Equanimity.

I am currently sitting inside the temple complex and listening to a monk speak in a language that I don’t understand. I honestly cannot fathom what draws me to this place so much.

McLeodganj is beautiful in ways I cannot describe. Of course, there is the mountains and the scenic beauty and the bloody amazing food and some cozy little cafés to while away your time, but there is something more and beyond all of these that constitutes this place. There is something in the air, something that fills me with wonder and makes me restless and yet settles me, eases me, makes me feel peace.

People here have seen suffering. You can see it in their eyes, in their kindness, in their value for joy. You can see it their lack of arrogance despite where they come from. This has taught me one of my most important lessons in life, that of humility.

People who face severe distress often end up basking in the arrogance of it. As though they didn’t deserve it, as though they deserved better. In all fairness, they probably did deserve better. But then they start demanding better out of everything in life, every circumstance, even if it is unfair in places. Why, I myself have done that for years – deliberately or not, I do not know. And then, I look at the people here, demanding justice not privilege. I know that struggles must never be compared but I also know that people here have faced more grief than I can barely imagine. I don’t mean to belittle my troubles but looking at their humility only makes me feel small. It makes me look at the concept of privilege from a whole new perspective. 

When I hear their stories, sometimes from books, sometimes from the people themselves, stories of refugees who have traveled strenuously across mountains for months – starving, seeing their loved ones die or leaving them behind, forced to leave their land, their beliefs and more so their identities, and when I see their perseverance and their means of claiming it back, all the concepts of historical exploitation and war and violence and affirmative action I have learnt in three years of college lectures (and read about back and forth in newspapers) get dissolved. I am only reminded of one word - equanimity.

People here have a resolve; a clear purpose and they are doing everything they can to get there without complacency, with compassion. And with equanimity. Despite the unparalleled wrong that has been done to them, they don’t seek revenge; they only want a way ahead. They are constantly putting up a fight for their rights but without harming others. Honestly, a few years back I would have laughed it off. How can you put up a fight without violence, I would have asked. And yet, they do it. Every single minute of their lives.

It is probably this resilience that fills up the air.

Rapes Are Not Going To Stop.

Its as simple as this. Rapes are not going to stop. No matter how many rapists you castrate and how many women you blame. No matter how many women start dressing 'decently' (whatever that means) and how many of them stop coming out of their homes altogether. No matter what the degree of punishment is. Rapes are not going to stop. 

I am not being cynical. This is THE truth. This is the truth because clothes, location, timings and sexual fulfillment have absolutely nothing to do with rape. This is the truth because the responsibility to protect can also turn into the freedom to oppress. This is the truth because we continue to assign roles of power differently to people of different sexes. This is the truth because justice has slowly been taken over by the idea of revenge. BECAUSE UNLESS A RAPIST'S CONSCIENCE FORGIVES HIM, TRUE JUSTICE CANNOT BE SERVED. This is the truth because sadly we raise our boys differently from our girls (or non-boys). And after all of that we go ahead and solely blame the rapist for his crimes. What about the people who turn him into a rapist?

And so rapes are not going to stop. Not unless we raise our children as children and not as boys or girls. They're not going to stop unless we teach our children to start respecting people for who they are; however different they may be from ourselves. They're not going to stop unless we tell our kids that our gender does NOT dictate our identity or our actions. They're not going stop unless we completely separate the idea of 'Power' from that of Gender'. Completely. And they are not going to start unless we start applying this into our own lives irrespective of what others say or do. It's as simple as that. And yet, it isn't.

Take my word on that.

Reflection.

When I was seven I fell into water once. The water pulled all of me in.
Literally and otherwise too.

The swimming coach managed to bring me up and back but not in entirety.
A part of me was left behind in the depth of the dark shadows of the water.

When I was seven, I was split into half.

I am terrified of water even today, especially from a height. I know what it is capable of.

When I was seven, I learnt what incomplete meant. And I did not have to look into the dictionary.
Life teaches you things that the dictionary doesn't have space for.

And then, I grew old. I trembled with fear each step of the way up.
The water seemed farther away but it was still calling unto me. OR, was it the water that was calling?

I haven't made my way down yet, I am scared of the depth. No matter how far I am, when I look down I still see the other half. I try to give it a hand and pull it up  back but I am unable to reach.
I guess I need to go down further.

But, I am very scared of slipping in. It's tricky you see.
Incomplete, is a little better than nothing.

How To Make a Dreamcatcher. :D

Sunday enthu-cutlet-ness put to use in making mini Dream-catchers. :D

(Disclaimer: I failed miserably the first few times till I finally got a hang of the weaving. Therefore, I suggest keep chocolate and your favourite music handy. Good company and occasional help from Pinterest also worked for me. Perseverance, my friend, is the key.)

So, here is a step-by-step with pictures of how you can make these gorgeous little things.

STEP ONE: Gathering materials:

I pretty much used Jugaad throughout. There are only three to four materials required:

1) Any sturdy hoop. (You can use wire to make your own. Make sure to cover it up with lace, so it looks pretty.)

2) String/ Thread (a needle may come handy)

3) Feathers and Beads to decorate.

STEP TWO: Weaving the web:

(Step two originally is making the hoop, but since I had a ready-made one, I am skipping it. You can use Step two on this webpage to create one from scratch)

1) Imagine you are a spider. I read it on YouTube and trust me, it helps. :D

2) Now, choose a point on the hoop and tie one end of the string in a knot. Stretch the string to another point and loop it around the hoop - you can refer to the picture below. It is prefered that you do this in a clock-wise direction.

Keep doing this till the entire circle ends. Make sure that the points are equidistant from each other. At the end of this step, my bangle cum dream-catcher looked like this:

3) Continue weaving the web by making loops on the the base strings. The loop needs to be in the center of the base string. You can have as many rounds of loops on your web. The tiny loops might need you to use a needle to pull the thread in and out.

4) Insert a bead into the thread and secure it by knotting it properly. I suggest double-knotting, to be on the safe side. And with that, your base is ready.

