Of morning coffee and mellow vibes...

"Nice?" Naaaaah! Not my word. A hackneyed and probably the most overrated of all compliments... I don't know but there's a certain shallow quality to the sound of the word that tells me to rather not take it seriously.

Talking about nice people... they're a li'l tricky. But have you met those really 'good' people who'd have a bellyful of laughter with you and know exactly what kind of messages to drop in? Most times, it's not the length of the conversation but the empathy involved which tells you a lot about the person. They stay in the periphery... and do exactly what is required. You won't see them in bunches... You won't hear their tittle-tattle. Chances are you'll overlook them without stopping by... because right now, they are not the trending ones in the bazaar...

But icing over the pastry is a buttery affair. I'd rather have a vanilla muffin. Sometimes it's not the extra sugar that seals the deal, it's the aroma of the morning coffee - mellow and strong! 😉

Dear Braveheart!

It's been a while since I last wrote. And today, I write for the greater good of anyone and everyone who has been through it and seen it all - the good, the bad and the ugly.

To be kind in a toxic world is the greatest act of courage. But that shouldn't deter you from taking a stand every time the tide turns against you. Do whatever it takes to curtail the unhealthy influences in your life. If you're a braveheart, it is going to be even tougher for you because people tend to cling on to you... finding it hard to let you go even though deep down, they know they no longer deserve you. Lord help them because they know not what they do. But dear braveheart, you do know. And so you do. Stop giving discounts to people just because you think that's what you are. No. You're as good and as bad as the person you're dealing with. Protect your space from spineless people. And do not shy away from questioning. Because if it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't. And everyone you lose is not a loss.

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.