Between good byes and thank yous

Between good byes and thank yous, lie swathes of emotions, attachments, last minute confessions and wordless whispers.

Which one of us hasn’t faced this… Last moment with someone whom we feel we may not meet again. Leaving the house where you spent your childhood, selling your old car which had a million memories attached, last day at high school or office… seeing the person you loved leaving forever…

How vulnerable are those moments of silent words. How heavy the throat becomes- even if you are the super-est of the superman or have a rock solid man heart. Tears land without permission.

Last kiss…last handshake…last supper…last night….last word…last glimpse….last memory…

And how swiftly life moves on in the next moment. How illusioned were we about our short lived moments.

We have faced these lasties and many more are yet to come.. so far we have been scared to face them yet prepared to face them and still pray to delay them.

In every figment of our imagination towards our sense of belonging, lies a deep fear of losing. We fear more than we love.

Never say good-bye… 

An Indian Expat arrives in a Non-Indian Kitchen

The word "international" is as domestic as it used to be international for me two years ago. I own the unfamiliar now. 

Staying in an internationally local country, where you will always remain 'new' even after decades, where you'd always be asked 'which country are you from'...where you'd always request for instruction manual in English, where you'd always hesitate bargaining too much.. not letting people presume that all Indians are misers, and silently preserving the honor of the tricolor that you carry on your head all the time. 

Spending long weekends in your 450 sq ft shared international apartment with the people of different culture, skin and eye colors and time zones!

Of all, the kitchen becomes truly international. At 6pm, the mates from Far East boil meat for their early dinner. At 7pm, inmates from Europe stuff cheese in every dish they have cooked... and hit the bed by 10pm for their skype calls. Later, the lazy Indian can't sustain the hunger pangs drumming inside the belly and heads towards the kitchen.

Well, I must share- the best thing about sharing kitchen with non-Indians is that your Indian snacks are safe. So are your home-grind spices that you treasure the most. None will touch them!

Fresh cardamom is dipped in the hot oil with dried coriander powder and something mouth-watering invigorates the whole apartment with an edible tandoori smoke in the kitchen. "What the hell are you cooking in the middle of the night that we can't resist", sleepy inmates come out sneezing and complain.

Pure vegetarian Indians adjust their dal-chawal pateela with a headless chicken on the same shelf of the fridge, and then eat it later too, without puking. They are also used to throwing onion peels in the same dustbin where chicken bones lie discarded.

We use microwave more than pressure cookers and cook using induction than gas stoves. We google for English speaking locksmiths and hair-stylists, and feel at home while ordering Indian delicacies at Indian restaurants with Hindi speaking waiters. 

We have learnt to exchange business cards with both the hands with Chinese name printed on the flip side. We either have a wide touch screen Android  phone or I-Phone...qwerty key phones are unrecognized. 

Skype is our local phone and Facebook, our local photo frame. 

We munch chips of the same Indian brand but with a blonde model on its wrapper. We confidently buy and use the products of the brands that we never heard before. We roughly calculate money in Rupees before buying in Dollars... think a little, but still buy.

We buy those vegetables that we are unsure if are fruits. We prefer brown breads than white.

Our daily soaps are intercontinental comedy series and we have seen all the seasons. We work on Diwali and Holi and await Chinese new year holidays and learn to wish Gong Xi Fa Cai and exchange lai see. We checkout overseas travel packages on approaching long weekends.

And still feeling proud when someone says "Oh, you are an Indian... I love Indian eyes, Indian food and Bollywood".

Life... for once

My lips are pink and glossy. I am posing as my pointer finger touching my lower lip with my mouth open and my fake eyelashes curled up with black mascara.. I fake it for dreamy eyes.

I am seated near the window in my silver shoulderless- backless costume with my bare legs spread on the surface of the balcony to ignite all the fantasies. My matching silver shoes lie tilted.. A blonde wig is what rests on my head and the faux hair falling on my shoulders keep ticking me the whole day.

