Letter from an 'aunty'- national

a.s.: Not intended to hurt anybody's religious, national, nationalist, pesudo nationalist sentiments.

  I am an average Indian woman, a Catholic Christian who loves her country and religion equally. Why I use the word 'average' here is to say that I am not rebellious. I am what others would term me as "Sick"ular. I was born in this country and I take equal pride in that, like every Indian does. I take equal pride in my religion which I profess, within the confines of my conscience and my domicile. I do not gloat about my religion, nor do I stupidly shove it on anyone's face.

   This sadly was a free country, till the lotus started blooming. The Bhakts, Bhakras and the trousers DO NOT signify Hinduism. To me, the lovely Vembu akka and her husband Azhagiyanambi in whose house I crawled and I salivated are Gods. Sankari auntie and her Diwali sweets always have a special place in my memories and so is our neighborhood Bhai's biryani for Ramzan. I never had to differentiate between Maariammal who cared for my brother as a child or Maria amma who was our domestic help for ages. They all are fellow humans. Not a step above, not a step below. I have been taught to treat everyone as equal. Sadly, most households have failed on that.

   I have been to temples and I can recite Gayathri Mantra as any Hindu does. I celebrate all festivals, yes, I am 'sick'ular. I have read a few Suras and I can understand the journey of Abrahamic religions and no thanks, Mr Zakir Naik, I DO NOT need your help in understanding the Kuran. I find myself living in a nation whose collective conscience has hanged Afzal Guru. Please DO NOT jump the gun here. This word has been 'imbibed' in the judgement of Supreme Court in Afzal Guru case. Neither do I glorify terrorism nor do I promote anti-nationalism when I say Kashmiris should be given the right to decide on their nationality, I am only reminding us of Nehru's stand on the issue as he himself has promised the UN on Kashmir. 

   We hang on to the issue of Kashmir as if it is a lifeline, a bone of contention with two neighboring countries, only because of its strategic border location, unmindful of our army men subject to inhuman conditions- all for pride. The pride that the nation belongs to you and me and we would protect it at all costs, be it the lives of 800 men who have laid down their lives. If raising slogans is 'sedition' then how should we name those instigating the minorities and students raise them? I feel unsafe in a country where I was born and I am right in every way when I blame the RSS and ABVP. 

   Call me a traitor, call me a 'sick'ular. I am tolerant. I have been tolerating the pesudo-Hindus and their pseudo-Hindutva for a long long time. So I am 'sick'ular. When the free thinkers, social activists, students, writers and creative people are termed 'Chinese and Russian stooges', then we all are equally guilty of having 'free thinking'. If free thinking and questioning the establishment is 'anti-national' then I am sorry- I am 'aunty'-national! I am still proud of my country and my religion and I shall silently await the next elections to show my 'sick'ularism. 

- By 'aunty' national ;)

 ‪#‎standwithJNUSU‬

A lustful affair!

Through glistening eyes, he looked at her. How much ever forewarned, he couldn't lift his eyes off her translucent skin. She had that inner glow within her that called to him. Her radiance is always akin to the maid who found out how sweet passion could be. He ravaged her with his eyes. His eyes were roving over her contours. So shapely, so curvy. She had curves at the right places. Killer curves that made his eyes linger on her as she lay basking in the golden sun. 

This morning as he had set out about his routine, collecting the basket and setting off to the market, little did he know that he would be rewarded with this sight. The sight of his lady love alluringly calling out to him. She was the ultimate temptress and he knew, this temptation was fatal. He would have to dash barefoot if he yielded to her temptation, yet he couldn't help but turn a few furtive glances at her as she lay in all her glory, her skin pulling him to her like a magnet.

She was nothing but heart ache. She was going to bewitch him, he blew an exasperated breath. This one was going to be the death of him. He shut his eyes and wariness spread over him as the familiar scene of his lady yelling out to him loomed over. This one would definitely give his wife heart-ache. He was not prepared for the tears that would continuously pour from the poor woman looking at the blemish-less skin of the pink beauty. Pans and saucers would bang and fly and he was not ready for a full- fledged war at home. This better be the last time I see her, he thought to himself.

He turned his head away as he approached her as her pungent perfume wafted by, tickling his nostrils. It has been ages since he saw her at close quarters. He would have given anything to hold her, to feel her and to breathe in her special aroma. There were days when she was the only company he had, he itched to bite into her and licked his lips reminiscing those golden days when she was available. When she would come to him willingly and when he could run his fingers along her smooth, polished skin before placing her on the board.

Even as he crossed the area shutting his eyes tight, Rani ma called out to him. Shucks! How did she know I was even here, he mused as he turned to greet the vegetable vendor. As Rani ma kept on questioning him about his withdrawal, he watched his lady-love with dreary eyes.  "So fresh and lovely. Why don't you stop by?", Rani ma drawled, knowing his frustration too well. As her eyes peered cautiously at her regular customer who was now playing hide and seek with her, she was fervently wishing he would get some interest. He was one among her regulars and she wouldn't want to lose him now, that he is this close to sealing the deal. 

As the hot sun beat down mercilessly, he was gripped in a do or die situation now. Muttering under his breath and dreading what would happen if his wife gets to see the pink sheathed beauty in his arms, he grumbled, "how much?". Rani ma was so elated that she showed him her rare million-watt smile and piped in- "One hundred only, sir. Madam will enjoy it". The hell she would enjoy. She had dared him to even one glance at her direction, he would be skinned alive and here he was contemplating taking his love home. 