Ta-da! The spidey thing helped, didn't it?! :D

STEP THREE - Decorating the Dream-catcher:

According to folklore, feathers are used to decorate it. I picked up old feather earrings to get my job done. You need to attach the feather and one point of the base to either ends of a string and you can use multiple feathers. I used only one, and here is how mine turned out.

However, you can use ANYTHING to decorate it. Go crazy, my friend. I checked a couple of pictures on Google, and there were wacky ideas. One of them was an earring holder. I might try my hands on that one, the next time. 

I made two more and actually decorated one of them only with beads. The blue one remains my favorite, the colors just seemed to blend in! 

 I hope this was of help. Thank you for stopping by. : )

Second Thoughts

Guest post by Rekha Kamath

Introduction: This is an account of what happened when four of us (all women), decided to go to Goa on a weekend. Events during our return journey prompted this write-up. Reflecting on this trip brought to my attention a staggering number of moments when I felt anger, exasperation and sadness.

“Why do you need feminism? Why that word?”

“You have all your rights. Why do YOU need to be a feminist?”

“Women like us don’t need to call ourselves feminists.”

“You pseudo-feminist. You don’t have to face half the trouble some other women have to, and you call yourself a feminist?”

Time and again, questions like these get thrown at me. Time and again, people try to convince me that I don’t need feminism. That it’s Wrong (yes, with a capital W) to call myself a feminist. Feminism has become another f-word that shouldn’t be uttered out loud.

Today, if you were to ask me why I need feminism, I would tell you this- It is because I have a meek but compelling voice inside my head, which constantly utters second thoughts. My actions are outcomes of constant tussles with this voice. I shall elaborate.

“Let us go to Goa,” suggests one of my roommates. Long weekend, why not. We decide to bundle up our battered work-stressed selves, and start planning. Trains are booked, buses are expensive. “Let’s hitchhike or figure out as we go!”, suggests N. Sounds exciting, until the voice inside my head pipes up. No, what if we get raped/molested on the way? No way. I book the tickets.

Friends suggest we book our stay when we get there. “I have asked four people already, they all say the same thing.” Okay. Fair enough, people seem to have done this already. It is cheaper for us, and you can’t always trust online reviews of places. Wait. Maybe these people travelled with male friends. Will these places have good toilets? I might be menstruating. Let me take down phone numbers of hotels, just in case.

We get to Goa, finally. We find a hotel, close to the beach. N wants to wear a bikini top to the beach. Pretty, and comfortable. What if someone heckles? Very likely. Indian, wearing a bikini. Well, we don’t care. Screw them.

Later, at the beach, a group of 18 year olds call her Miss. Sexy and try to ram their car into her. I told you so.

Men are clicking photographs of bikini clad women on the beach. I hear comments made on us, on other women. I see cameras phone cameras turning our way too, occasionally. Turn your body. Don’t let them get your face. Warn your roommates. Someone sings a suggestive Bollywood song. Ignore them. Confrontation will lead to ugly defensive fights and eventually labeling you a slut. Attention seeking b***h, they will call you.

Rest of the trip is spent frolicking on the beach, and dodging/tuning out hecklers. She is proud of me. Tired and rejuvenated by the sunshine and sand, we forget the heckling, the “Happy Holi *wink wink*!” remarks, and make our way to the Goa-Pune bus.

Chaos. Where’s our bus? Nobody is picking up our calls. The name on the ticket and the names of buses don’t match. Finally, one enterprising ticket checker helps us. Turns out, Christopher travels possibly had a religious epiphany, and sent Mahakali travels instead. Alright. We made it just in time. The cleaner of the bus is visibly annoyed. He looks us up and down, decides he could afford to yell in disrespect. Forty pair of eyes judge us as we walk in, mumbling apologies for not turning up ahead of time. Notice those eyes darting to your legs? Where’s the wrap-on I wanted you to buy? Oops. Rest of the journey will be spent ignoring stares and remarks.

Men are staring, says A. Ignore. Let them judge. We have practiced and perfected the art of ignoring.

Bus stops at a drive-in hotel. Those eyes again. Ignore this time. Don’t react. Hunger soon shuts her up, and our tired bodies contort themselves back into the rickety bus.

Everyone soon falls into tired slumbers- a bus full of potential contortion artists. A loud bam wakes everyone up, and someone groans about a punctured tire. The painful wait for a replacement bus starts. A group of men station themselves outside our windows, speaking loudly in Tamil. They assume nobody understands their obnoxious remarks, ignorant that yours truly and N speak the language. “Can I ask them to shut up? They are too loud.” True. I cannot sleep, and I desperately want to. But they are a group of men. What if they abuse you, call you names? There are different ways they could make your journey difficult. Let us not mess with strangers.

The replacement bus arrives, and forty adults run towards it, as though the seats would vanish. Everyone is probably occupying the previously allotted seats, I think, following the same serial numbers. We walk in to see a crowded bus, with people occupying any seat they pleased. There are people occupying the seats allotted to us. A woman holding an infant is pleading with a young man for her seat, and he casually remarks, “I wasn’t the first person to change my seat.” His voice progressively gets louder and angrier, and he storms off to the back as I stare in surprise. How easily can you adopt and adapt into someone else’s mistake?

The four of us struggle to find seats, and refuse to sit. The cleaner comes in, as per our request. “This a 45 seater Ma’am, there are 48 of you.” Men push me, to make their way to the back. I voice my refusal. Why isn’t anyone else expressing their annoyance? Forty adults in the bus, and maybe seven of us calling for common sense.

“Why aren’t people in their seats? Please ask them to go back to their allotted seats.” “Ma’am, aap log hi settle karo, humein nahi pata,” the cleaner promptly replies. (Ma’am, you figure that out yourself, I don’t know) “Fine, what happens to the fourth person? We have four tickets and three seats now.” “Driver ke saath cabin mein aa jaayiye!” (You can travel in the cabin with the driver). Alright. My brain mumbles a yes, and I am ready to grab my bags, when she wakes up. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cabin in the front with the driver and three strangers? NO. If you get groped/molested/raped/abused, you will be called a slut. Your clothes will validate it too. She wins, again. I refuse, take up a seat with another woman, and sit down. The men outside our window are now behind me, being obnoxiously loud again. They snigger at my meekness. It’s okay. Safety first. Ego can wait. A and N struggle to put their heavy rucksacks on the overhead shelves. One of the men remarks in Tamil, “Somebody ask these girls to shut up and sit down!” Giggles and sneers follow, along with loud laughter. Very funny, of course. By passing a veiled comment snidely, you have proven your machismo.