I keep gazing the men, women and teenagers passing by. Looking at me. Some look at my legs, some at my shoes. some hair and my hand-crafted nails. Some try to peep inside my falling neck dress. I wink at myself.

I am beautiful. From tip to toe, I am perfect. I have the flawless curvaceous body, fair complexion, tall slim legs, rounded soft shoulders and I am good at my work- attracting people.

Men and women, look at me, then they come inside our shop, I mean my owner's. They touch the dress I am wearing, ask the cost of the ear rings hanging in my ears, stare at the gems of my necklace. Some rich ones like it so much that they ask the Owner to pack it for them. Then she comes, takes it all off my body, swipes the customer's credit card with a smile. Then I am adorned with a new dress. I get to wear new dresses, jewelry every day.

During summers, at noons, none visits. My owner puts on the Air-con and keeps dozing off. But my still eyes gaze at the white building standing next. I think it is a church. I hear the bells ringing on Sundays. On my left corner, I hear a lot of music, I think there is a discotheque as at night, a lot of young men and women pass by. We lock the shop at 10 pm.

Rainy season brings a lot of hustle and bustle. A lot of vehicles honking, kids returning from school playing with the muddy water on the road. I wish I could go out and giggle with them.

During winters, it snows. I pose and display fur jackets. The trees visible from my balcony are all covered with white powdered snow. I wish I could make snow man and get myself clicked with it.

I see young and old people. I see people growing. I see people happy and sad. I see people window shopping and actually shopping. I watch people in love, people in problems and people celebrating and praying. 

But for me, nothing changes, except my clothes and wigs. No matter how beautiful I am, but these confused creatures make me crave for a life. I wish..for once, I could come out of this mannequin body and live like a human being.

A Stranger in my own World

As I travel far

My own city becomes a stranger

As I am silent

My own words fail me

As I stay missing

My own people forget me

And when I come back

Why am I surprised to see myself lost?

The End is the Beginning

As if I am breaking down

As if I am withered

As if I am done

As if it is all over…

And why does Life

Always begin from here..

Face (te) of the stamps

There is a hair-thin line between virtues and vice.

There is a little space between goodness and badness. And, in between lies a lot of butter. Yes, butter. And that’s where our life is…in the slipperiest butter- bordered by slippery paths. We keep slipping every moment, sliding day and night, slithering years and decades. And enter the territories of Rightness and Wrongness irrespective of our willingness, consent or force. It is all just by chance.  Territory where you find yourself landed up finally, with or without intentions, is probably named as your destiny.

And this is how you judge each other, and love to blame it on situations. Slide

Your whole life is encapsulated around two parts of the truths- the Right and the Wrong (as we like to name them).

Each time you slip into any territory, you come out with a stamp, just like your passport. You get your face labeled with the terrain you travelled- you did right or you did wrong.

Ultimately, we all are travelers. Wanderers. We are made to travel, see places, get labeled and be known with that. No matter how strong willed you are, you will, travel to unknown zones with unplanned events and meet the people who will change your beliefs.

We travel in mysterious ways, with white flags of our principles, coloring them temporarily with seasoned flowers and then washing them off in the seasonal rains of the neighboring territory, only to prepare ourselves to get colored again.

How short lived are our principles… and still how rigid we are in our conduct.

How useless are our doubts and how petty are our judgment criterions. 

What a temporary life we live!

YOUR life could be contained on the back of a revenue stamp" was Khushwant Singh’s cynical remark about the autobiography Amrita Pritam was planning to write.

Between Ghost stories and Illusions

We friends spent this evening sharing ghost stories. Some shared their stories, some shared the shared stories. 

I, per se, had nothing to share. Though, like everyone else, as a child, I was amused to hear such spiced up stories from watchmen and drivers of their direct encounters with long haired, faceless ghosts dressed in white.

