The 'clinking' of Kangana

It was just a regular late evening for me. Like all the other evenings I spend in the company of books, pens and other stationery splattered here and there.

And while my fascination with the nine yard long Indian drape called 'Saree' dates back to Kajol's yellow saree in the 2001 blockbuster K3G, my dream list of sarees has kept growing manifold since then; the latest addition being Kangana's turquoise one I caught her wearing that evening as I turned on my Jio TV. For a change, this time around, it isn't the 'inappropriate' dressing sense of the woman that has sparked controversy. Neither it is the 'extra cleavage' nor the 'thigh-high slit' that has given bloggers some meaty stuff to write about. This time, it was the clinking of 'Kangana' that has made quite a few people lose sleep.

I'm nobody to comment upon the genuineness of her stories for that's none of my business. But I do hail this National Award-winning actress for not mincing words and putting a few really thought-provoking things in perspective. For example, when you claim someone has got 'Asperger Syndrome', you must know what you are talking about. There are real people who suffer from this. As good, mature human beings, we've no moral right to create a stigma in the society for the weaker ones in the process of feeding our insatiable egos. The indecorous usage of the word 'rape' by Salman Khan points to our need to be a little more responsible with words. What is just a lame joke for you might be a lifetime curse for another person.

The notable statement was - "I fear no more." Right. Why should she? The notion that a verbally expressive woman is a bad woman needs a second thought. From a bit of biology that I know, women are naturally talkative. So, when they are telling you stories, they'll appear a tad bit 'intimidating' for the sheer brilliance of expression they possess. If their honesty kills you, better run for the woods! Just like men are sexually more inclined, women are more articulate with their mouths. That's the way Mother Nature has engineered us. So, if you forgot your shoes and couldn't run for the woods, then relax and just accept the basic difference! 

In short, Kangana did manage to let her experiences (both good and bad) be the focal point of that interview rather than her being an 'Actress', a 'Bollywood Beauty' or a dumb 'Fashionista'. So, yes woman, you can make heads turn in more ways than one.✌

THE GOOD WOMAN

They'll be at it all the time. Absorbing everything. How you tug at your neckline in those moments of troubleshooting. How you roll your eyes in disagreement. How you flip your hair back while focussing. How you smack your lips out of boredom. How you engage people. The loudness of your laughter. The softness of your smile. The unseen crevices lurking beneath your intact aura. What unsettles you. What makes your palms sweat. How you tremble and how you fret. How you hold back your tears. How you gulp down the knot in your throat. How you cross and uncross your legs. The angles of your eyebrows when you frown. Your sheepish demeanour. Your assertiveness. They'll judge anyways, to see where you lie on the spectrum of their definition of a 'good' woman.

Caught up in their own quagmire, they perhaps forget the very essence of existence. Trying so hard to find the 'good' in every woman they come across, they forget the 'woman'.  They forget you are 'life' itself. They forget you can't be unearthed. Because you are the womb. You are the grave. You are enough without being what this twisted society, decides what beautiful is.

You are the entire cosmos in motion.

"A woman's artistry starts in her mind.
Spills into her heart.
Blossoms all over her body,
And carries over into her soul."

The White Coat speaks...

I'm every biology student's dream. I'm every medical aspirant's last bet. I'm every intern's triumph and every doctor's 'amour propre'. I'm the White Coat dipped in ink today.

Every Monday, I look dapper. My creased sleeves and sharply- folded collar announce a week-long battle with sweat, blood stains, food stains and blotches of ink. By the weekend, when I've conquered all, I retire into the arms of my favourite bucket for a night, only to come out anew the very next morning. And I'm game for life yet again. The pride that a doctor takes in me makes me feel larger than life - a mere piece of cloth stitched into an awe-inspiring attire.

On a few days, a handsome young intern enters an overflowing Casualty without me. They notice his stetho, take a sigh and give him way. Afterall, the doctor has arrived.

She rushes into the ICU with her stetho, checks the vitals of the patient and prepares herself to report it. But oh dear, she didn't know that the world is more interested in knowing the 'whys and hows' of her decision of not wearing me today for she might just be a distraction at the workplace. On other days, the world is more interested in knowing what 'she' is wearing 'underneath' me... What made her choose a top over a kurti today? Why is she wearing red today? And wasn't her kurti of the same colour the day before too?

I stay folded in her bag, beginning to question the meaning of my existence for the two genders. I'm the White Coat that spilled the ink today.

