A WOMAN & HER BRAND- TARINI NIRULA

I am not a fashionista. To be quite frank, if you find me wearing anything remotely fashionable, it is probably an accident. Rarely do I look at an accessory or a bag and go ‘I need to have that in my life!’, but recently Tarini Nirula made me do just that!

Tarini is a young and vivacious Accessory Designer, an entrepreneur and the face behind the label that goes by the same name. Shortly after getting a degree specializing in Fashion & Lifestyle Accessories from the National Institute of Fashion Technology, she decided to be her own boss and launched her label in 2011 which has been creating waves ever since.

She believes that ‘simplicity is the best form of sophistication’ and her designs reflect just that. Never the one to go overboard, the bags are clean and classy with an aesthetic boldness attached to them. They are what fine craftsmanship is all about. She also keeps her artwork exclusive, which means that all her bags are limited edition. Simply put, every bag is a masterpiece.

Her love for experimenting with colours, techniques, hand-done ink artworks and her constant strive to be at par with the international trends without giving up on her roots, is why she is so sought after. She showcased her bags at the Wills India Fashion Week where she created exclusive designs for leading fashion designer Jenjum Gadi. Soon to follow was a collection commissioned by the acclaimed textile designer Bina Rao.

The bags are all limited edition pieces where every piece is synonymous to quality, finesse and timeless elegance. She was rightfully featured in leading magazines like Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Femina, Marie Claire, India Today and many others. To perk up the quotient even more, her designs were covered on NDTV Good Times in their popular show ‘I am too sexy for my shoes’. Her exclusive minaudière's are available at ‘Pernia’s Pop Up Shop’ which is curated by India’s leading stylist, Pernia Qureshi from Aisha fame.   

Tarini recently took a leap into weddings and home décor. She even carves out the perfect clutch that goes in sync with the outfit of the bride. Now you know where to get your dream clutch from!

Check out her exclusive collection at – www.tarininirula.in

Shop at - http://www.perniaspopupshop.com/designers-1/tarini-nirula

You can personally contact her at- tarinirula@gmail.com

Now there is something for you! Tarini has decided to giveaway a satchel bag. ‘Fly High’ printed satchel bag is adorned with pretty sparrows and vibrant colours which makes it perfect for a fun day or an evening out with the girls! It comes with an optional silver chain and is priced at Rs 1500/-

The giveaway shall go live on the 3^rd of July. To qualify for the same, you are requested to like her facebook page and leave a comment below. Simple! J

FACEBOOK PAGE- https://www.facebook.com/TariniNirula

INSTAGRAM- http://instagram.com/tarininirulaaccessories

PINTEREST- http://www.pinterest.com/tarinirula/

P.S- The next two posts will feature two more women with their brands. Let us talk about women who strive to be different. J

KAMRUP EXPRESS

Balu was a runner. He always knew he was. Clutching his orange potli close to his chest, he ran past Sabal kaku’s tea stall. The jute rope tied around his waist fought a futile battle as the shorts threatened to slip down his frame inch by inch. But Balu had to run.

The Kamrup Express was leaving Jalpaiguri station when Balu dashed past the ticket counter and onto the platform. Constable Sahib and his assistant were on their rounds and Balu knew that he had to escape their screening eyes to get inside the train. He never understood why they would drag him out of the compartment till outside the station and threaten him with a cane beating if he ever repeated the incident. As far as Balu was concerned, he was not a beggar. He was a performer.

It was only when the last bogie swayed away from the station did Balu feel free. He smiled gleefully at the thought of him defying the sahibs once more and knew instantly that he needed to start with his routine. He dug his hands into his Potli and brought out a yellow tambourine that he had named ‘Chamki’. As Balu made his way from one compartment to another, singing the songs of Shyamal Mitra, Pancham Da and countless others, Chamki would assist him with her chimes. She filled up the breaking in his voice whenever he lost breath and hid the errors he made with the lyrics. She was his companion through the journey, jingling with his every move and his every tap. Today like every other day in the past 4 years that he spent on the train, she was ready for him.

The train was a little less packed than usual and Balu could easily move past every compartment without getting reprimanded by the memsahibs for stepping on their saaris or by the babus who pressed their palms on the pant pocket everytime Balu moved past them. Balu sang as he spotted an old man with big black glasses sitting with a folding stick placed on his lap. ‘A stick is meant to be a stick. How is it a stick, if it can be folded?’ Balu thought as he continued to push ahead. The old man cocked his head towards the direction of his voice as Balu stood right in front of him and now was singing ‘Ye Sham Mastani’ for the 13^th time. Counting made him feel intelligent. It made him feel like one of those school kids, who in their blue khakhi shorts and polished shoes made Balu upset.

Balu was a singer. He smiled as he sang to the old man with a crooked back, sitting beside a sleeping Mota bhai. The old man grinned as Balu started singing ‘Sheeter Hawaay’. Balu liked the grin. A smile that had unintentionally become a toothless grin making little hills on his cheeks. The old man continued to smile even when Balu stopped singing and clanked the loose change in his palm. No one gave him a paisa except the old man, who shifted a bit as he moved his scrawny palm into his chest pocket and brought out a five rupee coin. Balu took the money pinched between his fingers and moved to the next coach singing the song, now for the 14^th time. 

It had become a routine. The race to catch Kamrup Express and singing to this old man for that guaranteed five rupees. Balu always smiled while singing to the old man and the old man was ready with a grin of his own. The little kid always wondered how the blind old man managed to board the train everyday and successfully find a vacant seat at a time when all the babus in their pressed shirts boarded the train, packing the coaches and debating on the superficial loktantra with those they had met during their daily commute. Maybe someone always took pity on him. Balu never spoke to the old man to know his destination and he never stayed back to find out since he had to get down at New Alipurduar and board the next train back to Jalpaiguri. But Balu met him every day with a new song, the same smile and received a 5 rupee coin at the end along with a toothless grin. The old man made Balu feel important. No words were ever spoken or needed.