I had varied experiences during my vipassana tenure. I used to dream of powerful, ugly and notorious ghosts threatening me and my family. After Vipassana started, which, our Guruji (the teacher) aptly named as the 'operation of mind', I dont remember I even slept for a single night. But, the details of which I am not going to be writing today.

I wanted to write about something that I had experienced but not observed or tracked before.

From wrong decisions to blunders, from frustration to lust, we have seen the villain inside us, but never admitted. We have created worst scenes and worsened situations and tried to blame it on others. We always covered it up as the nudist does, by saying "It was the demand of the scene, and we acted in the best way we could". We have buried it all up when we felt ashamed and always lied about our heroic sense and greatness in managing situations.

What was that who would rescue me from self inflicted nets, from my goof ups worst case scenarios and embarrassed situations. What was it because of whom my nightmares never came true.

Wasn't it the angel around me who always protected me. 

Wasn't it was he who lit my ways when the darkness went unbearable. Don't I owe my goodness and positive energies to it. From where did I derive that strength which made me pass on the mysterious journeys.

There were these times too, when I had ripped apart this angel and discarded it on bizarre grounds, when I felt  the virtues weren't working anymore. But this angel, rose against all odds to secure me. I then, renamed it as my sixth sense. 

This angel has preserved my honor as a woman, by signaling the danger that lied ahead. This angel sniffed the difficult times and stuffed strength inside me in advance.

How beautifully it timed the things around me.

This angel always warned me from stumbling down in the pit of lies and illusions. 

It always mirrored the peace that I obtained by showing mercy and being forgiving and kind to those I always rated as non-deserving. How much has this angel been serving, defending me in my oblivion.

Why did the watchmen and drivers never mentioned them?

Mumbai- Through my Eyes

The philosophy about Mumbai and Mumbaikars

In my tired body, drowsy eyes, and sleeping ears, enters air hostess’s sniffing voice, “ Deviyon aur Sajjanon, kuch hi der mein hamara vimaan Mumbai land karega, kripya apni kursi ki peti baandhe rahiye”. (Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing in Mumbai shortly, please keep your your seat belts fastened)

While I am asleep in my economy class seat dreaming about my Mumbai, I open my eyes to see the dream fulfilled.

As I peep out of my window, I see the yellow dots of lights arranged in curves around a dark pitch (and that’s the sea shore)…. honking noises of the traffic jam along SV road and twinkling dense lights as I cross over the slums. That noise and din on the road that carries so much peace in its own; that charm; and that sense of security.

I get tears in my eyes to see this. Out of joy. For all that Mumbai made out of me.

I was neither born, nor brought up in Mumbai. Mumbai is neither my parent nor my friend.
Mumbai is just an employer for me, with innumerable opportunities with the right amount of compensation. 

I stayed for five years in Mumbai.  Mumbai has filled my belly, my pockets, is in my blood now and even my subconscious. But, a vacuum of a landless island city remains. Probably some things are never owned. 

I remember, the times, when I had just heard about Mumbai, in the media, movies. I was excited to see what was the city all about. 
My first question was-to whom Mumbai belongs to.
I was replied, “Mumbai is nobody’s”.
I thought, they could say- Mumbai is everybody’s.

I have lived with both the concepts here. The first one as a punishment. The second one as a penalty for others’ blunders!

Mumbai is like a wonderful station, where one likes to halt, make some money, only to go back.

Mumbai is neither an ailment nor an ointment. It runs on with the strategy of no solution, but phenomenon city. 

Mumbai is like a stern robot God- who works only on one principle- God helps those who help themselves. 

We always discuss the problems of staying in Mumbai. We always concentrate on what we want and we don’t get. But Mumbai makes you realise the little sweet nothings give out so much pleasure… 

Imagine the day when you got a window seat in the train on a breezy evening.
Imagine the moment when you cancelled your interview and enjoyed getting drenched in the Mumbai rain at Marine Drive, with a loved one. 
Or, the day when you see what you always dreamt of- actually occuring before your eyes. 