What is it, doctor? A BOY?

The mother musters up all the courage that is left in her after a gruelling six hours and asks, "What is it, doctor? A boy?" As she senses the reality hidden in her doctor's rebuke, "Why does it worry you so much? It's a healthy baby... You can already hear it crying", she pretends to fall asleep while her doctor is busy suturing her episiotomy wound.

The doctor goes back home and remembers she has a phone call to make. "What is it, Uncle?", she asks with all her vivacity. "It's a girl", she hears from the other end. The lukewarm voice clearly tells her why it was she who had to place a call, having to squeeze out time from her busy schedule.

And something inside her died, bit by bit that day. The fact that the fact is still so grim. The fact that a stetho around her neck and a round-body catgut in her hand are still not enough to evoke happiness over the birth of a baby girl. The fact that a girl who can grow up to be a guy's silent smile fails to bring a smile to her mother's lips when she articulates her first cry! The fact that a girl who can hold the Universe together fails to be a world to her father as she takes her first breath. The fact that the fact is still so grim. And something inside her died, bit by bit that day. Yet again. And she thanked her parents for the books...the bag...the pen...the stetho...and their smiles. Once again.

The joy of homecoming

"The magic thing about home is that it feels good to leave and it feels even better to come back."

It's a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realise what's changed is you. At 16, what was supposed to be a cage for you becomes your gateway to freedom at 24. Irony laughs because home is a place you grow up wanting to leave and grow old wanting to get back to! Strange but true.

You wove dreams. Big ones. Glittering ones. All while dozing off to sleep on your favourite pillow in your darling bed. You went places carrying those dreams inside your heart only to realise they are safest when tucked away under your eyelashes over the same favourite pillow in the same darling bed you once left. There lies the thrill in the simplest things life has to offer. Oscar Wilde has rightly reckoned, "With freedom, books, flowers and the moon, who could not be happy?"

But then, why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you come from with new eyes and extra colours. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving. No matter how far-reaching your goals seem, no matter how long a marathon you decide to run, always keep coming home to yourself. Because there's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again. And there's nothing half so enriching as finding the good old ink filling fresh pages. Yet again.

Your CALLING : On the other side of FEAR

"The things you are passionate about are not random. They are your calling."

Time and again, you'll be handed over a set of rules to follow... a code of conduct to please others... a magic formula to succeed...

And time and again, you'll realise you're getting swept away by the current, landing up where you cannot recognise the world of your dreams. Yes, a lot of water already flowed down the bridge while you were busy chasing the mirage shown to you.

Learn all the rules so you can break them like a pro. Someday. Meticulously. With perseverance. Always paying heed to what stirs your soul. And if there's some pain involved in the process, it is most likely going to act as a launching pad for you. Come what may, do not confuse yourself between that 'mirage' and your 'dream'. Listen to what makes your heart beat a little faster, your eyes sparkle a little brighter and your feet tap a little louder. That, my friend, is your 'calling'. Something that is not going to let you merely exist. It will make your existence richer... and serve you with the peace of mind.

The catch. You can't fulfill your calling in your comfort zone.
"Come to the edge", he said.
They said, "We're afraid."
"Come to the edge", he said.
They came. He pushed them and they flew.

Be a Princess Charming : An Open Letter

"I will not be another flower, picked for my beauty and left to die. I'll be wild, difficult to find and impossible to forget."

To all those lovely girls who keep getting trapped in wrong relationships - Give yourself a chance. A chance to celebrate the woman in you. A chance to admire yourself. A chance to treasure the person you are before you hand over the key to your heart to any Tom, Dick and Harry!
In a society where every chocolate, every bouquet and every compliment that you receive is 'boomeranged' as an Instagram story, you must allow yourself to tear down this facade. It might be painful. Nevertheless, endure it. And ask yourself a billion-dollar question, "Why is it that I have to fight for attention?" The answer isn't pretty, you know. There were days when the 'pretty girl' in you had been winning all her secret battles, wrapping men around her dainty finger...and then one fine day, you landed up in a position where 'pretty' wasn't pretty enough anymore... the lipstick had started losing its gloss, your Limeroad wardrobe had stopped doing its trick and no matter how much your baby toe bled after a high-heeled session, you always found yourself crying to sleep in utter loneliness.

All because you never let the beautiful girl in you bloom into a gorgeous woman. You never let that wanderess find her own way like a drop of free water. You had become a slave to your people-pleasing habit when you should have learnt to love yourself - mind, body and soul... to express your being in more ways than one... to leave a trail for people to take notice. Work on yourself before you decide to embrace another human being in your life.