Today had not started well. Ratan Kaki had declared that there was nothing for breakfast. Not even puffed rice. With a growling stomach Balu watched her wipe empty tins. Ratan Kaki was not related to him but she had taken him up and given him shelter on finding him sleeping below a traffic signal. She used to sell balloons in the signal, lightly tapping on one of the car windows and moving ahead after waiting a second for the window to roll down. She always looked for the ones with little kids on the back seat, because the mothers would make the babu buy a balloon for the little one. But right now she sat wiping the empty tins and couldn’t face Balu who was drinking water from the Matka to fill his empty stomach.

Today as he ran, Balu did not feel like a runner. He stood panting inside the last coach and slowly made his way towards the middle of the train, singing half heartedly, not bothering enough to wait for chillars. He now knew by just looking at the face if a person would give him money or ignore his voice. He saw the old man who was now alert and beaming as Balu’s voice drew closer. Today, for the 35^th time, Balu stood before him and sang an old song that Ratan Kaki had taught him once while cooking Khichuri outside their hut. Balu couldn’t smile today as he sang, his mind forever reminding him of the empty tins and the growling stomach. He caught sight of a memsahib carrying a three storeyed tiffin box . She saw him looking at her and frowned as she covered the tiffin with her Saree . Balu continued singing to the old man, sad and forlorn. The old man too did not smile this time. No toothless grin and no familiar cheek hills. Balu wondered as to what made the old man sad. Was he hungry too? Did he too miss the rice puffs? The old man looked away dejected and allowed Balu to take the five rupee coin from his palm. Balu felt odd. He got down at New Alipurduar and left the five rupee coin on a bench at the station. The stomach growled yet he craved for the old man’s grin.

For a few days Balu did not sing. He went with Ratan Kaki to the signals to sell some balloons. She sold more this time. She said it was because society takes pity on seeing a little ten year old kid sell balloons that he cannot afford. But Balu was a runner and a singer, not a balloon seller. The next day he ran his familiar run tricking the constable sahibs and laughing at the thought of doing so. He sang his way from the last coach till the first scanning the crowd for the familiar old face. And he found it. The old man had found a window seat and was looking out. Balu wondered what his blind eyes could see. Was their light even in the darkness? Did colours find their way in somehow? Or did his mind paint a picture of its own on the vast dark sheet? The old man registered Balu’s voice as he came and stood in front of him. Today Balu smiled through the song and as he smiled, so did the old man. The little pink hills on the cheeks and an empty set of gums. Balu was happy at the sight of it. He felt connected, loved. That five rupees at the end of it, had value.

The passengers of Kamrup Express never knew their story. But they knew they had one. A story of an old man, a little singing boy and their connected smiles. A tale witnessed by only one spectator, the mute Yellow Chamki.

P.S- This is my first ever fiction write-up and I wouldn't have done so if I was not smitten by Sid Balachandran's blog iwrotethose.com . He writes fiction so beautifully that I was forced to churn out a story of my own. I wrote this and decided to get his valuable comments before publishing it, and boy! those were some serious comments that he gave. What you see here is a short story made better because of his assistance. For that I am thankful. :)

THE CURIOUS CASE OF RUNAWAY GRANDFATHER.....

Many have asked me how a Malayalee family ended up getting settled in Bhopal. Yes, it was work that brought my grandfather here and subsequently settle, but why would he search for work in a land far away and live with people whose language was Hindi to him?

It all started with a slap. A slap in the courtroom where my grandfather had filed a case against his neighbour for stealing an important stuff. The stuff here is irrelevant. What matters here is the stealing. My grandfather filed a case before the magistrate and when the accused was brought before him, he bluntly denied stealing the stuff. Since all the evidence  produced was to his benefit, the magistrate declared him as not guilty and just then, my grandfather lost what they call self restraint and reasoning . He sprinted towards the accused and gave him a thunderous slap, which my grandfather once told me was right below his right ear. And then he ran the race of his life.

People those days didn't have the macho attitude that men these days pretend to have. My grandfather at 22 was like a scared Pomeranian and so was his family. Anticipating arrest for contempt of court, his mother packed his bags and asked him to run away and never look back. And he did run away. All the way till Kashmir, were he worked as a Hotel waiter.

But Kashmir is Kashmir and he was already a scared boy. A sight of police would cause temporary paralysis. So he ran some more. Ok took the rail! Bhopal happened and he became a hospital ward assistant. From washing soiled bed sheets, to dumping used diapers and bandages, he did it all. A whole year passed since the slapping incident and yet he anticipated arrest. I shouldn’t call my grandfather lame, but yeah.

And then Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited, wanted clerks. Anyone and everyone could join with no requirement of a background check. If only those people tasted recession.  My Grandfather joined BHEL and now could converse in Hindi with the help of sign language. Now he was leading a secured life and like every mother whose son has finally found a decent job, his mother too found him a bride. My grandmother. They got married and he recommended her to his department. Just like that she too became a part of BHEL. Jobs were seriously growing on trees.

A house was built. A home was made. Three kids happened who too eventually got married and had kids. One of them being me.

And what did I become? A lawyer. My grandfather ran away from the law, and I joined forces with law.

IRONY. Maybe Destiny?

P.S- Last week was tiring!!!!!! This week shall be good. Little brother and grandmother coming down. :)

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.