DUCK-FACE CULTURE.....

I think I am getting old. Old enough to start my conversations with “Humare Zamaane Mein” and old enough to fret about generation gap.  I am feeling old at the age of 24.

Yesterday was Holi and while I was working, the entire India celebrated it with the sole intention of updating the photos of their colourful self on Facebook and Instagram. To denote it with an on-the-spot made statistic, 99.99% people did not even know the story behind the festival. Anyway, I rushed back home after work to be greeted by my little 7 yr old cousin who looked like someone had mistaken her to be a pen and had dipped her in an ink bottle. I smiled as she asked me to click a photo of her and her other sinister friends. As soon as I raised the camera to click, all of them jutted out their waist to a specific angle, kept their hands on their hips, looked at the camera in a quizzical manner and made a duck face. I kept the camera down and left.

For those who live under a rock, ‘Duck-face’ according to Urban dictionary means “ the face made if you push your lips together in a combination of a pout and a pucker, giving the impression you have larger cheekbones and bigger lips.”

But a better definition would be “the grotesque expression made by stupid people in a vain attempt to appear sexually promiscuous.”

I remember how as a kid and during my teenage years, posing for photos meant three things. Either making a V for Vagina sign, or making a sign that we saw many rock stars make in MTV or giving each other finger horns. Half of my photos consisted of me with finger horns.  I was happy with finger horns and Vagina V. The only expression we ever attempted on our face apart from forceful smiles, was the ‘Attitude’ look which 9 out of 10 times made me look like I was suffering from constipation.

What does a duck face imply? I have finally shortlisted four answers for this-

1) Look at me, I am a sexually charged object and I know you want me!

2) I am on a medication that makes my facial tissue suffer from spasms.

3) I am kissing a ghost and obviously you cannot see him.

4) Donald Duck was a huge success. I love Donald Duck.

As I log into Facebook, I am bombarded with the photos of my Juniors pouting beside the Baga beach in Goa, my friends pouting in front of a melting ice-cream, my best friend pouting before the statue of Lord Ganesha at Siddhivinayak Temple and my far off relative Mrs.Susheela attempting a duck face that makes her look like she took this selfie seconds before her trip to the loo to barf her intestines out.

HERE A POUT, THERE A POUT, EVERYWHERE A POUT POUT.

It needs to stop!

This reminds me of my great-grandmother who was so forgetful that she used to throw away the dentures we bought her. Consequently, we stopped buying her dentures and started feeding her with manually mashed food. It was cute to watch her involuntarily pucker and pout as she ate a banana. That was the only duck face I will ever find adorable. God bless her soul.

I am a very calm person, per se. Even though I have this rage against the whole ‘duck-face’ culture on the rise, I still do not go around campaigning against it. I do not leave rude comments under pictures. I just ignore. But yesterday a friend of mine messaged me on Facebook to go check out her new profile picture and to comment underneath. So, as a good friend I went to her profile and was rewarded with a duck face. And just like a good friend would, I left a comment under the picture. “QUACK QUACK”

Of course she deleted the comment and isn't talking to me.

P.S- Selfies rule!

Image Courtesy- Tumblr

POLISHING SCHOOLS......

Have you heard about Polishing schools? The type of schools mostly for young women, that focuses on teaching etiquettes and cultural norms as a preparation for her entry into the adult society? Have you heard of such schools?

If you are a girl, with no reference to a particular age here, you are unknowingly a part of a finishing school. The home that you are born into is your finishing school while your entire family are the teachers. You do not enrol into this course because you are just born into it. Hell, you do not even pay for it. 

This finishing school that you are unwittingly a part of has only one course to offer. A course of an undetermined length preparing you for a hassle free, divorce free and domestic violence free marriage. Still do not get me?

Do you remember the age of 18 when you were just angry at everything and life just completely sucked? It still does, but that is not the point. Do you remember how you would be simply angry at your mother, your father, your dog, your tailor and even at Ramu Kaka the driver? Precisely everyone? And do you remember how your mother poked you and told you “With this behaviour, if you are married off to another house, you would probably be thrown out by your in laws.”

Do you remember how you hate having rice, especially the big fat south Indian rice and you declare that no matter what happens you would never consume that dreadful rice? Do you remember how your grandmother declared “What if you get married to a guy who lives on this big fat rice? What is he loves it so much that he mistakes it for oxygen. What will you do then? You must consume rice.”