She wants to pipe up, but instead I turn and scream, “I perfectly understand Tamil. Please stop commenting. Please stop commenting.” “Huh?!” “Yeah, please just stop.” Someone repeats my remarks in Tamil, along with a mumbled “They speak Tamil.” Even she has had enough now, for second thoughts are replaced with the oh-so-familiar feelings of anguish, exasperation and disgust. Around me, the obnoxious men have gone to sleep. Am I the only person sleeplessly pondering questions of self-respect? How do you have any amount of self-respect left, after having caused anguish?

For anybody who asks me why I need feminism, this is my reply.

I need feminism because I live in a world where all my actions are governed by second thoughts. Second thoughts that have perfectly internalized sexism.

I need feminism because fear for my own safety has become second nature to me.

I need feminism because if anything happens to me, it is because of my clothes, it is because of my face, it is because of MY actions, it is because I was reckless.

I need feminism because consistently, people tell me sexism is no longer a problem-that women are equal now. That because I was an “equal woman”, I had no right to talk about sexism. That every day, I had to take disrespect flung at me, in whichever form, and shut up. That if I dared to speak up, I would be called pretentious, phony, bitchy.

I need feminism because I am tired. I am tired of fear, disrespect, being judged, being called names, of having to learn to tune out and ignore these.

I need feminism because character depends on one’s actions, not on one’s clothes.

I need feminism because I deserve to feel safe everywhere, in spite of what I am wearing.

I need feminism because everyone deserves to be respected, and sexism needs to be called out.

I need feminism because as a woman with “equal rights”, I shouldn’t have to explain why I am a feminist.

I need feminism because I shouldn’t be spending sleepless nights in anger, while perpetrators of sexism sleep peacefully elsewhere.

I need feminism because I don’t deserve being called one of “those girls”. I need feminism because I shouldn’t have to write three pages on this.

I need feminism because clearly, the society is facing a crisis, where women’s lives are unfairly fraught with disadvantages of varied nature. If you could fix that and then tell me I don’t need feminism, I would gladly agree.

Disclaimer: I don’t mean, in any way, to sound misandrist. If I have come across that way, I sincerely apologize. There is no intention of portraying any one category of people in bad light. Whenever I have used the terms people/society, I have meant both women and men. While much anger has been vented out in this piece, I also fully am grateful to all the good people I have met.

Rekha Kamath is currently a Teach For India Fellow in Pune. She teaches second graders in the PCMC Corporation School. She describes herself as a Development Studies Student and feminist.

This is the link to the original article:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/rekha-kamath/second-thoughts/10151974183846987

I Am Not My Gender.

I asked my class today, how many thought Barbie Dolls were only meant for girls. A number of them put their hands up. Except for a few of them who had neutral or no opinions, everyone cumulatively agreed that boys shouldn't be playing with them. In fact, when Om confessed to having played with them, they laughed. The class also cumulatively stated that girls can't (/shouldn't) play football. When I asked them why (I think they call me 'Why Didi' behind my back), the responses I got, disturbed me. Girls are not strong enough, Bhakti said. Therefore they can't kick the ball, Ekansh added. Krishna said he knows that girls can't run fast. About cricket, Swaroop told me, girls can't lift the bat because the bats are heavy.

A couple of days back, Aditi came crying to me. Harshada had apparently scorned her for having worn 'shorts' one day. Aditi also doesn't go out to play because there aren't any other girls in her colony and the boys won't play with her.

Rohan wants to play with Harshada but is asked to go and play with the boys instead. Om's best friend is a girl and he often complains about how the class is mocking him. Krishna won't wear leggings (a part of the annual day costume) because he thinks only girls wear it. Bhavik won't hold Meenakshi's hand because she is a girl. The class sneers each time I mention how well Pranjal Bhaiya cooks. Boys cant cook, they tell me. They approve of me hugging Veda Didi but hugging Pranjal Bhaiya results in either high-pitched 'HAWWs' or sneaky smiles.

As much as this disturbs me, I dare not judge them. My kids are 7 years old. Some maybe 8. They are unaware of the boxes they've been in and/or have built around themselves. Already. Unaware that this where it all starts - Gender Stereotype.

I don't want to answer the million questions about why I've been talking about these. I am scared. It's difficult. Very. Rather, I don't want them to build more boxes. I don't want to tell them that boys also cook. I don't want to tell them about girls playing football. I don't want to tell them that girls can do 'boy things' and boys can do 'girl things', This is not what I want them to take away.

What I DO want them to learn is that it doesn't matter. That there are no 'boy things' and no 'girl things'. That I am not my gender. That they are not theirs. And while on one hand I am determined to do this, there is a lot of my faith which is being put to test.

It bothers me so much. To anybody who asks me how rape, sexual harassment and Violence against women have anything to do with upbringing and family, this is my answer.

This is my answer as to why I don't believe in capital punishment for rapists. This is my answer as to why rape is more cause than consequence. This is my answer as to how patriarchy is as oppressive on men as it is on women. This is my answer as to why I felt pity more than anger when a fellow biker lurched at me today and broke into a song while I was on the bike with Veda. This - is my answer as to why I feel guilty each time I feel extremely fearful of men around me.

I want to teach my children to make correct choices because of their will. Not because of their gender.

My big plan now, is to just give them as many examples. And let them figure it out by themselves.

Amen.

Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.

A Lifetime Of Memories

Memories are tricky. To only think of all the memories that this place gave me; makes me so happy, that you can only imagine it must have been a joyride. But it is not easy, to reproduce meaning of how these memories matter to me, these tiny little scraps of paper coming out of everywhere at the most mundane of moments, reminding me of why they were written in the first place.

I have been packing these memories away in boxes now. Not only tiny little pieces of paper in actual light-weight cardboard boxes to save space around the room, but making up these boxes to be stored in tiny little corners of my mind too. Memories. A lifetime of them.