Seeing an old friend, while crossing the signal.. Friends are friendlier here if they are lesser reachable. 

Mumbai is the most mobile city with most immobile people… most dry city with maximum humidity.
You travel 80 kms to and fro to your workplace everyday, but will never get time to see an ailing friend 2 kms away from your place. That's about the truth of Mumbai.

Mumbai is a close- ended shelter. That's the permanence about the city. 
You know that you can come back and go off anytime you want- but at your own will, you never will. 
We never are able to fathom, when the right time to be over with is. There is an extra bit always clinging to the moment that we don’t want to let go- opportunity and love are two most common examples. 

Mumbai is a city of opportunity, money and ‘no-question’. You are not answerable to anybody- not even God. And, we seldom get time to ask questions from ourselves- we are either busy asking others, or answering theirs. 

Mumbai- holds a black magic wand that governs the life of its beings- either ways.
People come small here and die in the big hospitals; some paupers come and become serious money makers, some dream and some fulfill; some bodge their destinies and end up dodging. 

Mumbai- for sure is a city that belongs to everybody…

Good morning. Would you like to get raped today?

Are women in India Sexual Objects of Mass Pleasure, meant to be looted whenever you can and wherever you could?

 My country was never like this. My country is a country of unity in diversity, colors, festivals, rich culture and poor yet happy people.

My country is a country where a Muslim child shares the same bench with a Hindu child and reads the stories of greatness of Buddha, taught by a Sikh teacher in a convent school.

The constitution of my country allows a Sikh to marry a Christian and a Maharashtrian to pursue his career in Delhi.

We all ate iftaari at Ramzan and lighted lamps on Diwali. The news of riots was only a newspaper item.

It is the only country where a Shia stays with a neighboring Sunni. It is the only country where parents feed their children first and if left, eat themselves.

I grew up in that India, where we were taught to respect  women, teachers and elders. My brother would treat me the same way as he would treat my colleague. My father sees a little naughty daughter in every girl he sees. We performed our pooja at home and were taught us that God punishes all the evil doers and every evil thoughts.

In the India of my time, I studied in co-educational schools/ colleges and boys of different age groups were my best buddies. I played with them, fought with them; fought for them, sometimes. I never realized I was any different from them, or that the times were going to change ever.

None threw acids on anyone. Not even accidently. None would rape anyone, except in movies where the hero would come to save the heroine to kick start the love story. And please, not infants. There were snakes, and not chopped bodies found in nullahs or bushes. 

The India where I grew, the women were not just lingerie- advertising-models. The women didn’t have so much to pressure to be beautiful all the times. There were no slimming centers and it was common for women to get fat after babies. The society respected them irrespective of their inch size.

There were no societal stigmas of late night. The families went together to watch late night movies and returned home safely. When Dad didn’t have a car, we used to go on our 1988 model of “LML Vespa” everywhere.  The roads were silent but safe. It was safe to return home after attending marriages where mom used to wear all entire jewelery to show off her to her friends.

Haunted houses, unused pathways, desolated buildings. We played everywhere. No man, no watchman, no gardener, no fruit seller, no drug addict, no unemployed youth ever touched us.  

I probably lived in a friendlier India where daughters were daughters and sisters were sisters, and the women were not sexual objects of mass pleasure, meant to be looted whenever you can and wherever you could!

And am not going to discuss any laws today.

Today morning, I read of another Swiss national in India who was camping with her husband, raped. I was................. I really have no words to express. Really..... Only if my remorse could reverse the fact. 

It has not been too long when I left India in that condition. May be Indian men have changed. May be Mother India, is ripped (or raped) off her soul. May be she is muted forever so that she can never speak of her pain.

A Chinese friend planned to come with me to see India. She was so excited until I had to cancel my trip owing to issues at work. I assured her, "You can still go by yourself. Stay with my family. My mother, my brother and my father would take care of you and show you around".

She replied, "No. I don't want to get raped". Her remark has left a permanent mark on my face.

