.

I was hit a few times as a child and to be quite frank, I totally deserved every single hit. Whatever I am today are due to those fantastic hits.  My Dad never hit me on my face but regularly gave me a spank or two on my hands or my feet while my mother believed in punishing me by pinching me below my arms. I know I deserved every single hit. They were painful but never over the top brutal and only hands were used in the process. No, this did not make me hate my parents or be afraid of them. They knew their limits.

I was a bad child. From hanging on to my father’s foot until he got me a Cadbury’s lollipop, to threatening other kids that my father would hang them on the ceiling fan while I switch it on, to making a picture of  a mango when asked to draw a globe, I had a lot of issues. I was not someone who listened to words of wisdom and I was certainly someone who loved making faces every single time someone asked me to not to litter the place with pieces of paper. I was a nightmare and my mother still reminds me of it. I was a mess and the only language that got communicated to me was a little spanking now and then. They tried everything. The made me go to my room and stay put all day, only to find the walls used as a slate to draw figures that looked demonic. They reprimanded me by taking my toy truck away, only to find me play with a toy that my parents do not remember buying me. Turns out, I was into childhood kleptomania restricted to toys and teddy bears. I was the child every couple prayed against.

I remember how once I asked my mom to make me an Omelette, an omelette that was as thin as paper because it reminded me of Paper Dosa. My mother tried, only to find me rejecting the 5 omelettes she made. My Dad came and awarded me one good smack on my buttocks and then asked my mom to make me another omelette. I don’t know if it was paper thin but I do remember eating it. It was bloody tasty! I can still remember the day when my Dad ran behind me in his lungi and Baniyan until I somehow managed to wriggle under the bed but got stuck midway because of my monstrous belly. The spank on my bum could have been mistaken as someone playing a congo. That incident gave me a good handwriting. Don’t ask me how.

But hey, don’t you dare call my parents monsters. They never hit without purpose and their hits were not the kind that would leave massive marks. Also, all the spankings were forgiven when my Daddy would later take me, on his white vespa, to have a ‘Top N Town’ Cornetto Ice-cream in Butterscotch flavour. Thus, spanking also made me go fat.

There is nothing wrong in spanking your child now and then. I have nothing but respect if your child was born as someone who weeps just by a slight rise in your tone but I was not that kind. I was a problem child, who always brought out a defensive smirk on my face whenever I was scolded. Who wouldn’t want to spank that!

I am not promoting violence here or abusing your children to the point of brutality. I know people who use iron box, belts and chairs to hit their little ones and these people need to be behind bars. But for all the others, who are waiting for their kids to outgrow their bad behaviour with age or to build a character on their own, while they try in vain to change them words, my answer is ‘SPANK THEM’, but never too hard. Cruelty should not be seen as a path towards disciplining your child. 

My brother was never hit because he was the kind of kid who would cry buckets on receiving just a scornful look from my Dad. If your child is like that, you my dear are the chosen one.

But if your child is like what I used to be, you now know what to do!

P.S- This is just a personal blog. Expect nothing. I have no creative writing skills. J

SAYING BYE A LOT !!!

The first thing an Indian parent usually teaches his/her child is to shake his hand and say bye. ‘Bye Bolo Beta Bye!’ they tell him, as the confused kid takes an initiative to move his hand in a windshield wiper motion only to be amazed by the applaud that his act receives. The kid would not even as much as smile at you, yet because of the parental tuning, he inadvertently gives you a bye. Since then the kid carried into his adulthood, his perennial dedication to saying ‘Bye’.

Now think about this, you drop in to visit someone you know. The welcome and the ‘hello’ is always cordial, pleasing and definitely not overdone. Just letting you know that they are happy to see you after long. Now compare this warmth with the one that you receive while you leave. The byes start as soon as your buttocks leave the couch all the way till half a kilometer from their place. Small waves, big waves, tired waves, sleepy waves, just-for-the-heck-of-it waves, they give it all to you and they expect you to wave out of the car window, sometimes even jutting your head out, till their eyesight blurs. I do not understand this stuff.

My grandmother believes in crying for the whole community. I think she finds it inauspicious and inconsiderate to wave someone goodbye without her eyes brimming like the Seine river. There has to be emotions attached to every goodbye even if she doesn't know the person who visited. What she calls as acts of benevolent sentiment, might look to other’s as her cry for help, indirectly trying to let them know that we practice third degree torture on her. So much for bidding someone the good old goodbye.

Few days back, a family friend dropped by and just like every other family friend, he took over the television and stayed put on the couch till late evening. Anyone who tells someone to ‘consider this as your place’ was definitely trying to be Chandler Bing. Finally in the evening he decided to leave and my parents started their ‘Bye’ routine. “Bye! Phirse Aayiyega” my dad lies, while my mother churns out the “Bye!Milke bahut accha laga” as my grandmother looks straight up at the ceiling fan without as much as blinking in an attempt to bring out tears. As I stood simply smiling at the man finally leaving, with my right hand cautiously reaching towards the television remote, my Dad suddenly demanded “Bye bolo ungil ko!”, totally ignoring the fact that I am nearing my 25^th year of existence. The man stepped out and my family kept on gargling on ‘bye’ until he was securely inside the confines of his Hyundai Eon. We continued to stand at the door waiting for him to start the ignition, when he decided to pick up a call. As my legs started the numbing game, I finally took the initiative to close the door and just then my Mother screamed “How can you close the door!!! Uncle is yet to drive away.” The door remained open till the man ultimately decided to keep the phone down and leave, but not until he was awarded a fresh set of whimsical ‘Byes’. The night was spent sleepless, thanks to the mosquitoes that had utilized the opportunity fruitfully.