Do you remember how this one time your family was invited for dinner by someone whose name you constantly forget and they served you Malai Kofta, Paneer bhurjee, Dahi Vada and how you bluntly told them that you hate milk products? Do you remember how later that day your grandfather frowned at you and told you how you shouldn’t be so stubborn because your food habits will change according to the family you marry into?

Of course you don’t remember any of this, because all that happened with me.

And I say “to hell with this finishing school”. Why would you marry into a family that cannot accept you with your anger, stubbornness, your outspoken attitude and decides to throw you out? Why should you have rice because your guy likes to stuff himself with big fat rice? Let him have his rice, I will have my prized Chappathi. Why should I start drinking milk because the family I might marry into has a herd of cows in their backyard? Let them drink it all. Good for them! Why should I change?

Adapting to a new family and to a new phase of life is nice. But a forceful change that rips out your individuality and your personal choice is not a wise thing to do. And besides isn’t marriage a two way commitment?  Let the man throw away his anger, his rice porn and become anti-lacto. Then I would call it an equal world.

Because I am not a Goat, Mister! You cannot give me away and pray that they like my make. I am a Tigress. I mark my territory Sir!!

P.S- I shall die a spinster. Thank you!

P.P.S- Appeared in court as a Lawyer for the first time today. Felt good being the youngest around. Consumer Court Case.

THE UN-PAMPERED CHILD....

I feel like Fiona stuck inside a Barbie house. Or better still, Fiona dressed as Santa Claus, stuck inside a Barbie house. Clad in my 2 year old Red striped pajamas and a fading Red t-shirt, I feel ugly sitting inside this Barbie house. What Barbie house you ask me.

I am currently staying with my maternal uncle, his wife, my niece and my maternal grandparents, because the Chillar in my lady wallet isn’t fancy enough to let me afford a place on my own. Besides I recently started working so my bank account is still fighting cob webs. Now conforming to the traditional Indian forced hospitality, my niece has been kicked out of her Barbie den and this Fiona has been allowed to sleep on the gigantic Barbie bed, keep her clothes in a pink wardrobe, wake up to an alarm clock shaped as a Barbie head and write this post in a room filled with posters of Snow White, Cinderella, Red Riding Hood and the many other fancy named plastic bimbos. Even the bathroom curtain has princess posters with lace detailing, not to forget the Disney Princess glowing stickers stuck on the ceiling with the thin waisted, umbrella hipped babes looking down on me as I sleep. I absolutely detest it all.  

As an infant I never had a cradle. No fancy chimes to look at and make sounds. I used to sleep in a cloth crib made with my father’s old Lungi diligently tied to a hook originally meant for a ceiling fan. This same lungi used to come in handy while travelling in the second class coach of the train, for it was tied on the two opposite second berth railings with me being placed mid air. It was a mobile cradle. This kid also never had a room for herself, forget a themed room. This kid never had a Barbie doll.

I remember how I once saw my Nursery friend play with this gorgeous, unreal, pink haired Barbie doll. I also remember how I rushed home and demanded that I be promoted from stuffed sock bunnies with one eye missing to a frilled frock Barbie. I do remember how later that evening my father came home with a giant frizzy haired doll that would shut its monstrous eyes on being placed horizontally and yank it open when made to stand. While all the kids played kitchen set with their Barbies, I was home alone with my Bride of Chucky.

I never had a wardrobe I could call my own. I shared an old Godrej Almirah with my granny which she declared was too precious for her since it was passed down the generation line by her ancestors I don’t care about. I was the kid that was allowed to eat anything edible that fell on the ground because my mother confirmed that the floor was wiped clean yesterday. In short I was never pampered. Except for my childhood kleptomania where I stole stuffed toys and dolls from every house I visited, I was a fine child. No hard feelings against my family.

What I am trying to say is, it is not the theme based rooms that make a child. At the end of the day, sans the Barbies and sans the frilled princess curtains, I was always told I was loved. I was always showed that I was loved. Even while I looked like a suffocated zombie with no room to move my arms around in that Lungi crib, my mother sang for me. Hence, I never needed those colourful plastic chimes suiciding above my nose. I never had those cute pink trolleys which my mother could push around the shopping malls because I was the monkey child with her feet wrapped around her mother’s hip still being carried around like feather despite her whale weight.

