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!

THE ART OF BEING TRADITIONAL WITH A MODERN APPROACH....

A quintessential Indian woman should be traditional. She should be shy, reserved, blushing at the rate of 1 blush per 15 seconds and above all she must practice geometrical drawings with her toes on the ground at the sight of a guy she likes. According to the “SOCIETY, A CRAZY BREED” dictionary, a modern girl means “A homo sapien of the female gender who suffers from a psychological illness whereby she believes that she is born with the freedom that only the male gender enjoys.” In a country like India, being modern is the more unacceptable than pre marital sex.

So I got enlisted in one of the premium matrimonial websites last year, for a period of 3 mths. My profile was paid for, extra bucks were thrown in to get my profile highlighted in blue and a little more was spent for the ease with which the male species would come across a tigress like me. After all I am such a magnificent catch. At the end of 3 mths and 72 proposals, all of which came from divorcees, innocent 25yr old divorcee with YouTube links on his profile of him singing,  10^th class fail, 45 year old pedophiles, bald body builders, too thin to be carried on my shoulders, watchman, Muslim men with a fantasy of marrying a Hindu girl and women pretending to be men, my family called it quits. They were disappointed with the kind of crowd I was drawing to myself. My relatives declared that there was something very very wrong with me. When every second Indian traditional girl is finding her Mr. Perfect through matrimonial site intervention, why not me? The answer was found in my Bio which read something like this:

“We are looking for a suitable alliance for our fair, well educated and employed daughter. Our daughter is Modern and was raised in the North. We seek alliance from Like minded boy with SHUDH JADAKAM. Please contact us for the detailed horoscope”

The reason behind my failed matrimonial fashion parade was the word “MODERN”. After a few hours of analyzing, over analyzing, putting forward a thesis and a dozen antithesis, my family decided to replace the word “MODERN” with “TRADITIONAL WITH A MODERN APPROACH”. That is the sole hurdle in my journey towards matrimonial enlightenment. So now my 'About Me' says:

“We are looking for a suitable alliance for our fair, well educated and employed daughter. Our daughter is traditional with a modern approach and was raised in the North. We seek alliance from Like minded boy with SHUDH JADAKAM. Please contact us for the detailed horoscope.”

(Kindly note that there is no mention of the fact that I am an advocate. Thank you very much.)

How exactly does one become traditional with a modern approach? Does it mean that I drape myself with Kanjeevaram saree while wearing Louis Vuitton boots on my feet? Does it mean that I visit the temple every day and later smoke a joint at a rave party? Or does it mean that I touch my grandparent’s feet every time I leave the house and then at night share a snifter glass of wine with them? What exactly did it mean?

And then it hit me. Almost all Indian women are “Traditional with a modern approach”. Yes we are. We do like a drink every now and then but our family doesn’t know about it. We do wear short skirts when with friends but change into Kurta Pajama with Dupatta to cover our ample bosoms when we visit our grandparents. We do not see pre marital sex as taboo but we won’t tell about it to anyone. We like watching or reading porn but we won’t be open about it like the men. We have desires that our man knows but our family thinks we commit the crime that is sex only to procreate. We gossip about women who are adventurous, all the while hiding the adventures we have been a part of. We are Modern packed in a facade that is tradition.

So yes I am an epitome of a “Traditional with a Modern approach” woman. I have my secrets and I have my not so secret desires. I can make you a part of my secrets and force you to fall in love, all the while hiding my reality from the society. I lead a dual life. I am an illusionist.

And so you ask me, will I get married now that I am no more modern? Well, I promise you guys one thing. Whatever happens with me, it shall not be an ordinary story. It shall not be a simple case and it shall definitely not be through a matrimonial website parade. After all, I am traditional with a modern approach. *WINKS*

P.S- Do not see me as someone who is against the idea of getting married with the help of matrimonial websites. I am all for it and many of my friends are getting married to perfect hot sizzlers because of it. I just don’t like being a part of it.

P.P.S- New Year to you all!!! It is upon you and destiny to make it Happy or Crappy.

LEMONS.......

Have you heard the sound of your amazing goals being crushed into powder by the obese feet of destiny? It sounds a zillion times worse than the fart my elderly neighbour Mr. Kukreja involuntarily passes as I drop him to the local supermarket in my Car with the windows up and AC on. It smells worse too.

Judicial service wasn’t meant to be and I know so because I lost it with a margin of 8 marks from the cut off. Having taken a year drop after my law graduation to exclusively prepare for this marathon exam and having being doubted about my choice by every member of my family tree, it quite sucks when you prove them right. But Bollocks! I did try. 

But life is a funny thing and she gives you a sign in the weirdest of time. On the judgment day, I was moving in circles around the laptop awaiting the result that could possibly save my dignity. After all the basic purpose of our sad little life is to please the society. Just then the results came out and with the pain in my heart and Sahara desert in my throat I found out that the Indian courts weren’t lucky enough to have me as a judge. It hurt. It even hurt to realize that I rejected the job I was recently offered in Chennai. I rejected 4 decent job offers for this one thing. It hurt.

Just then the door bell rang. I stared at the laptop, rubbed my eyes, searched for my big glasses, wore them and then walked towards the front door. It was my farty neighbour’s little grandson with a huge white sack that he could barely carry. Still recovering from my comitragic defeat I just sat on the ground and looked at him. The little ugly boy just grinned and pushed the sack towards me as he said “Garden se Tode Hain Nana Ne. Aap le lo”

Lemons. Around 50 of them.

And then I laughed looking at the lemons as if I was a witch who just found the missing ingredient to her potion of immortality. I laughed till the kid left me standing alone before the open door as he ran away and never looked back. I laughed till my eyes couldn’t see clearly.  Life had given me lemons and I was not going to weep over it. But what do you do when life gives you 50 lemons. You make “Nimbu ka Acchar”. Yes! And have it with some Mooli Ke Parathe.

It is quite Ok when the thing that you have been working towards for the longest time, doesn’t work in your favour. It is alright when your extended family which was waiting for your defeat has finally got it. It is even fine when you do not know where your life is headed to. But you have got to move. That is all you need to!

So you ask me, what’s next? Well, this blog post is typed while sitting in the High Court of Kerala. Yes!!!  I joined an amazing Law firm here and I am a litigating advocate now. So what if I did not become a judge, I can always stand on the other side and make their life miserable. You see life is good, provided you use the Lemons in your favour.  Your Honour, My Ass!!

P.S- An update after a whole month. Well, atleast you know what kept me busy.  No internet connection so currently using the Law firm's free wifi. Pray I don't get fired. Amen!

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?