I understand the emotions attached while bidding someone dear and near a temporary bye. We as Indians even believe in following our family member till the gate, even if he/she is just going to the local dispensary to as much as buy a pair of strepsils. But I do not understand this everlasting ‘bye’ that we render to someone who is just an acquaintance. The straining of the neck out of the car and stretching out your hand, just for some meaningless bye byes.

You might say that we are a hospitable bunch of people. But if you think about it, it simply looks like you are rejoicing over someone’s departure evidently more than their arrival. Atleast try not to make your joy so evident.

So if because of some catastrophic reason I decide to visit you, just give me a single bye and a kind nod. Don’t wait for me to cross the boundaries of your myopic eyesight to close the gates and go back inside.

But if you really want to go an extra mile, you can choose to do this.....

IMAGE COURTESY- happilyunmarried.com and proper utilization of Google. 

An Open Letter to My 16 year old Self.....

Dear 16 year old me,

Look, it’s your future self — 8 years in the future, to be exact. I am a lawyer now and not a hippie as you are planning to be. I am still cool and to tell you the truth, life is much cooler than you think it is but kid, you shall discover all that eventually.

I have a few things I should tell you and I know that it might prick your heart, but for the sake of self salvation I think I owe you a few pointers towards the right direction.

I know that you are not happy with yourself. Let us just put out in the open the insecurities you are battling with currently. You have an ugly hairstyle which your mother plaits and ribbons everyday with black, as you step out to school. Your Gandhi style spectacles and bushy eyebrows are also a cause of major concern as well as your ever expanding waist line. But Honey, I have a piece of advice for you. You will not always be like this. Stop fretting over how you look and start appreciating what you are. You are a good singer and you have friends who have been with you since kindergarten. That is a great achievement.

I know that right now you are addicted to Yahoo messenger which by the way would be the root cause behind your fucked up board percentage. I know how you get a high by simply getting into chat rooms and fighting with every random bloke you can find. This shall also be the place where you learn the word ‘Nincompoop’ which by the way would be the only addition to your English vocabulary that Yahoo messenger will ever make. You think that all this makes you cool. Well in all honesty, you are being a complete loser and you are just wasting your time, which you shall regret the moment you step out of the examination hall. Also ‘spicy_chick_here’ is a really bad username and has sexual innuendos that you ignorantly overlook. 

Stop praying to the good Lord to add some spice to your stale existence. I am suffering because of it right now as I am living a life so spicy that it burns during my morning toilet episodes. Enjoy the boring, stale, Maggi filled lifestyle that you have because once you reach where I am right now, life will keep you on your toes. Also stop going to the British library only to read authors that deal majorly with explicit content. You will get to experience the real stuff later in life so hold on your horses and be a good girl. Life is great!

Your parents are not your enemies so kid, you better listen to them! When they tell you not to take the bike to school, acknowledge their commands because if you had, I would not have had this scar on my right ankle. Being a continuous rebel for no cause whatsoever, is not a wise thing to do.

Tell our mom to let you sleep alone in a room because if you don’t start sleeping alone now, you will be spending 5 years of your law school sleeping in the hostel room every night with the lights on and a conglomeration of Jesus and Krishna idols happening beneath your pillow. Be a little strong.

This year you shall start your first ever blog on rediff and the title of your first post shall be ‘INDIAN MOTHERS- THE BIGGEST SPIES’. Of course you would delete the blog after a few months and you will do that for good!

I want to prepare you for your life ahead. I want to tell you to not accept any man as your boyfriend just because you entered College and having a boyfriend was like owning a purple Unicorn. Your first relationship is going to suck real bad but you would dump him over the phone while pushing French Fries down your Oesophagus. That is not love.  But hold on, Love shall happen to you and girl, you shall be blessed indeed!

I am not like you, yet I am so much like you. I have a better hairstyle and I no more wear glasses. I have learnt the art of applying makeup and I have reduced a considerable amount of weight, though the battle still continues. I am much for confident and happier than you are and this should make you happy because a few years down the lane, you would be me and you are going to love being me.

I know that you are getting bored, so let me tell you that you have a bright future ahead. Though I don’t know where life would lead me, I do know that you are walking on the right path, making a few innocent mistakes while on the go.

So believe in yourself kid and love yourself more, because you are precious to me. Also you are way cooler than you think you are.

Love,

24 year Old You.

P.S- Have you written a letter like this to your old self? 

P.P.S- Check out FOODPANDA? You can order food Online, provided it covers the city you belong to!!! Check them out  HERE

Image Courtesy- Maharishi Google