FACEBOOK, THE HAPPY WORLD....

Facebook is a happy world. While my friend Nidhi is having the time of her life with her friend Switty, my college mate Neelu is checking in at Café Coffee Day with “Yay! Girls Night Out” as the status. I click Like.

 

I move on to my cousin who has uploaded a photo of herself almost canoedeling with the ‘love of her lyf’ in a place that looks like Leh, thanks to the Yak that is innocently gawking at them in the background. Her tagline says “Thank you my Sonu for making my life so perfect. I LOV U” with picture courtesy given to some dejected soul. I click Like and comment “This is so perfect Sister! I am so happy for you.”  With a straight face and no emotion, I move on to the next.

Hey, look at this! My ex has updated his status “Bought my first Merc, a black beauty. Can’t wait to take my gorgeous wife for a ride in it.”  I wince, walk over to the fridge and take out a tub of Baskin-Robbins ice cream. I then return to the bed, gag myself with it as I move the cursor to update my facebook status.

“Awesome Saturday. Crazy!”

I shut down my laptop and sleep. The ice cream drips on my laptop.

I was unemployed for a whole one year after college. I did not sit for placements, reasons still unknown to me. All the law firms I applied to personally wanted those with experience. Here I was a National Law School graduate, unemployed. I was lost when my father declared that he sees a future Judge in me and I saw the prospect of preparing for Judicial service as the last straw to clutch on while drowning. I hated preparing for it, kept looking for jobs, got a few jobs, rejected them, got rejected and hated myself. But every time a distant relative asked my parents what I was doing with my life, they replied “Our daughter studied in the National Law University but did not sit for placements because she always wanted to give Judicial service a shot. She is now preparing for it.” The listener looked at me and said “Shabash beta…”, making a donkey feel like an intelligent dolphin, all the time cringing in the inside about the subtle reality. But he doesn’t need to know about all that. Does he? He goes home and tells his son how intelligent and competitive Mr. Anil’s daughter is.

Everyone on your facebook list is like that distant relative you told the selective truth to. You deleted the sour part and served him the dessert. He fell for it and got upset at the inefficiency of his child. Facebook is that last course of a buffet and everyone is served desserts. No one can be undisputedly and continuously happy. Fairytales are just enormously exaggerated reality.

Tina just uploaded a picture of her hand with a big chunky diamond ring and a tagline that says ‘On top of the world. Engaged to Mr. SO & SO’. She hides the scared heart that is trying to bury the rejections of the past, the lies that she have told him about her history and the future that is yet to unwrap itself.

You and I, get jealous of her. Self loathing mode initiated.

So, the next time someone shouts out their achievement on facebook or forces you gawk at the picture of them vacationing in Macau, be happy for them and move on realizing that behind all that celebratory hullabaloo and boastful jigs lies a reality as realistic, plain and challenging as yours and mine.

And with that I move on to update my status… “Made my first appearance as a lawyer in court. Feeling like Alan Shore.”

No one has to know about me calling the Male judge “Madam” and making a complete fool of myself.  Do they?

I guess Not.

P.S- The previous post was deleted because I felt disgusted by it.

P.P.S- Thank you for being a reader and a friend. I have something small planned up for you and me this 16^th. :)

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!

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!