The seductress- he smiled triumphantly as he walked back home, slinging her over his shoulder. Walking in the hot sun made him all sweaty and miserable. Yet, she was his now.  As she grazed his back, his skin tingled. She was his now. No one can ever snatch her away from him. She was his now, pricey, but his nevertheless. His mouth watered and drooled as he thought of what he would do to her. Smacking his lips at the vision of disrobing that pink sheath, peeling off her layers he chuckled and tramped home. 

"Did I not tell you to turn away? Did I not warn you to ward off? Look at what you have done. What have you bought?", his wife wailed looking at him. He sat back relaxed on his chair, his eyes longingly devouring her as she lay on the table. His lady love- a kilo of onions ;)

p.s.: Was really happy to post this in my FB page... 

# Selfie with onion- Hamein bachao, dhaam gatao#

 

p.p.s.: Another video doing the rounds- If you die of laughter, this blogger is not responsible!

 

p.p.p.s: Got into  trouble with picking a dress for the daughter's birthday. Why do dresses for little girls be soooooooo revealing? Are they going to shake a leg in a flick? :(

The Hell met- helmet!

A rule is a rule. I hold onto the 'fryer' like a lifeline. Pulling the strap, I find the latch gone. Who is worried, anyway? Latch or no latch, I am going to sport the 'fryer' anyway. The "Fryer Movement- Part X" is in full sway in our state, the policemen gleefully filling the Government's coffer by paise and their personal pockets by bigger notes. The fryers are selling like hot cakes on platformds and pavements. All of them with ISI marks, mind it. Or are they JSI marks? ;)

The helmet melas organized by the retailers is the new 'happening' place in town. You can see bare bottom sporting jean clad youth amidst the humdrum yapping about the 'bestest' helmets in town. Quirky models, with visors, without visors, vibrant colors, in any price range, the mela is a huge hit. The neighborhood goes gaga over the who's got the hottest helmet. Little do the ladies of the clan know that whatever be the model, it will be the hottest! 

Imagine the plight of the head locked inside the hot air capsule. A merciless sun scorching you from above and your head pinned inside a fryer with absolutely no entry for air. Wow! Bring them on, I say! Had they invented the helmets earlier, our forefathers could have gone back to the stone ages, climbing trees and scratching their heads, losing whatever little grey matter they had. 

There is another ilk of 'scientists' intent on finding new varieties- the one that can support your basket, complete with shoulder stilts, one with air conditioner, one with an exhaust fan, mobile charger, solar panels, 'vettiver' stuffed for cooling your 'brain'- if you have one!

Now that can be easy for your neighborhood vegetable seller!

This one looks a bit scary- though air conditioned;)

 

 

 

As the days go by, traffic policemen are having a 'honeymoon' with the 'helmet haters'. The helmet haters and policemen play the game of cat and mouse, chasing in the bye lanes. I myself am aware of the mazes around my city, where a person can ride without a helmet, safe and sound. Travel without the helmet is unsafe, agreed. But how difficult it is to travel with a weight of two kgs plastered to your head with the greasy sweat around your hair line. Those men in forties who wear the helmets are losing their precious tresses that come one fine morning, their head might resemble a helmet- a shiny one better than the fiber thing ;)

Let's make Armstrong proud- we have helmets heavier than him, we are sun-walking at 40 degrees C, not moon walking like him. And would someone mind telling me, in accidents do only head injuries cause death? Asphyxia can be a reason for death, some helmets smell worse than my colleagues unwashed socks! If there is one person who is happy with the helmet, it must be the 'husband'. The ear muffs of the helmets are active filters that close out whatever blabbering he has to endure while travelling by his bike. And hence, my lord, accidents, averted!!

p.s.: To that policeman who smiles at me looking and my unbuckled helmet- may you fry more in the sun!

p.p.s.: My current assignment is killing my creativity. All I can think of are 'subject to all commercial formalities' and 'duly following rules in force' :(

p.p.p.s.: A hearty welcome to our PM on his seventh visit to our country. Hey Ram!

Non-judgementally yours!

One harsh post ahead. If you are a misogynist, chauvinist, ego-dystonic, domineering tyrant male of the Homo Sapiens species- warning, please DO NOT read ahead, get back to your cricket, couch and potato chips. Others...have you ever wondered how a man looks at a woman?

It is reverence when he looks lovingly at his adorable mother. "Aakir woh maa hai". He waits for the word from her mouth. Every twist in her lips brings out the Hercules in him. His eyes await her  finger snap to enter alert mode. He stands wishing he could hide behind her Pallu when she adoringly pats his head and says..."mera beta bahut seedha sadha hai" to the in-laws.  He can brush only when maa is nearby, he has  free potty time only when maa cooks to his taste and he can sleep only when he sets his eyes on his mom crying over her favorite soap. Comma. 

Enter the wife. The moment he sets eyes on his wife, he is smitten. " Arrey...maa ko daalo chulha mein". From the day he is married (finished, legally and technically), he has eyes only for the Missus. With huge puppy eyes, he watches her go from 40 to 80 kgs in a single year. It is with the same devotion and determination he watches his toddler pampered by the lioness. His eyes feast on all of the 80 kilos, she is his property, after all- signed, sealed and delivered.