And then they begin to disappear. It scares you, but you were the one who started to store them away anyway, didn’t you? To make space for more. And you think they’ve disappeared until this one moment, you listen to this song, the same ol’ one that you sang again and again and again much to the annoyance of those who never understood how four people could never get bored of the same song despite singing it again and again and again. And there it is - a blast from the past - the cliché, but it hits you so real nonetheless.

You think of the old times and you decide you don’t want to add meaning but just to think of them the way they were meant to be.

The good old times, yes.

Like the very first time we ever walked into the Wine And Beer Shop and the sense of know-it-all-ness with which Ritika asked for ‘3 pint tuborg aur ek bada RS dena’ while Pragya and I waited with as much a petrified look on our faces as the ‘menfolk’ in the shop had. Haha, can you ever get over that feeling?

Or the night spent shivering at the beach, waiting as each minute went by, for the sun to rise. *Chal, aaj sunrise dekhte hain* was the plan, and what we did was sleep under those twinkling stars, some of us. While the rest of them built sand castles. Sand castles, soon to be swept away by those deep, dark waves, whose music you could hear while you slept. And the sun did rise, as we stood mesmerized with our feet digging deeper and deeper into the sand, taking the wind in, pausing life, and when we got back, we gave each other the longest smiles that ever existed in the face of the earth. We knew what meaning that moment bore, for each other and for ourselves.

Of the timeless moments spent in the lawns outside the very red brick walls, with Shubi making Freudian analogies on plucking grass, the countless slip-of-tongues Pragya made. (The multiples of which I did too) Of spending all the free time we had making practicals, cursing practicals yet making them with utmost care. Of when Group B stood by each other, personifying integrity by refusing to make entertainment of another’s life. (Remember that, Andy?) – Of learning how multiple relationships change our attachment style, and not necessarily distort it. Of bearing through the most generalized statements with a heavy heart and yet holding on to what we believed in.

One open cardboard box leads to the other and you find yourself staring at more images from the past. Images you thought had been washed away in time, but have managed to linger on in the midst of the storm.

Like that of the busiest morning, where I managed to sneak out of the most important department gathering to celebrate a birthday. It was difficult to weigh, the priorities but I knew my arrival was awaited by people to whom I meant something. Happy Birthday Kusum, we sang, cake in my mouth, my mind split into the thousand other things that were happening around me. Celebrations are the easiest to forget and the easiest to recall. Be it the numerous celebrations we had as a department or the ones Suversha Ma’am gave us an excuse to have. I am like your Grandmother, she said, and this is my gift to you - A gift I still hold on to dearly, the memory of a day well spent. And of course, then there are bit of papers about the everydays of life. The journals from Karuna ma’am’s class, we all resented back then, we all love to peek into now. How time changes the value of something for us! The support stories from Diana ma’am’s lectures. Her own stories. The breaking of archetypes. The breaking of stereotypes. The whole new world like it was supposed to be. And of course, fearing every moment that you entered late into your Political Sc. class, and still sleeping through it with your eyes open, LIKE A BOSS. Turning into countries to understand IR better, I was THE China, no, if I am not wrong? And Fatimah Russia and Jaya something else. Pragya the facilitator. Funnily enough, things you think you will remember better have faded memories you’re holding onto with both your hands dearly.

The tiny little things. The conversations you had. The unending evenings with Kranti at the Hostel. (Read: Pseudo-home). Trying to hug Shibani every chance you get, apologizing thereafter. The cooking food and cooking up stories with Pragya at HER apartment. (Read: Pseudo – conquered home) Studying for exams together but no not really, rather sleeping through most of it. Watching mundane episodes of The BBT and laughing our heads off. Our affinity to end up in the reference section despite our hate for it. Our first night stay and the conversations we need not remember because what matters is that we had them. Stalking people endlessly. (Baaaani, remember this?) The unplanned for, frivolous train travel and dirty feet at the end of it. Cribbing through PMS, cribbing after PMS. Cribbing all the time. And yet being the joyful lot. Being frontbenchers, being hated by the back ones for it. Clicking pictures ALL THE TIME. (Ishti, we made a deal!)

The difficult times. Getting through the difficult times because of sheer love from the people. Samagam. Montage. Trying yet not giving up. Falling down yet holding each other through pieces. That conversation the four of us had sitting in the lower Foyer. Remember that, the day Samagam got over – Anahita, Sandy, Tvish? The Award. The Dilemma. The Sacrifice.

The places. Café. Nescafe. The red-bricked building. The lawns. The mean cats all over the place. 900 photographs. The college Magazine and the Visitor’s Room (What a memory, ah!), The auditorium, room no. 67, the foyers, the empty corridors. The place I used to call home.

The memory of yourself. Careless. Ambitious. With big dangling earrings and a huge purple file. Surrounded by people who loved you to no end. And by people who loved them too.

The memories are too many. Too diverse. All over the place. The cardboard boxes refuse to shut, even when forced. Tiny bits of paper from everywhere, fly around, settle down on your eyelashes. Waiting to be touched again.

Summer Haze.

To hell with the mush we decided. To hell with all of it. And yet, when I saw I couldn't help but smile. I guess love does keep us alive.

I miss you. Challenge accepted and failed. Sorry, couldn't have said that in a better way.

Someday, someday after TFI, someday after the UN, someday after the miracle discoveries, someday  after Africa, someday after the wilderness, someday after all the dreams fulfilled, there will be one left and that shall be you.

Or maybe, we will do it all together.

Mush or no mush.

Into Thin Air.

The blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

She wants to break open
To run free and wild
To write poetry
And have someone read it out to her.

She wants to understand
The song the bird hums each morning
The message the breeze carries within
To capture the dewdrops and store them forever
To save the memories from dying.

She wants to seek comfort, to find solace
In the joy of a baby's laughter
In the tinkling of the wind chimes by her window
In the pitter-patter of the raindrops on a cold winter night.

She wants to wrap the spirit of a shining star
In her scarred and wounded palms
And keep holding on to it
Till the end of eternity.