May be there is no India left to return to....

Let us separate forever.....

"Let us get separated, then...", Alberto said, shifting his eyes, away from her, towards the road. 
Like a blow, it hit Sheena's head as if someone had slapped her hard on her face. She lost her balance for a moment.

Sometimes we never realise that the time that we call, last day, last moment or last glance, can actually arrive in our lives.

She didnt realise but silently her hand wiped the tear flowing out of her kohl-outlined eyes, stood up, and picked her bag to leave. A part in her heart wanted him to turn back, stop her and apologise...if not apologise, at least stop her...and say, ok, let us start afresh. 

But this part of the heart is always the weakest. It supports us to ignore the reality for some more time and stay in oblivion.

She kept praying that it was a dream. She could feel a big machine was thumping profusely inside her breast, shaking her whole body.

A white sound of crashing was all she could hear. She couldn't feel if she was sitting or standing. She even lost count if she was there at all, and what was that around her. Her legs could no longer bear her weight, her body was getting heavy.

Her ears, eyes and nose as if submerged into one big black hole, the gravity of which, she was getting engulfed into.

A gust of pain attacked her spine from below and a pressure of emotion was struck inside her throat. She wanted to speak but she couldnt even breathe.
Alberto got up and left. She closely watched his steps.. moving away from her. As he was walking away, he was becoming fainter. Why could she still see him even when he had left. 

Her throat was dry and the area around her eyes, wet. She couldn't assimilate words or know what she should do. Not a single sound was entering her mind, and all she could feel was a blank....a vacuum of emotions, where she couldn't realize whether it was actually happening or was it exactly what she was sure can never happen to her.

We always plan for love filled moments, holidays, evenings, celebrations. But never...if we were to be left alone. 

Leaving the Driver's seat forever

Sadly, what we think is the most stable thing in life, turns out to be the wobbliest and the game changer.

Some things that you take it for granted to be the same forever, or you see in no way it will be out of your life. Like our jobs, our closest friends, our countries, our beliefs, our love, and even our preferences and myths.

And the things/ people/ situations that were alien to you once are your life now. “Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't.”, said Mark Twain.

“Life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans”.

So much control we have exercised all through our lives, influenced others, compelled others, played games, painted irrelevant pictures... still things didn't change as wanted them to. And see ultimately in spite of that , it has left us here.

The greatest lesson (or decision) under the recent turbulence in my life that I have taken is- ‘Not to control life’. Yes, and be guided by it, wherever it takes you. Probably that’s the best thing you can do to yourself- allow the wind to carry yourself and see where it leaves you.

Of course, uncertainties make you miserable, but I am also getting excited to see where life will take me, place me, and bring who in my life; take away what, and I ll learn which lessons and develop which philosophies and hunt for which cravings.

Long terms plans that I knit for centuries crumbled before my eyes in minutes. I was sure that this practice of ‘planning’ life is going to be a ‘man-hours-wasted’ exercise.

So, here I am..

With my arms wide open..

With my heart full of acceptance..

With my destiny devoid of shadows..

With my mind cleansed of yesterday’s ideas..

With emptied pockets and non-judgmental slate..

With estranged inhibitions and unfettered connections..

Come and sweep me over with you and show me a new me..

I think I have never been any better before. I recently lost a big baggage at Mumbai. It contained all my apprehensions, connections, folklore and traditional boundaries.

Someone very aptly conveyed-

“Today you are You, that is truer than true.

There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

In Pursuit of 'Happyness'

Sometimes there is only word that aptly defines your situation- “$hit”.

Hello. I am in $hit at the moment. The deepest and the stink-iest.

Loads of unsolvable problems, uncertain times ahead, most bitter lessons and true color revealing people around you-…attacking you simultaneously from all sides. Gosh! And, I lie in the middle.

There is only thing that could save me. I needed happiness.

I have been going mad in the past few days to think of all this.

And here is my theory... finally!!