So far, so good. Now comes the hardest part. How does he view the average woman next door? The girl at the super market's counter? The lady who whizzes past him in her bike? His colleague who rushes into the office holding her hand bag and lunch bag like a born weight lifter? At the woman next to him at the lift who is huffing and puffing, chewing her lip..?*Stop your dirty thoughts* She is late to work and is probably contemplating which grandmother she has to kill today for her late attendance.

The idea about a woman who is neither his maa nor his wife is spoon fed to the Indian male mind as someone from the tinsel town or magazine covers. Man, he looks first for the *sparks*! Every female other than maa and the missus must be 'ready to be judged'. And the sparks indeed fly- you need a  weighing scale and a 'fairness' meter for that. If a woman is reed thin, has the skin that is anywhere between 8 and 10 on the fairness meter and has the brains of a hare, she is drool-worthy...Add to this a voice that gives jitters to Latha Ji. The combination is lethal. Oh yeah baby! Covet her! Lust her!

Did I tell you how he looks at a saree- clad woman? She has to be ahem...proportionate. A look- alike of Kareena in her Chammak Chalo number gyrating would be like an oasis to a thirsty man. His eyes size up, judge and pass snide remarks to his otherwise loving heart. Genuinely he feels, God has created every woman for him to be judged. And boy he loves them when they are dumb and knuckle heads. The fairer the lady is, the 'innocent' she is. The venom in her would actually put a thousand black mambas to instant death. Poor fellow, he never knows, as he never gets past the shell. The leaner a woman is, the 'likeability' factor shoots through the stars. Fat women are gross. God, why can't they exercise, diet and be more 'presentable'? 

Dear Mr. Judge, have you ever seen beyond the facade? Have you ever actually noted your colleague's intelligence? Have you ever spent a few minutes wondering how every woman you come across is a successful mother, a loved sister, a doting wife, a true friend to someone? 

Every woman's life is filled with dreams, ranging from a holiday to a successful shopping trip...from a clean kitchen to a correct fit dress, from a successful business venture to a blockbuster book on self esteem. All she needs is a look of admiration from the people around her. To be acknowledged as a human being and a friend, rather than being judged on her skin, tresses and physique. Share the love with such unknown women who we see on the road everyday, who we meet everyday in our life. What better would a message be, than spreading love and affection among the unknown, unsung and the unnoticed? Love everyone, judge none. Happy Valentine's Day, folks!

p.s.: This is a fitting reply to that 'friend' of mine who asked why I couldn't be like my friends...lean and fit. Face-palm yourself mate!

p.p.s.: From the chaaiwallah to the Kejriwall'aaah'...Delhi has once again proved its might. Kudos!

p.p.p.s.: Patting myself for the regular posts. Someone get me a plate of carrot halwa dripping with ghee...would love a few more pounds on me ;)

Travel- C(b)attle class!

Travel. A small word holding huge trouble. Whether it is an overnight flight to the Gulf or a rickety ride in two-wheeler to the nearest grocery shop, we love to travel- bindaas. Without hiccups. Without itching to hit the person snoring next to us in an overnight train. Without churning out the last eaten dosas out of our stomachs as the glutton sharing the aisle seat dumps his 6th drink. We love to travel, with no trouble. We are so meticulous in planning the bus ride for 2 kilometers  that would put India's Chandrayaan journey look cake walk.

Securing that coveted 'window' seat is everyone's dream. A dream pricier than marrying Aishwarya rai. If you are wedded to someone who is a 'nature lover' who ogles on the corner seat more than he/she ever looked at you, your journeys are definitely going to be in the aisle seat, glued to the iPad. If you have a child, you are going to baby-sit in the middle seat, sandwiched between the snoring husband and the animated child. If you have two children, bless your hearts dears, you are going to be the acting referee for a multi-round WWF match between the two for the 'corner seat'.

Seat secured, luggage secured, the next thing we have to secure is our torso. If you travel with family, the job is easier, it is again a normal night at bed, you being kicked, scratched and nudged by the husband dear and the children. If you travel alone, beware of that lady sitting near you who has ten liters of oil plastered to her 3 inches of hair. She will dutifully rub it all on your favorite white kurta and you can very well go home, wring your kurta for that month's oil reserve. Be careful of the male of the species, they are particularly headstrong in sleeping on the journey, rolling their heads on your shoulders and you become unfortunate 'Atlases' holding their heads. Only you wish you became Medusa that instant, snakes hissing from your head to ward off the sleepy douche bag near you.

The next thing you have to take care is your privacy and sanity. Train journeys are to be dreaded here, especially the sleeper classes that teem with senior citizens who are hell bent in knowing the where, how, when, why and what of your travel agenda. Shut your eyes, insert your head phone, or bury your nose in that proverbial Sydney Sheldon, the 60 plus aunty in the lower berth is never going to leave you alone. She starts with a seemingly obnoxious question of what time the train is supposed to reach Chennai. By the next ten minutes, you will find yourself telling her the story of how your fourth cousin's second wife's third child ran away with a no-gooder. Are men better? Nah. The questions asked are so deft that by the time you disembark, the wicked man would have pocketed your office address or mobile number. 