And who knows what I would have turned into if I had a pink room with little princess styled mirror table and a fancy pink brush to comb my hair with. Who knows what I would have become if I had a collection of Barbie dolls and played kitty party with them? May be this blog would have been differently themed with “MY PINK UNICORN” being the name. May be it would have made me dress up like a girl and not like a confused transgender.

But hear me dear future child ‘o’ mine. Know that you shall never have any of the fancy stuffs that the world confirms too. Know that I won’t buy you a cradle. If you are a boy, know that I won’t get you toy trucks bigger than you just because your friend has it. If you are a girl, know that I won’t paint your walls with clouds and unicorns. Know that I will let you eat from the floor. Know that I won’t pick you up when you fall. Know that I know you will get up on your own. Know that I won’t even cry on your first walk.

But Know one thing, I shall Love you. Know all of this, because like me, I know you will grow up just fine!

P.S- The blog shall be 3 years old this February mid. So I thought why not make a Facebook page. Like it for me will you? -------> CLICK HERE SWEET HEART!

MY WAISTLINE

I am thinking of having an apple as I type this. Actually chuck that because to be quite honest, I was thinking of ordering a Margherita Pizza with extra cheese from Domino’s right now, since I am home alone and the Menu card that got delivered to me with the morning newspaper is proof enough that the Universe wants me to have a pizza foreplay today. Maybe by the time I get to the end of this post, this pizza laden desire will go away. 

By the way I am also thinking about grilling some Vegetarian Seekh Kebab later this evening. It is 4’o clock already but Seekh kebabs are not the ones to be affected by the Indian Standard Time. Sadly, today morning as I lay in the Shavasana pose during my powerless yoga class, I had made a resolution to not eat anything that would make me spread like a dough with yeast in it. Speaking of dough with yeast in it, I am still thinking about ordering that pizza. Oh did you know that I have some home-made chocolate syrup in the refrigerator?  Pretty easy to make you know. Some brown sugar, some good quality cocoa powder, some vanilla essence and some water, boiled and reduced till you reach the syrup like consistency. How about killing the seekh kebab idea and making some nice fluffy pancakes. It would soak my chocolate syrup so well. Oh Yes!

Green tea is good. I had two cups of green tea today. So I guess I deserve to go out and buy a Paneer Bhurji Puff Pastry for an evening snack. I know I had that yesterday but something about a nice crumbly puff with a melt-in-your-mouth filling of Paneer and caramelized onions deserves my attention even today. I am already forgetting about the Margherita pizza.

What will mom cook for dinner? There are some Cauliflowers and a few White radishes lying unattended inside the fridge. Maybe I will ask her to make me some Gobi Mooli ke Parathe with a chunk of butter melting in the divine heat of the paratha. That reminds me that I need to go buy some sweet lime pickle because nothing compliments a Mooli paratha than a sweet lime pickle.

Yesterday I wanted to have some chocolate. But I was dieting so I did what a prudent girl like me would do. Yes, I made some chocolate brownies. It was eggless and butter-less of course because I don’t like compromising with my health. But a chocolate brownie needs its best friend to give you a happily ever after. So I went out and bought some Vanilla ice-cream and boy! It sure was divine.  Dieting is for losers. Losers as in people who lose, some weight. I am not a loser.

Did I tell you guys that I became 65 kilos from 63 kilos? Help me out here and tell me if you know exactly why this is happening to me. We can sit together and come to a conclusion while we share that Margherita Pizza which is still ruling my mind. Or you can take a walk with me while I go buy that much delicate Paneer Bhurji  puff. Who am I kidding, we will take the car, even if the shop is like a 100 mts away.

Whatever happened to the apple I was thinking of having while I started with the post? May be I should think about my waistline and just stick to having an apple. No Margherita Pizza, No seekh Kebab, No Paneer Bhurji Puff, No pancake with my amazing home-made chocolate syrup, No Gobi Mooli ke parathe, No melting butter. Just one good old, low calorie, doctor repelling  Apple. After all, I am not someone who breaks a SHAVASANA  RESOLUTION.