But the blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

Twitch your nose. And laugh. Now

There is a sad sad song I just heard  and couldn't help but think about the many things in life that we take for granted. No, we don't do it deliberately, or do we?

When was the last time you hugged your mother? Or danced in the rain? When was the last time you bought your pet gifts? And laughed with your nose twitched at a cheesy joke? Or cooked for your best friends? When was the last time you remember remembering all these things?

When will we learn to value that which is ours, without focusing on acquiring that which is not ours? When will we learn when to be satisfied?

Don't you mistake me. I am not trying to establish dictatorship. AND, mind you, there are SO many things I take for granted myself. I am so used to, it had turned into an emotional construct. But I am trying to not. Before it is too late.

Go, curl up in your bed with a cup of hot coffee and a book by your side and listen to your favourite song and watch Kung Fu Panda later. And when it rains, don't forget to count the drops. Haha, dance, I mean.

Starting Line.

My flight has been delayed by 2 hours, I am sitting at the boarding area staring joblessly at a 2 year old baby rolling himself in the dust of the airport floor. What an age to be in! Bored to death, I decide to read random articles and chance upon this- http://www.indianexpress.com/news/that-boy-in-yellow-nail-polish/1041760/0

I suggest all of you to read it. I love the way she has put forth the idea of cliche and anti-cliche.

Haha, it also reminds me of how we used to dress up Aryan, my nephew, as Radha. Such a cutie he is. Its a long story, I'll tell you some other time.

A lot of things have been happening around. The Delhi Gangrape case is blazing the news and social networking sites. And I can't help but relate the article to the case.

Where does it all start?

Gender stereotypes stem out from a child's social setting and most importantly, upbringing. Boy children are expected to only play with violent superhero toys, or cars, or you know, 'boy' stuff. Girls, are meant to play with barbie dolls and other dolls and other dolls and kitchen sets and basically 'girly stuff'. Boy clothes are blue. Girl clothes are pink. And so are the rest of their belongings, room, bedspread, towel, accessories, even stationery. Fairy tales teach little girls AND little boys that the princess is a weakling, a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued by the strong prince charming. And in reality, the same little girls and the same little boys fall for this rationale. In a more conservative set up, the sole purpose of a daughter's life is to get married and serve her husband and cook for her in laws, while the boy is to grow up to be the man of the house, and step out of the house to earn a living - these ideas being enforced into a child's mind right from the time he/she are born.

While this trend is the most prevalent in this part of the world, given its patriarchal orientation, we have seen some change over the last few years. Attempts have been made to empower the girl, make her 'strong like a son'. However, like Lalita Iyer mentions in her article, we celebrate it when our girls do boy things and not enough when our boys do girl things. A very common thing we get to hear from parents of a accomplished successful girl is - "Our daughter is our son". On the other hand if the boy decides to take up a 'girl oriented career' (trust me, there are stereotypes related to jobs we are all aware of), he is often ridiculed at. Boys are not meant to cry, sensitive responses from boys are labelled as cowardice. The male ego is not born, it is made to develop.

At a lot homes, examples are set for children, the wives have domestic roles, she is meant to stay home, have babies, look after them. Her 'job' is looking after household chores. She is meant to serve her husband sexually and otherwise if required, not complaining and not asking for anything in return. She is expected to have learnt all of this from her mother. The husband is the provider for the family, he has therefore the right to do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants AND sleep with whoever he wants.

Besides these, there are other societal influences. Alcohol is a boy thing. Visiting temples is a girl thing. Going out is a boy thing. Sitting home is a girl thing. The idea of good and bad is mostly settled by the society and in this part of the world, anything 'good' for boys is bad for the girls.

When the same boy grows up to be a rapist, I wonder why the people get surprised. If you haven't taught a child to be sensitive and respectful of all other people irrespective of their identities, how do you expect them to respect the freedom of a woman?

I urge you to think deeply, the concept of rape is largely associated with power play. Though sometimes, it could be a case of revenge or sheer sexual impulsiveness, mostly it is about gender identities. It is about the man believing that he has more power than the woman. In these cases, rape becomes a platform to assert this notion of power.

In my opinion, rape is psychopathological. It is not normal, but with the kind of edge that men are given over women, the society seems to sanction it. And the society is made of people, like you and me.

There has been a very strong response to the Delhi case. Castrate the rapists, people say. Hang them to death, others assert. The rapists deserve the punishment too. In fact, I believe they deserve to frikkin Rot In Hell. But hanging them is not a solution. It is too easy a punishment. They need to be made to realise the gravity in their deed.

We need to dig deeper. We need to talk about eradicating rape. We need to stop talking about consequences but start talking about the root cause of it.

We need to sensitise people, especially men. Pathology has treatment, and if rape is a case of abnormality, there has to be a solution to remove it. The solution lies amongst us.

This incident left me shaken and crippled with fear. And learning martial arts will not remove this fear, neither will killing the criminals. Stricter laws need to be enforced, policies need to be changed, I agree. But what requires change the most, is the mindset of the people.

When I grow up, I want to have a daughter. And a son. And I am going to teach them to respect each other and the rest of the world irrespective of their gender identities.

The process of changing the society is very slow, the only way I can start is by changing myself. And so can you. And I hope someday change will happen, if not for me or you, for the strong girl fighting for her life at the Delhi hospital today and for hundreds of others who fight this battle everyday. I have this dream.

On an unrelated note, my flight is here, the food they gave me is horrible and I can't wait to get home. 

There is so much more I want to write, and will soon.

Death.

Reading Lolita In Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.

Excerpts from  Part III, Chapter 33.

"Less than an year after the peace, on Saturday  June 3, 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini died. His death was not officially announced until the next morning at seven a.m.,... thousands had gathered outside his house on the outskirts of Tehran...

...I remember the morning we heard the news of Khomeini's death. The entire family had gathered in the living room, lingering in the state of dull shock and bewilderment that death always brings with it. And this was no ordinary death. The radio announcer had broken down and sobbed. This would be the way with every public figure from then on, whether they appeared in mourning ceremonies or were interviewed individually; weeping seemed to be a requirement, as if there was no other way of expressing the magnitude of our grief.