"Teach your daughters to worry less about fitting into glass slippers and more about shattering glass ceilings."

Here was a Sachin. When comes such another?

"Maaaa... Sachin khel raha hai na?" I'd shout right from the staircase while coming back home from school. No, I wasn't a Sachin Tendulkar fan. But I knew that the tricoloured man waving the tiranga in the most spectacular manner - Sudhir Gautam - was his 'sponsored' devotee...and irrespective of whom we worshipped, we all wanted India to win. Even the World Cup was a collective dream. For such is the power of dreams!

Yes, a good-looking India heading for a win used to spice up our evening snacks. And an impending ton from 'Ton-dulkar' was the biggest source of joy, motivation and yes, that promise - "Match ke baad I'll study. Pukka. Please T.V. bandh mat karo na." If and if... because there's many a slip between the cup and the lip, Sachin failed to reach the mark, it used to be a day wasted. And more hours were wasted trying to eke out what went wrong. "O shit! What went wrong with that bouncer? Why did he not duck it?"... And when Sachin was in the twilight of his career,"Man! Is it tennis elbow again? " or "His shoulder! He should stop trying to dive around. He's no good anymore."

24th February 2010. The first double ton in One-Day Internationals. Sachin again let his bat do the talking and prove why he is the 'Father of Firsts'. Reminiscing the moment still gives us goosebumps because a double ton in a one day game was unthinkable at that point of time. And legends are always ahead of their time. No wonder why the clock seems to have stopped since the Master Blaster hung his boots. No wonder why it is seemingly impossible to recreate our childhood. No wonder why there's a bittersweet lump in our throats every time we revisit the era on YouTube.

A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SACHIN. We're lucky people. You've given us tons of little bedtime stories to tell our children and grandchildren. "Here was a Sachin. When comes such another?"

SUNDAY SAGA...

"Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's laws wrong,
it learned to walk without having feet.
Funny, it seems to by keeping its dreams; it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared."

I woke up to a very usual Sunday morning until the unusual happened. It was serendipity at its best, having actually discovered a rose peeping from behind the wall in my cousin's little garden - a place too humble for a rose to grow. A white rose, that is. And it left me searching for the apt lines from English poetry. 

There were thorns...there was sand and gravel...and that age-old wall dotted with crevices all over. And then there was that rose. Little but fresh, its petals holding themselves high - so proud of their dainty white. Happy, it must have been to have got noticed. Finally! Having been a misfit all this while, it had dared to survive where other flowers didn't. It had braved solitude...stood apart from the crowd of colours...and celebrated the hostility it had been subjected to. 

It became one beautiful memory. 

A MISSING LINK

"She hasn't got it all figured out...far from it, in fact.
But she loves God and she loves to dance... and she's her own "Better Half" .
The bravest woman I know?
She is the reason I do what I do.
She is The Single Woman.
She's me... and she's you."
                      - Mandy Hale

Having woken up in messed-up tresses, she reached for her purple comb. It was tideous, yeah - brushing away the tangled hair. Introspection sat beside her, cross-legged. Pointing out towards one of the tangles, she let out a chuckle, "My! My! My! Don't you think that resembles your state of existence?"

She rolled her eyes, ignored her and continued with her combing regime. Her thoughts wandered back to her biology class - The Neanderthal Man. And she distinctly remembered the term 'Missing link' coined by Darwin's mentor Charles Lyell. A missing link would possess the  in-between evolutionary properties of both the ancestors' original traits and the traits of the evolved descendants, hence showing a clear connection between the two. 

Right now, she believed she was that 'missing link' in her story that people may only get to hear about some day. An evolutionary work in progress. There's nothing more breathtaking than a woman who is complete in herself, for herself and by herself. And her search for that perfect 'completeness' had defied logic at times. You've got to die in order to give rise to a new. A fossil is always read backwards.  Today she was already somewhere she'd once been told not to venture into. Tomorrow she'd be somewhere else digging another fossil of hers, mentioning yet another 'missing link' they could never see in time. So what if it left her hair with a few tangles and her closet a little unkempt? There's a Nirvana in writing a legend where 'She' is the hero.

She finally rolled up her untangled tresses into a bun and thought to herself, "Mirror! Mirror! On the wall! Who's the bravest of them all?" And her day kicked off.