Then there is the biggest of all troubles- everyone intent on travelling love to bathe in sweat and use that eau-de-cologne that smells better than axe deo. They are so hellbent on raising their underarms straight over your nose. No escaping that, dear madam. Men love to hold on to the armrests that you ward off carefully or those funny shaped loops high above their heads. Those loops are  pre-planned ploys to make you swoon at the perfume dabbed at the underarms. Close your nostrils and fight for oxygen, peel a dozen oranges from your bag, smell and re-smell your perfumed hanky- nothing is going to save you from the pungent odor of unshaved underarms. 

Now wait! Your ordeal is not over. You feel your flight has landed and open your tightly shut eye lids. Only to realise to your horror that the 100 odd passengers of your flight jostle for space at the exitways. Thank your lucky stars that the flight did not nosedive into the mantle of the earth due to them 'urgent' passengers. You set your alarm at 4.00 am to get down at a station where your train reaches at 4.15 am. Alas, my dear. The whole coach is awake by 3.30 with chappals stomping and lights blinding. A howling infant and terrifying baritone of his father pacifying him, a hundred cell phones blaring simultaneously at 4.00 and by the time you reach the door to get down, there is a mini Kumbh mela crowd thronging the door way. All you can do is climb down the train and walk like a zombie to the waiting bus. It is again a nightmare to get a seat there.

How do we the cattle class corner seats in a just-arriving bus? It is a historic event worth a Guinness mention! As the bus turns round the corner, you have to make a towel/ handkerchief  your loop, ready to hoist the noose around the seat. Keep calm, concentrate, say a prayer, take aim and throw the noose. If you are lucky and lady luck smiles at you, your towel lands with a plop on the corner seat. Now, only half the process is over. The moment the driver applies the brake, all you have to so is close your eyes and elbow your way through the maddening crowd. Not for the weak at heart. No mercy, absolutely. 

Now that is one hell of a bus ride!

You got every right to stomp, kick, hit and be hit by the mob at the doorway, you pay a whopping Rs. 5 for the ride! All you have to do is focus on that corner seat where your darling towel lies, awaiting your back to seat on her. Did you fail to throw the towel? No worrying there. Jostle through the crowd, use your karate moves subtly, climb the bus and sit on someone else's towel. There...easy, isn't it? The moment you sit however, be ready for a stream of abuses hurtling your way from the motor mouth who threw the towel, yet lost the seat to you. This is where your Yoga skills come in handy. Calm yourself, close your eyes, shut down your auditory nerve system and imagine you are in Greater Kailash/ Mansarovar with clouds hanging and mist closing in. The abuses will stop eventually by the time you visit your great great grandfather in his Heavenly abode! Have a kid? The seat securing marathon is just a piece of cake. Throw in the kid instead of the towel, minus the diaper. Seat- guaranteed!

Though all these minuses weigh us down, we do love travel. We do like to wander the far off lands in the most 'convenient' way. For everyone else who likes to travel royally, you can always have a car, marry the owner/ driver or own a driver/owner ( I mean marry someone!) and buy a car, travel with ease. Cattle class or battle class, we Indians are always ready for the game!

p.s.: This is one post written after a terrifying train journey where I stood for almost 2 hours. So, I got the right to whine!

p.p.s.: Schools reopen tomorrow after vacations. Yayyy! The kids are now saved from my constant picking and yelling;)

p.p.p.s.: Sick of watching Chotta Bheem's umpteen episodes at home. Makes me wonder how do mothers cope with watching hours and hours of that laddoo eating crazy guy...by imagining him as Hrithik Roshan? ;)

A Lay(wo)man's Guide to Chamchagiri

Almost 14 years of yeomen service to the nation's wheels and its ever demanding, always demeaning customers... Looking back at the path that I have strode, all I can feel is numbness. The heart ache and sourness has happened only because I have nothing to my credit, except for a service record that screams out red brighter than Taylor Swift's red lipstick! Looking for an outstanding green entry in my service record needs a telescope the size of moon and a periscope the size of earth! 

Alas! The favorable awards that everyone seems to be receiving at official functions with smiles that outbeat Rahul Gandhi's famous losing smile remains a distant dream to me. So, that brings us to the question, how do some people always succeed in excelling in everything they do, especially scoring those extra points over the mundane and ordinary? 

You can always identify the 'award- winner' by a simple glance. He always remains the shadow of the boss in your office- never mind, your boss may fart, this shadow never leaves his back, not even twitches his eyebrow over the hydrogen bomb dropped ;) So much for his Bhakthi! Our 'butter'man or chamcha is always by the side of our 'Sup' aka supervisor, casting worried glances at the simple two line leave letter that you put on his table for his approval. He is the personal scanner cum identifier of the Sup, he scans your letter for any error- grammatical, emotional, protocol errors. Only if the scan is complete, does your letter gets through. 

A letter as simple as, "as I am suffering from fever kindly grant me one day leave" would have seen a heated debate on the veracity and authenticity of me getting a fever off season, 101 reasons as to why I ask for a leave during peak summer, including a botched abortion doing the rounds. By the time my leave is approved, our chamcha would have grown the size of Rajinikanth's cutout on Mount Road, on the release date of Kochadaiyan in the mind's eye of my Sup. Enna Rascala! MIIIINNNDDD IIITTT!!!