It gave us all a feeling of unity and closeness to be sitting in the living room, with the inevitable smell of coffee and tea, speculating about the death: desired by many, feared by many, expected by many and, now that it had occurred, oddly anti-climatic to both friends and foes... I always associate Khomeini's death with Negar's simple pronouncement- for she was right: the day women did not wear the scarf in public would be the real day of his death and the end of his revolution. Until then, we would continue to live with him.

The government announced five days of national mourning and forty days of official mourning. Classes were cancelled and universities shut... Everything felt blurry, like a mirage in intense heat. The blur remained with me throughout that day and all those days of mourning, when we spent most of our time by the television watching the funeral and the endless ceremonies...In death, there was a need to humanize him, an act he had opposed during his life...

... but I remember feelings and images. Like bothersome dreams, images from those days mix with sounds in my memory as they did in reality: the announcer's shrill and exaggerated voice, always on the verge of breaking, the mourning marches, the prayers, the messages from high-ranking officials and the chanting mourners, drowning all other sounds: 'Today is the day of mourning! Khomeini, the breaker of idols, is with God.'

...The events of the frenetic day come to me in fragments. The glass coffin I remember well, and the flowers arranged in the container were gladiolas. I also remember the swarm of mourners-it was reported that hundreds of thousands had began to pour into Tehran, a black-clad army waving black flags, the men tearing their shirts, beating their chests, the women in their black chadors wailing and moaning, their bodies writhing in ecstatic grief...

When I heard that many had died that day and that tens of thousands were injured, I asked myself stupidly what sort of status these dead would be given. We gave people more rank and more space in death than in life. Opponents of the regime and the Baha'is had no status, they were denied headstones and were thrown into common graves. Then there the martyrs of war and revolution, each of whom had his own special space at the graveyard, with artificial flowers and photographs to mark the grave. Could these people be ranked as martyrs? Would they be granted a place in heaven?...

The government had set aside huge supplies of food and drink for the mourners. Alongside the frenzy of beating chests and fainting and chanting, rows upon rows of mourners were to be seen on the roadside, eating their sandwiches and drinking their soft drinks as if they were out on a holiday picnic. many who actively disliked Khomeini in his lifetime attended the funeral... I remember talking to a middle-aged man on the staff at the university, who lived in the poorer, more traditional part of the town. He described the busloads of neighbors, disenchanted with Khomeini and his revolution, who had gone nonetheless, like him, to the funeral. I asked him why he went. Was he forced to go?  No, but it seemed the thing to do. Everyone was going - how would it look if he didn't? He paused and then added, After all, an event like this happens only once in a lifetime, doesn't it?
... The Government in a move to turn Khomeini into a sacred figure, tried to create a shrine for him close to the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery. It was hastily built, without taste or beauty: a country famous for some of the most beautiful mosques in the world now created the gaudiest shrine to this last imam. The monument was built close to the burial place of the martyrs of the revolution: a small fountain gushed sprays of red water, symbolizing the everlasting blood of the martyrs.
... At the start of the revolution a rumor had taken route that Khomeini's image could be seen in the moon. Many people, even perfectly modern and educated individuals, came to believe this. They had seen him in the moon. He had been a conscious myth-maker, and he had turned himself into a myth. What they mourned after a well-timed death - for after the defeat in the war and the disenchantment, all he could do was die - was the death of a dream. Like all great myth-makers, he had tried to fashion reality out of his dream, and in the end, like Humbert, he had managed to destroy both reality and his dreams. Added to the crimes, to the murders and tortures, we would now face this last indignity - the murder of our dreams. Yet he had done this with our full compliance, our complete assent and complicity."

Bal Thackeray died. Ajmal Kasab died (rather, was killed).
Or did they really?

I HAD to post this. 

Sheets Of Empty Canvas

"I believe that believing that we survive, is what makes us survive."

- Dr. Izzie Stevens, Grey's Anatomy

You know, I want to take a road of my own. Yes, be famous and all that shit. But that's secondary. YES, it is. This post is non contextual and introspective. And broken, in pieces. Like I am.

I want to take the journey. I think I am already in one. I want to walk. The endless path. I want to travel and not arrive. No human affiliations, no material aspirations. Just go on.

I want to feel the wind on my hair. Listen to the trees sing. I want to see the grass greener. I want to cross over. I need to cross over.

Whats on your list?

Have you ever gazed at the stars for so long that you know one from the other? If you haven't, get a life, do it tonight. Stare at the starry starry night. You're worth it. Trust me.

This space talks to me. The world tells me I am no different, but the twinkling stars have another story to tell. They shine on to me. I am not different, but I am special. You are special, too.

I am not different. But I am the difference. And I make a difference. I know I do. Just the way you do too. Our aspirations may be different, but we are all bonded by them. I am a dreamer. And so are you. And nothing else matters.

I want to hold on the dreams. Never, NEVER, give up on them. No matter where they take me, no matter what is at stake. 

I have so much to learn. So much left. Still.

But I won't give up.

I believe I survive. And I won't give up.

Be happy, happy, happy! :D

I woke up to some random song blaring at my ears today. It was 1 'o clock in the afternoon, but - Hey, its a Sunday! Apparently my roomies were having a 'very good time' in the lobby (which is right next to my room) absolutely oblivious to the two people trying to get some sleep inside the room. I sat up, and for two long minutes made a face *pissedoff*. Like you'd get scared of me had you seen me then.

But then, I thought hell why? Why should I be pissed? It was a peppy song playing *radhalikesthedancefloor*, I like the dance floor too, didyu know? :D
I danced all the way to the kitchen (much to their shock), danced myself to the breakfast and all the way back to the room. Woohoo. :D

Now Playing: *chal bhatak le nah Baawre. :')

You know, life's going good that way. I haven't been able to finish 'Reading Lolita in Tehran' and its been a month, I have turned into sucha slow reader. Talking of change, there are so many other things that have changed. But you can't expect change to not happen you know, whether you like it or not. Like me turning into the 'Angry Young Man'. (although the more I get angry, the more I learn to channelise. And the more I learn NOT to implode.) Oh, and the seasons, 'changing'.