I have come to the conclusion that like anger, hunger, exhaustion or boredom; happiness is just an ‘emotion’ too. It is equally temporary as others and equally hard to retain forever.  

Just that, we have always kept this emotion at the benchmark level and used it as a tool to define a perfect life… without bothering to define it.

What is happiness, or what is the thing that produces happiness.

Money?  Beauty? Wealth?

Family? Kids? 

Love?  Sex?  Job?

Country? Power?  Religion?

If your answer revolves around any of the above, my friend I welcome you to my fool's paradise.

Ever thought-

1. If money could keep you happy- rich community would have been the happiest.

2. If beauty could bring love- the hot models in town would not have been bitchy.

3. If marriages or communities could keep you warm, joint families and the densely populated countrymen would have their fairy stories.

4. If sex could keep you happy- porn stars would have been the best rated professionals, they even get paid for their happiness!

5. Similarly, power, democracy- how much our politicians are happy if this is all you imagined was the stuff to comprise happiness.

I don’t mind sharing as I have already been awarded the “Best Foolish” trophy to myself, that for the last six years I had been dreaming that a house of my own is all I need to complete my happiness. I still don’t own one. But I am sure, it will not be the deciding factor of my happiness. I’ll cry and wail and curse inside its walls.
A house is not a happiness filled teddy bear but social security. And, why on earth was I mixing it? To sound miserable?

So, I had been befooling myself all my life by giving materialistic shapes to my happiness…  trying to find out air inside water and colors inside rainbows? I know it does exist there, but why did I always try to separate it. I never tried to see the picture in a ‘combined form’- in the form of life. I always saw it in the form of events, things and deeds?

The worst was- when I depended on people to give me happiness- waiting to receive a call from a loved one or to receive apology, waiting to get kissed, waiting to know I was better than someone I was jealous of. Ah! Pity pity pity…. Pity on me!

For some time, I even stick this post-it-pad of ‘if I get a man in my life’ as my happiness gear.

So, now you know what not happiness is.

So you’d now think that since I know this, I must be able to keep myself happy. 

Well, all my research has found out “what will not keep you happy’. What will keep you happy is… I am yet to find .… if it so exists at all.

A Dream of the Dream

Wrapped inside soft eyes lashes

the Dream sleeps

The Dream

dreaming of a small dream

A dream 

to make its dream come true

The Dream 
watches itself
sleeping and waking up
living and dying

sobbing and giggling

Observes itself

making mistakes
promising not to repeat

learning lessons

And yet

making the same mistakes again

The Dream dreams that

its wrong decisions in life

one day, 

will take it to the right place...

What... Are you still Single?

A Note on Women's Day 

I belong to an urban middle class family where brothers and sisters were treated alike by parents in terms of ghar ke ander (inside home). But society treated us differently.  

Me and my brother studied in same private schools and had freedom to pursue our interests. But there were differences like- I should be home by 7 pm, and I couldn't sleep over at a friend's place. Me and my brother could wear same shorts while being inside the house, but when going out, I’d have to change.

I'd have carved out gruesome differences inside the house if that was a rural area, and heart breaking, if it was in Northern part. 

Rights do not always come from Laws. Society decides them majorly. Like to stay unmarried, right not to have children, right to have a late marriage, even right to a live-in, none of these seems to be widely accepted in our society, not even in metro cities, though everyone likes to talk about it on twitter. Let's not of exceptions but the country at large.

Society consists not only men, but women too. Even their minds are conditioned equally. Inviting a widow at a marriage function or a baby shower ceremony is seen as an ill-omen. But widowed men, do not face this stigma.

Women in nuclear families have different rights than women in joint families- with regards to right to education, work and even purdah.

There is only one difference between a married woman and a widowed/ divorced/ single- “A married woman takes away the right to make stories about her character”. Rest all, will become whores, without a man ruling them, is the belief. 