Mr Butter man is one crazy guy. The sup wants a soap, the fellow stands at his doorstep soaping his pet dog that poops straight on butter man's foot. Does he mind? nah! Butterman knows always what tastes the best at which restaurant. He is a connoisseur of fine dining. He knows which joint has the sumptuous biryani, which restaurant has the softest dosas and which joint has the yummiest halwas. The Babu wants a handful of jasmine for his bobbed wife, our butter man plants a basket of flowers on Her Majesty's bird's nest hair. The Babu wants to attend a temple festival, our butterman awaits him at the temple door even before Our Lord Renganatha wakes up from his slumber. 

The boss thinks of his chaai, our butterman stands by his side, fanning his piping hot chaai. The looks butterman sends to the Sup can put Marilyn Monroe to shame. If he had a tail, boy would it wag;) But in work, butterman is one awesome hard worker! He will be the one who plays dominoes while the whole office around him is on fire. Deadlines will be met, targets will be achieved, entire office will go beserk, but our butterman remains oblivious to all these, discussing his boss's 143rd love affair with his 23rd secretary who had warded him off like the bubonic plague! 

So...you want to become butterman? Simple- follow these.

1. Wake up before your sup and send him some stupid forwarded good morning message.

2. Find out what soap your sup's puppy uses and stand on his doorstep holding the soap in a basket, bit by your molars.

3. Buy freshest brinjals, not the BT variety, but organic farm grown brinjals and ladiesfingers from the local flea market and impress the Sup's wifey.

4. Clogged drains, leaking taps, stinking bathrooms- whatever smells awful, your sup must go 'dhak dhak' remembering you and your six-pack abs when you wield the pipe wrench and toilet hose.

5. Always be updated on the latest gossip in office of the who's dating who and pass on all that sensual grape vine juice to your sup.

6. Keep your nose tightly closed when the sup farts. You can instead close your eyes and remind yourself of Axe deo and angels falling from Heaven.

7. When the sup picks his nose, or itches to remove that stray piece of chicken in his teeth, be there for him with tooth pick and tissue...oops...it should be in the reverse order;)

8. Always be Gandhi's three apes. Close your eyes, close your motor mouth, close your ears and close your *hole. Your sup has the sole rights of opening all these, the last of these he always does...

9. Be the first to report anything to the boss. Be it the birthday party of the secretary's third puppy or the guys night off where alcohol flows like a river, be ready with your mobiles to catch the hottest and latest and transmit data to the boss, faster than Chitti the Robot.

10. Last but not the ultimate golden rule- Your sup is always right. His left hand is always his right hand and his left foot is his right. He has no left. Everything in him is right. He is right brained too- never can analyse and calculate. But don't you worry. When everyone is served peanuts, remember, you the butterman will receive the awards and the rewards!

P.S.: Ouch! I know it is one grumpy post, but serves someone right;)

P.P.S.: By the way, someone please tell me how to remain calm, cool and composed while sitting opposite to the person whom I am mentally thrashing to a pulp and flushing down the public washroom!

P.P.P.S.: This post is written for the genuine pleasure and happiness awards at mybheja.com :P Please comment on how you have tried chamchagiri and failed miserably. We are one bunch of losers out here ;)

Voyage of a file...

This story is about that teeny-weeny file. Yes, you heard it right- A FILE. That Khakhi folder that folds your fortune for weeks, months or at times even years...The journey of a file is by itself a (mis)adventure! If the file sits in a Government Office, the journey can beat the Adventures of Sindbad. Twists, turns and unexpected drama that drives you to the edge of the seat...

 Now you mustn't forget gentlemen and equally gentle women, the synonym for railways is redtape. Any file in Railways moves at rail(snail) pace, strictly! Unless the file is a complaint on a poor clerk or a penalty/punishment file. The latter one moves like lightning...or rather faster than sound, putting supersonic jets to shame! This happened few years ago when I had to go abroad to live with my husband, on a special Ex India Leave from Railways. Now this leave requires a No Objection Certificate from various sections, including the Chennai Zonal Office.

Like the hutch pug puppy, I was glad to watch the file being tagged, labelled, shunted in and out of various offices for almost three months in the confines of divisional office. It was like watching a volley in a tennis match between Federer and Nadal, right, left, right, left. Every single day, I walked the corridors, smiling at people, cajoling some, begging some and threatening some to get a glimpse of my darling file. After all this surveillance, my darling file moved from my place to Chennai Office. Hooray! Finally. She went by Rockfort Express and here was I praying for the entire 800 odd passengers and mail plus my file to reach Chennai safe and sound.

The ordeal was not yet over for my file. I waited patiently for two more months. My better half was getting bitter as I was wasting precious time in getting permission to leave the country. And my darling was not yet back. That is when I decided to pull up my sleeves and get to work, trace my file. Tracing a file? If I had the resource, I would have written volumes on 'how to trace a file' now. Poor me, with the hopes of discovering my file, I boarded Rockfort again. Little did I know that discovering America was far more easier to Columbus than me discovering my file in the sunk titanic that we call our Zonal Office.

Tonnes of records, kilos of dust and two days of unrelenting search finally led me to an office assistant who knew where the file exactly was! " My "Eureka" was probably louder than Archimedes'. Thankfully I was not in the tub, but the corridor of railway office. Sensing my relief, the assistant 'sir' now scratched his head. Taking the cue, I offered a Gandhi. He shrugged his shoulder in disgust. Oh...this was one gentleman, I thought. A penny for my thought, he winked his eyes at me, motioning me to the far end of the corridor. He showed mudras which I, even a trained bharatanatyam dancer couldn't understand. One full minute went by before I understood- the guy wanted a Napolean badly.