Winters are here! Honestly, I don't like the cold one bit. :/

What I DO love about Winters, is the Golden sunlight. Rare and beautiful. 

Anyway, Winters are here. I am a angry young woman. and the times are changin' my friend.
And the truth is, you cant do a thing about it, except for be happy.
Because every winter comes with its own share of sunlight.

#nowplaying:

And this song makes me miss Sweta so much!

*ami shudu bashoori-ro shoore te. :')*

I love Sundays! I am so happy. :D

P.S. - My blog is in Coma, and I am the doctor. \m/

Tiny little things.

Of late, I realise, I have stopped writing for myself. Like totally. I don't know whether I have been inhibited, or practically busy or both, it cannot be used as an excuse. And I'm sorry. So this, is my official comeback to blogging, for the time being at least. And I shall try to be as frequent and punctual as possible.

There is so much to start with. SO much.

The last years been super complicated. 2nd year. Phew! I scraped through and that's about it. But the best thing about your past is that it has passed. :D So, coming back to now, I'll just have to say Yay! I don't how much this makes sense but it is 4:03 in the dark and dirty morning and I am supposed to be free writing so please bear with me.

I watched Barfi! and laughed and cried along. It is incredible how tiny little things can bring sheer joy into your life. Tiny little things like a song. And something someone said. An  insignificant moment. A gift we remember from childhood. Tiny little things like characters in a movie. Jhilmil. :') 

I can't tell you how much I loved every bit of her. Every single bit.  

"Itni si hasi itni si khushi, itna sa tukda chand ka
Khwabon ke tinke se, chal banaye aashiyan..."

I tutor a group of autistic students as a part of my NSS, and there is SO much they add on to my life. 2 hours for one day each week becomes a lifetime for me. Tiny little nuances. Gaurav laughing out loud for no reason whatsoever. The mini heart attack you get when Yash approaches you with all his superman energy. Shubham's endless rants, Aditya's endless stories. How stomach aches are directly proportional to homework for Shivam. And Sahil's adrenaline rushes. And Amit's sudden bursts of artistic enthusiasm. And Priyanshu. His naughty smile followed by a puppy face. And his jooosh. How all of them unanimously turn to the window when they hear a plane pass. How playing ball means the world to all of us. How they can dance to the music I can't even listen to. 

Tiny little things. Like little drops of water.

P.S. - Thank you, wirewilltangle. My blog is alive again.

Teri Keh Ke Lunga...

*I wrote this as a part of my english assignment.*

Directed by: Anurag Kashyap

“Ik bagal mein chand hoga, ik bagal mein rotiyan,

Ik Bagal mein neend hogi, ik bagal mein loriyan.”

Gangs of Wasseypur is story based on real life incidents that happened in Wasseypur and Dhanbad across 30 years and 3 generations. Kashyap has kept the movie undoubtedly real - except for certain stances of dragged unnecessary scenes of humorous action - the ordinariness of it is what makes it extra-ordinary, the unconventional “evilwinsovergood” ending strengthening its ties to reality.

The plot is a very complicated story made simple. Gangs of Wasseypur is a story of revenge across generations. Set in Wasseypur, a village in Bihar, the movie initially revolves around the increasing differences between the Pathans and the Qureshis, while the Zamindars take advantage of this gap and prosper out of it. Ramadhir Singh, the most powerful coal mine contractor in town kills his sidekick Shahid Khan on discovering his plot to overpower and possess his own coal business. A witness to this is his perceived brother – ChachaJi and 7 year old son Sardar Khan. Growing up, Sardar Khan has only one resolve – to seek revenge and kill his father’s murderers – Ramadhir Singh and his aides -the Qureshis. And thus starts a legacy of payback and betrayal. A story expanding over families and sons and sons of sons, till Faizal Khan realizes that it should have all been over with Shahid Khan’s death - this, after he has lost his entire family, except for his pregnant wife and ChachaJi. It has certain masala movie nuances when children from the enemy families fall in love with each other but this can be explained away as an attempt to bring peace. This movie speaks of another important human action – betrayal. The movie ends with Faizal Khan’s half-brother ‘Definite’, this one man he trusted his life on, killing him. The irony however is important to be noted, while on one hand Definite betrays his brother, he does so to keep his mother’s trust. The good man dying while the bad survives- the perceived villain winning while the hero perishes – this ending is avant-garde in Indian cinema, something the audience might have been repulsed by, but it justifies the real life incident this movie is based on. The last scene is Faizal’s wife – Mohsina and their child dreaming away to a beautiful Mumbai Backdrop along with the most consistent character in the movie, ChachaJi.

The acting is at par or I could say above excellent. Richa Chaddha plays Nagma, Sardar Khan’s eccentric 22 turning into 60 year old wife and has stood out. Manoj Bajpai is true to his talent; Huma Qureshi has an important role to play in the second part and is scintillating with her dialogue delivery. The “parmisan lena chahiye tha nah” pierced through many hearts. The cast has done a brilliant job giving in to what Kashyap had expected and there are simply no complaints when it comes to that. The one man proving his worth has however been Siddique, his character going through the most transitions while he effortlessly juggles around. Even his ‘philmi-ness’ has managed to look real.

The movie was released in 2 parts, and unlike the first part, which is ‘perfectly fit’, the second certainly has some extra baggage – these relatively unreal sequences constitute around half-an-hour of the whole movie if put together. The scenes however complement the dialogues and the acting. In spite of the extreme amount of violence, this movie does not hurt the eye. It is explicit in terms of sex and vulgar use of language, extremely overt in the latter in fact, but the language has been used finely to create the required environment. Humour is immense and woven with violence; it adds to the unconventionality of the movie, something only Kashyap is capable is doing of. (Who else would call the characters of his movie Dephinite and Perpendicular?) Intricate human emotions are portrayed through relationships and romance. Although not shot at the original locations, the film will push you into almost similar surroundings of the standard Indian village in Bihar. The movie attracts mixed audiences given its language and outer appearance. This movie has explored unknown territories to emerge as exemplary in case of the “new” in Indian Cinema.