A married woman, no matter how is treated by her inmates enjoys more ‘izzat’ (respect) in the society than any other one, subject to, she is able to bear children. If not, she is a topic of discussion again and fully qualifies to be estranged or give the right to husband to remarry.

Interestingly, Section 498 in The Indian Penal Code, 1860 pertains to ‘Enticing or taking away or detaining with criminal intent a married woman’,  as per law, this is punishable with an imprisonment upto 2 years for the culprit, but, for women, in the society it is a lifelong punishment.  In earlier days, dacoits used to take women along with other goods, but in case any of them was able to come back- was totally shunted out from the society. Dacoits were caught and jailed. In Indian society, a victim is punished more severely than the culprit. Of course, the life starts after coming out of the courts.

Now, the dacoits come in the form of rapists and fundamentalists/ member of khap panchayats. I even find them in the Board rooms where in spite of being more qualified than them, they don’t find me worthy of rubbing shoulders with them.

A decision to stay single all through life in India, Are you nuts?

If you are single, above 30 means- either you suffer from an incurable disease, or you had a ‘bad’ love affair, or you are a Mangalik. There is no other reason for you to be single.

The list is endless. The oppressed housewives, uneducated rural woman are beaten, women in joint family are exploited, demoralised infertile women, subjugated single mothers. The pathos just change the shape, color and sizes with mothers, sisters and daughters.

Modern woman means the one who wears western dresses, rides a bike and goes to ATM and to beauty salons. Whereas, the fact remains that she is underpaid, harassed at work and changes the TV channel on seeing a commercial on sanitary pads.

As a Lawyer I say, civil laws protect you only inside the court rooms. And the society advocates the criminals-at-large.   

There is no reason to celebrate Women’s day only if you think cutting the cake or getting a manicure was all that would complete it.  

And the Award for the 'Best' Foolish goes to....

“Is shehar mein pagalon ki kami nahi Ghalib…Ek dhoondo hazaar miltey hain..” (There is no dearth of fools in the world, search for one and you get thousands, Oh Glalib)  I am not sure whether this was really penned by Mirza Ghalib, but being so witty, I think it could be.

Anyway, I never tried to search for fools, as I always was surrounded by them- wherever I went, they followed me like a magnet. I have seen the biggest of the big ones but there is one, whom I’d like to give the consistent performance award of extreme irrationality. 

I was going through some old photographs of mine yesterday. I saw I looked fairer, slimmer, beautiful and even taller. This old me was carefree, happy and sad for small reasons, trusted in the community she belonged to, the University she studied in, the Employer she worked for and the candidates she voted for.

This old me believed in whatever she did was in her best interests, and was right irrespective what others thought about it and strongly believed that she shouldn’t change.

She tried to control the environment around her- so that everything remains the same, even minimal changes distracted her.

She thought she’d always play in the park where she used to go with her father. She presumed the same hair saloon would give her the hair cut that suited her face so much for the rest of her life and her buddies would remain as close, forever.

She thought her one Masters degree would open all the doors to the corporate world and she’d rule the world and she would be able to buy her own bike one day.

She thought she’d always be scared of the dark and she would never travel/ stay alone as the world was full of criminals. 

She had ego that she thought was her self esteem. She stayed at a house which she thought was her home. She loved someone whom she thought was her man. She thought her life was ‘set’.

She thought she would never come out of the depression she was in. She thought the joy that she had got due to her success would keep her happy for the rest of her life. 

She thought wrinkles occur to only mothers and teachers. She thought problems come only to those who did wrong. She thought the easiest way to be happy was to buy a new frock.

She thought her baby brother would never mind what she told him. She thought her parents would decide on her behalf forever.

She thought she would dangle her bangles before her grandmother when she gets married. She thought they’d go to the same temple and would ask the priest for extra sweets. She thought death comes only to those in movies.

I was sure-none in the world deserved this trophy that I am carrying in my hand of extreme stupidity. Yes, I have earnt it religiously. I have given my whole life for this.