The Warlord Napolean must have turned in his grave when I looked at this man incredulously- " Who is Napolean?" Two hours, one full Napolean and half a biryani later, I was reunited with my darling file! Tears stung my eyes as I retrieved her from the hands of our Napolean 'drunk' Bornaparte. Two more days of volleying and finally I was returning back to my place hugging her. The journey from there was smooth- my file finished her " Around Railway Offices in 180 days" and rested on my lap one fine evening. As my flight took off from Chennai International Airport, I was dreaming of my darling file who bade me farewell. Without her, I wouldn't be on board the flight.

The art of tracing and retracing a file is by itself an art- you need loads of patience, tonnes of perseverance and truck loads of luck. The file of a property transaction deal required four months and two sets of bata slippers @ 999.99. If there was not one honest Officer, my file would be sitting like a lame duck in some Tahsildar's table. Husband dear is a Ghazni Mohammed by birth. Despite my experiences in file chasing, he has now applied for 'patta' for our house. Hail Mary! Week after week it will be now chasing the file, which I do without much ado;)

Worse still, my leave letter file is now making me moan and groan. Her Highness was submitted to the due boss on 5th June for leave from 15th June. She has now done her Houdini Act- gone missing. After constant snickering and pestering friends and foes, I managed to trace her today morning. She is sitting under the table of my boss, gathering dust, waiting for my boss's pen to kiss her goodbye. I wish I could hold her...touch her...just inhale her essence- the FILE- my LIFE!!

p.s. : I really am bitchy writing this post, forgive me...a woman has the rights to bitch, right?

p.p.s.: Had a tough time in RPF outpost today trying to 'prove' I was a Railway staff to a knuckle head who thought he was probably Sherlock Holmes who found out that I had left my bike in a "No parking' Zone. Man...we are women! We are supposed to park in 'no parking' zones only :P

p.p.p.s.: How I hate men who look at 'assets' alone when they speak to us...Dear God...let all those men who look at us lurid, be born in their next birth as men with copious 'assets' that can put a cricket bat to shame!!!

Devil wears p(a)rada!

Self proclaimed exile for a month or so.

Now back to blogging- why? I am told to dress 'properly'.

The 'I' here refers to the womenfolk of Mother India. We the faceless Anamikas, Nirbhayas, Daminis- name us however you like, we are never going to complain. We are too busy kneading atta to notice the rapes and moral policing. Paying our telephone bill is of prime importance to us than watching endless hours of debate on National News Channels 24x7.

The press- ah..the fourth pillar are going gaga over the new found 'women's liberation' and safe guarding the womenfolk. I suddenly feel if i have grown tusks like the woolly mammoth! Are they planning a sanctuary to safeguard us? If yes, then will there be television with our favourite saas- bahu soaps? God, i don't want to miss them. 

How do the newspapers and television channels find bak bak babas who churn out doctrines like- "Bhaiya bhole tho chodh dhethe". Oh yes- see, the victim asked for it. She never called them 'Bhaiya' when she was being raped-instead the poor girl chose to cry- "Help". And after Archimedes, Asaram bapu's "It takes two hands to clap" is the "in" Eureka! 

Then there is our own Madurai Adheenam- the saint who stood by Nithyananda and vouched for his righteousness. Wondering what his Hindu counterparts have to say on his comment- " Women should wear burqah to avoid unnecessary problems". Finally there is some consensus among the rival religions- they stand united on one front- "Women wear burqah". Devils wear prada! Adheenams wear- NOTHING! I suggest, he better cover up!

The new fad word to use is now- 'dress code'. Women are asked to cover up, dress appropriately to avoid rapes. Yes, your honors, the three year old raped was in a skimpy mini and tank top. If semi- clad women are prone to rape, it must be the Bollywood and Kollywood heroines. No dearies...they are safe and sound in their caravans with their dignity. The RSS chief has suggested "bad Western culture like short clothes are to be blamed for rising crimes against women". I suggest, peeepil...pleeeej follow the rule first- look at the RSS Chief and his ally BJP's Chief in the picture-

Dress up, men...i say!

 It is us, the 'aam ladki' on the road who gets raped. The thirteen year old girl raped and killed in Thathankulam was in her uniform...If dress instigates rape, then why are half dressed men safe in our country, giving lengthy bashans on women and their skimpy clothes? That is because- the sexual apparatus of most women is in their heads, while it is elsewhere for few men. 

I will dress up properly- if you MEN AGREE-

1. That you are rapists and molesters. 

2. That you cannot walk down a road without raping someone. 

3. That you cannot hold down your male libido.

4. That watching a nursing mother turns you on.

5. That simply you don't have a mother.

p.s.: I am highly irregular in my posts, because i am busy with Trade Union activities. Kindly excuse. I am now Women's Wing Secretary of my union and i represent almost 400 women employees.

p.p.s.: I am developing a mic fetish :P Every time i rise to speak onstage, i refuse to give up ;)

p.p.p.s.: Do give me some time to read your older posts and comment :)

POWERful Amma and "power"less people!