What stands out the most in the movie, apart from brilliant acting, is the sensational music by Sneha Khanwalkar. Khanwalkar has managed to fuse the west with the east, folk with classical, music with noise and create something refreshingly new and original. The explicitly ‘cheap’ innuendos used in the lyrics combined with the electrifying sound effects have given birth to a new genre in Bollywood.

Amidst the backdrop of revenge, betrayal and violence, Gangs of Wasseypur has a much subtler message to offer – the message of resistance and peace.  Despite instances of backstabbing, it speaks of being together through difference and of friendships beyond boundaries. And it speaks of love. It speaks of choices and wrong choices and most of all it speaks of human weaknesses and tolerance. Gangs of Wasseypur has no heroes and no villains. It is a story which begins with circumstances and ends with the same.

Social De-Construction.

(Chapter I)

When I talk of social constructs, nothing is right or wrong. Notions that we have learnt unconsciously through our social environment constitute a part of our personal life. Notions like, ‘a woman will always favour her daughter over her daughter in law’, ‘no woman will ever regret experiencing those defining nine months’, etc, I do not wish to assert that they are all correct, but just that there is a possibility of them being wrong also. The idea here is to consider alternatives. These notions pose a problem when they get converted into absolute ideologies which we start practicing in our public and private spheres. I think that these social constructs are what give birth to stereotypes.

What interests me about the study of psychology most is that it studies behaviour from a very subjective perspective. Unlike other sciences, it believes in individual differences. Two people might not have the same reason behind the same action or they might, but that does not prove that the third one will too. In some way I believe, psychology defies the idea of a majoritarian statistics giving space to minorities and exceptions. It is inclusive yet exclusive. It gives space to choice.

Coming back to stereotypes, let us take the example of love, the ‘idea’ is that love is conditional. My point is there is nothing universal about it. It could be conditional and yet ‘true’ love. (Or it could not as the obvious suggests) Life is more about what things are rather than what it should be anyway, right? And when people sign up for their actions attributing different causes to their behaviour, how universality matters, I fail to understand. I am not against generalization. There are a lot of universal laws pertaining to life – Rape is wrong, for example, nothing can justify it. But when I talk of subjectivity, I am talking of things which are more artless and emotional in nature.

No matter how much statistics argue against, we need to look beyond the obvious. We need to look at all possibilities. The general idea is it might make you broad minded, the subtlety lies in its ability to make you close also. See subjectivity?

This post may come off as a paper or textbook material, it may come off as boring, it may come off as a disappointment or a revelation even. Different people might have different things to take from it or nothing at all. Exactly my point, ma’am.

Photo Source : http://retrieverman.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/its-okay-to-disagree-with-me.jpg

This and That

A friend of mine is a little upset about her unsupportive parents. I told her what no one would dare to. Let them be.

I know it hurts when your parents don’t support you particularly when you plan on do something right. But my mother told me this when I was a baby – When you are doing the right thing, do not hesitate; do not be influenced by anybody, not even me. Well, she didn’t exactly quote the same line, but I am sure this is what she meant.

When I say it is right for you to defy your parents for doing the right thing, I am NOT saying, that they will understand someday. Maybe, they will not. Maybe, they will never. But in your heart, you will not be guilty. You will know you have made them proud. Let them not understand. Move on.

A lot might take offence when I say all parents don’t understand. Well, they are just plain lucky because they haven’t come across such parents. Plain lucky or in denial.

All parents want their children to be happy. Let’s be honest. They struggle, they sacrifice, they work hard - earn a living, all of it for the apple of their eye. But yet differences arise. The differences are not between the parent and the child but between their definitions of happiness. The parent wants the child to be happy the way they want it to be. The child wants its own happiness. Problem. Father thinks child will be happy if he becomes doctor. Child thinks he will be happy a teacher, doesn’t want to become a doctor. Mother thinks child will be happy if she is settled and has a family. Child thinks she will be happy when she establishes an enterprise, marriage is not a priority. Parents think chocolate will make the child happy while all that the child wants is a candy. Problem.

It is incredible how sometimes our parents get influenced by whole of the world than us. They listen to the neighbours, to the magazines, to the shopkeeper, to stupid serials, to the stranger they met at the bus depot, and form opinions about us. Just like we listen to our friends and people we think are friends, to the idiot box, to self-help books, to facebook stalkers, to that guy who committed suicide, to our nanny, and form opinions about them. This way both parties listen to everyone except for each other till the self-created difference arises. And then they blame each other till the difference turn into a problem. And this is how the emotional drama begins.

And then comes the self righteous phase. I have been through this phase myself but haven’t suffered much. I learnt how to deal with it. My mother was quite a rebel herself as a kid and all I had to do was listen to stories from Naani and blackmail her. Of course I knew my limits and I know deep down inside her heart my mother knew I wouldn’t cross them too. We still do this, its like a little game for us.

Also, I know less about restrictions, my mother always lets me make mistakes and then learn from them, rather than bombarding me with lectures beforehand. She is smart, she knows that once I have made a mistake, she will have the upper hand. And I always fall into this trap. Yes, I end up learning, but damn me.

Some parents understand, some don’t. Some will, some will never. I guess I am plain lucky, my mother is a child psychologist (and happens to know me inside out, even things I don’t want her to), I learnt all this stuff about parenting from her only. Just that she wouldn’t explain the same to you this way. I know I am little uptight, and a lot of the above hardly makes sense, but forgive me if you got offended, this was just a little epiphany I had.

Also, no matter what, your parents are humans too. When I was a baby my mum explained to me how she and papa were capable of making mistakes just like me. Just that they were more precautious because they are supposed to be setting examples.

Coming back to no matter what, your parents are humans too. So in spite of everything including their precarious notions and your stupidity, talk to them and make them talk to you. And listen.

Remember, she is your mother and he is your father and they love you. It is very simple, just love them back. Try, and you will know why I wrote this.

P.S. – this is something I realize time and again everytime I look around. There are just so many incredible things you’ve taught me silently. I am so damn lucky, thank you Maa.

Photo source : http://cdn.indulgy.com/R8/X6/m6/62346776061590205k3xs5DOac.jpg