P.S- I am posting this a day later. Yes, I just had an apple as I said……in the gorgeous, divine, exquisite form of…….. an APPLE PIE.  Jesus Christ!! Victoria’s Secret should come up with a body mist that smells like an Apple pie with a hint of Cinnamon in it. Oh God!!!!!

P.P.S- HELP ME!! SOS!!!

P.P.P.S- Judicial service exam got over!! Phew! Chennai will happen next week because I have an interview scheduled with a law firm. I might either become a cranky judge or I might become a cranky Criminal Lawyer. I am fine either way! Just pray for me and my waistline, Will you?

 

A BLOUSY AFFAIR......

Studies have shown that 9 out of 10 women are certified blouse readers. Blouse reading is an ancient art of knowing the character and the psychology of a woman by carefully analyzing the pattern of the blouse she chooses to wear. It is an art exercised and promoted only by those belonging to the kingdom of muliebrity and done rightfully so because the trend of Indian men wearing a blouse or a saree  is not yet in practise.

Blouse readers can be found everywhere and are not constrained to a particular age group. Though known to be carrying out their profession individually, they can be found to be collectively practising their gift and expanding their domain at public get-togethers like weddings, kitty parties, ladies sangeet, anniversary bash, spinster party and even baby showers. The key difference between a blouse reader and a palm or face reader is the fact that in the former, the person whose character is being read out has no idea that she is being given a reading free of cost.  Hence, studies have shown that this art is practised for personal amusement and also used as a tool among the feline part of the human race to bond more effectively. 

Yesterday Mrs. Sunita attended Mrs. Kukreja’s 25^th Anniversary bash wearing a blouse with hooks on the back, breaking the conventional norms of having hooks in the front. This act of displaying the hooks instead of conservatively covering it up with the Saree Pallu was noticed by the many veteran blouse readers including Mrs.Kukreja, who later that evening told her maid that she felt that Mrs.Sunita was being a cougar who wanted to entice the men in the party with her public display of the hooks. The maid being an incompetent blouse reader could only nod in the affirmative.

You have to be privileged to deserve a blouse reading since it is not for everyone. The conventional ‘U’ neck, medium sleeved blouse that you wore for Mrs.Chadda’s kitty party acted like the invisible robe that Harry Potter wore during his voyeuristic nights. You need to have some guts and you need to have some self confidence to deserve a free reading. Why do you think the veteran blouse reader at your home i.e your mother pointed a finger at Priyanka Chopra and said “What is she trying to be? The maths symbol for percentage (%)?” as the woman danced to the tune of ‘Desi Girl’ with the saree pallu dividing her chest into half, while her sleeveless blouse displayed her toned arms and her well endowed everything else.

It all started back in the age of sage Vishvamitra who sat for a severe penance, while Menaka a beautiful celestial nymph tried to break his Tapasya with her backless and sleeveless blouse. On watching her so do, the other Apsaras called her a ‘Loose Girl’ and moved their head from right to left with a disgruntled look on their face. It is they who became the Godmothers of Blouse reading and since then, the art has thrived on the bosoms of the confident ladies who took it as their job to promote this secret art by wearing airy blouses at every opportunity they got.

A puffed sleeve means that you are trying to camouflage your skinny hands that resemble chicken legs. A 3/4^th sleeve means you have gigantic arms that you are trying to hide beneath all that cloth. A backless blouse makes the women weep for your parents, while a sleeveless armpit showing blouse points towards your bad upbringing.  A deep back neck with a thread knot in the middle questions your culture while a short blouse that ends an inch below your ample bosom screams about your ugly character. Your blouse style has nothing to do with fashion but everything to do with your moral code of conduct. Your blouse design has nothing to do with your confidence but everything to do with your shamelessness. Your deep neck has nothing to do with the fact that you can carry it off beautifully, but everything to do with your loose character. It is not just a blouse but your armour of righteousness. Your blouse defines your worth.

A woman is a woman’s arch nemesis. While all the men flock together sharing beer and getting fat, women too flock together but with their knives pointed towards the next one’s back. It is time we saw a woman outside the blouse she chooses to wear (pun intended).

Also it is time that I stop writing about such a blousy affair.

P.S- If you are wondering why I wrote about a blouse, even I am wondering the same. Let us wonder together.