I had to reboot my system twice before i could finish this post- thanks to TNEB. I singularly, happily, sparingly, affectionately dedicate this post to TNEB- Tamil Nadu Electricity Board that has made us TamilNadu Elichavayar Board;) ( for those who do not understand Tamil, elichavayar means someone who miserably trusts and is failed.)

Day after day after day, night after night, we have been praying the power cuts stop, or atleast dwindle.Much to our chagrin what started as a mere three hour power shedding has now burgeoned into 10 to 12 hours a day. Imagine spending half your productive day without power, sweating and panting in this summer when the mercury shoots above 40 degrees celsius. As average tax payer who pays all taxes on time and all bills before due, i fail to understand why my inverter fails me too...And it was with bewildered daze when i read today's newspaper that TNEB received windfall gains to the tune of Rs 26584 crores in coal allotment. All this gain and still they are running at a loss??? Well, as aam admis, how to solve the power problem?

1. Chennai Challo!

Ah..Amma has spared the capital city of power cuts. It is just an hour of power cut there, that too from eight am to nine am. So, better, pack the bags and shove our ***es out of the goddamn two tier cities and rural areas. I do envy the Chennaiites, not because of the flashy roads and cars, but because brethren, you have something that we don't have- POWER! Let us all gyrate to Chennai Challo...Chennai Challo!

2. Back in time machine

Let us go back to good old black and white days, before the British and before Edison invented the electric bulb. It would be bonfires to keep us warm at nights and every household can boast of a Florence Nightingale grappling in the dark with lamps. Our Ladies with the Lamps- sans make up, have the power to scare ghosts of the entire world into oblivion! We could all travel in a time machine and meet Mr Edison and his ilk and beg them not to discover or invent electricity, our Amma would pay for the trip, including food and stay;) Oh..it will be a trip for two, so take your partner tagging along! 

3. Buy back offers and pankhas

Ammi where we grind masalas

Ammi, aatukkal walahs can earn a fortune by having buy back offers. Women of the house, get ready to sell your wet grinders, mixers and fans and buy stone pestels, mortars, grinding stones and hand fans. Manufactures can even give offers "Buying a pestel mortar? Get a mixer free!" All Saravana stores, Rathna stores and the likes can now stock ammis and aatukkals! As for hand fans? We can tap the unorganised sector and provide jobs to millions. Go the British way! use pankhas and use pankha men or women to get you air! 

4. Indian Population Control Board

If there is any such Indian Population Control Board, we can file a suit along with them against the TN government. Buggers, they switch off power at unearthly hours...errrrrr...what do we do when there is no fan, no TV and no light? Resort to the oldest game of all times;) No wonder TN's population will alarmingly increase in the next five six months...babies in the making, you see! More babies means more households and again more power demand. Ammaji, our perpetual Chief Minister, please note! 

Ah..that is our Finance Minister, at the feet of our Amma!

Power supply to poor people of TamilNadu sans Chennai city will be erratic in many more months to come. Instead of huffing and puffing, like good old citizens of our country we have learnt to live with it. Other valuable suggestions too are welcome. Any suggestions, folks?

p.s.: Our power cut schedule everyday is from 9 am to 12 pm, 3 pm to 6 pm, 6.45 pm to 7.30 pm, 9 pm to 10 pm, 11.15 pm to 12 am, 1.15 am to 2 am, 4.15 to 5 am. So how the hell will my inverter work???

p.p.s.: Amma has won Sankarankovil bye election and immediately has announced Kudankulam plant's functioning with immediate effect. Was she waiting for the elections so far? Hail vote bank politics!

p.p.p.s.: Kudos to Didi for shunting out poor Dinesh Dwivedi. Seriously makes me wonder do we need women in politics? Though i like the feel of Meira Kumar's "Baith Jayiye! Please Bhaith Jayiye" and histrionics of Sushma Swaraj in her saree over sweater style drape;)

The week that was for Indian women...

Two news items caught my attention last week- One, Rajasthan's minister Maderna's involvement in a missing nurse case- very sleazy one that, and two, the murder of youngsters Keenan and Reuban, a case of eve teasing gone wild, in full public glare in Amchi Mumbai. The Rajasthani Minister's case was sen(x)ational one, with TV channels airing parts of sleazy CDs showing sexual overtures of Minister Maderna with the Dalit nurse Bhanwari Devi. She has been missing for almost two months now, probably murdered. Sadly, Maderna, though nailed by CBI, has been admitted to hospital with chest(!) pain in hospital. 

After Yeddyurappa, it is Maderna's turn to walk into the hospital, rather be wheeled into the hospital! Why doesn't the Government simply cut them open and conduct compulsory open heart surgeries? Seeing parts of the CD ( check link here) i could relate it to another sensational CD case, our own Swami Nityananda. Probably all porn sites should feature such amateur video CDs shot by 'unknown' people, they could cut down production costs, you see! Why does the press pounce on such CDs is anyone's guess- the TRP ratings. P7 and Sahara Samay has been pulled up by the Rajasthan High Court for repeatedly airing the CDs. Who worries anyway? PILs were filed against Sun TV network for airing Nityananda's CD- but we are yet to hear whereabouts of the case.

 I wonder why people with power and good public standing commit such sins(!) of coveting neighbours' wives. Saravana Bavan hotelier Rajagopal has been handed a life imprisonment in one such a case. He had ordered murder of Prince Shantakumar, husband of Jeevajyothi, the woman whom he took fancy to. Is this a deterrent to these men fancying other people's wives? NO. Success is something that churns out the sexual hormones in a frenzy...

Saravana Bhavan Rajagopal ( seated centre) and the woman wronged- Jeeva jyothi.

The other news that was deeply disturbing was murder of Keenan Santos and Reuban Fernandez in full public view- in the night streets of Mumbai. The two guys who were accompanying their women friends for a dinner in a Mumbai hotel. They were confronted by Rana, who sexually harassed the women friends, including Reuban's girlfriend in front of the hotel. Keenan and Reuban chased away Rana who was back with four of his friends armed with sticks, knives and sickles. With the whole neighborhood watching in horror, the two men who stood up for their women friends and their dignity were murdered in cold blood. Not a person watching, stood up for these poor men- ordinary men with ordinary dreams. The men who stood up for what they thought was right. Eve-teasing deaths do occur once in a while, but fade out soon, as the next death surfaces. 

Keenan and Reuban- the brave hearts

If this is the protection, respect and dignity that Indian women get in India today- why bauble on about 33% reservations for women? When rape in India has increased 800% in a decade, what good can our 33% reservation do? Nothing! Unless the society stops ostracizing women who stand up for themselves- women in India shall remain mere puppets, sans dignity.

Calls- unsolicited!

Shocker 1:

The moment my head hit the pillow, i was asleep. Somewhere far from me, i could hear my mobile's ring ring. Too sleepy to open my eyes, i fumbled for it on the pillow nearby. After a few seconds of groping in the dark, i opened my right eye a wee bit and looked at the clock. It read 10.30 pm. Now my search was almost frantic, lest the incessant ring wake up L peacefully snoring nearby. I finally got hold of the silly thing and wrung its neck- i meant pressed the green button. The voice on the other side was chirpy, too bright for a late night call. The person calling wanted to know his berth number for Rockfort Express about to leave from the platform. Now this person was one of my friend's friend and could have got my number from her, but frankly, is night 10.30 a right time to call a total stranger and ask if their ticket got confirmed? Probably the person thought of me as a super computer that remembers every PNR she comes across on a day. 

And what guts he had to remind me- " Madam, i booked my ticket in your counter two days back". Oh wow! his IQ amazed me so much. I book tickets for an average of 100 people a day and how do i remember this particular person and his berth number? I sat there staring stupidly at the mobile and managed to say- " Please check the chart on the station entrance" and tried to dutifully get back to sleep. That is when my own James Bond woke up and asked the momentary question- " Who is that?" By the time i could explain who it was and what he wanted, L was almost nearing boiling point! 

Shocker 2:

There was another incident a few months back. Poor me was admitted in a hospital for a surgery and was recuperating the same day. Thinking his darling daughter would need a mobile in case of an emergency, Daddy left my mobile near the bed stand. I lay there in the hospital looking blank at the ceiling as my memory faded in and out- the after effect of anesthesia. My right hand punctured and IV fluid administered, i could barely keep myself sane. Daddy had gone to buy me some medicines. 

That is when the mobile chose to ring. After the same legendary groping, i found it and after great difficulty lifted it with my good left arm. The other side cooed a good morning. " Madam, we are calling from XYZ insurance. Anything might happen to us at any moment. So, please subscribe for our company's insurance plan". My foot, i was already sick to the core, slipping in and out of consciousness and God only knows the expletives that marketing executive might have heard that day! And funnily enough, i was so fuzzy, yet i remembered all those expletives banned ages ago, by Mom at home! That meant i was doing just great!

Shocker 3:

This happened a few years back. A hot summer afternoon and we were all dozing at home when the phone rang. Dad who was sleeping nearby picked it up and sat bolt upright. He kept saying- " Oh", " great", " so?" and "ok, ok" so many times that i too woke up from my slumber, thinking he hit the jackpot. And when he handed over the phone to me, looking quizzically at him, i picked it up. The lady on the other side informed dad won a lucky draw and wanted to know if he had any summer vacation programs and i said a big NO. 

She babbled her company was providing a package- 4 days, three nights stay in Goa for a couple, free of cost! There was a little problem though- they wanted Dad to go with his wife. With our Mom dead and gone for five years then, i mustered all my patience and asked if he could go alone, for which the reply was the negative. Negative again, when i asked if someone else from our family could accompany him. That is when she and her sing song voice got to my nerves and i blurted out- " No problem madam, by the way, what are your plans this summer?" That is when i heard the WHAM of the receiver banged on my ears! 

The DNC letters of my mobile have almost worn out of sending Do Not Call SMS to my network provider ( he must probably be snoring away in his Antilla when i answer unwanted calls- how dare he?). They eat away your money and provide your numbers to unwanted marketing agencies who in turn call at the most inopportune moments selling anything under the sun! It is always Sunday afternoon 3 O' clock to sell mutual funds, loans and Monday morning 10 O' clock for holiday time shares;) And it is always a crowded wedding hall when they call up for your salary details regarding the bank loan you dread! So ladies and gentlemen, calling me the next time to sell insurance, mutual fund, cars, loans, jewellery, designer wear or inner wear- beware! I am going to sue you! You heard it right- SUE YOU.