The Club Of Noisy Women

This time over, no apologies. A blogger does deserve a break, right? So long as it is not a bone that is broken ;) I have indeed had a very satisfying short vacation to the most divine and wild place- Valparai. Hell no, this is not one more travelogue. I reserve the travelogue for later. This time, it is going to be a post on shhhhhh...silent...calm...gentle....

I am an expressionist. With large eyes protruding from an equally large face, I ooze of well...sound! I am noisy. Not nosy. How is that? Being a woman and noisy? Being a lady and laughing out aloud? Being a woman and witty? Being a woman and walking with head held high and shoulders squared? If you have the same decibel of laughter emanating from you that grips everyone around you, well, welcome to the Club of Noisy Women, ladies!

Having grown up in one of the most conservative village, which is at the heart of a wildlife sanctuary, I am not used to that melodious and mellifluous voice. Though my female cousins inherited the oh so sweet voice of nightingale, I happened to inherit the gruffest kookaburra's voice. It always is a few octaves higher than my mother would have liked. It rose to so many octaves when I was chatting away with friends. I required lot of 'disciplining' from my mother to bring it few notes lower. But I am sorry mom, it has never worked! I just pretend to keep my voice few decibels lower when with family. When I indeed feel happy, hormones wreak havoc and I am the usual 'me'.

I was taught the art of walking for a long long time...how to keep your legs one after the other, crossing each other. Right, then left, the toe placed right at the heel of the right. I wonder why a woman is taught how to walk...when everyone expects her to run! Fetch is the game the family likes to play with her- 'bring my tie', 'mom! Where is my pencil box?', 'amma...where is washing powder?' all questions bombarded at the same moment and being the lady of the family that you are, being responsible, you are expected at 101 places at the same time. 

How would it be, if you walked like a model on the ramp when the husband is yelling at his maximum capacity for the forgotten keys? Somewhere along the 36 odd years, I forgot how mother taught me to cat-walk. My walk now resembles that of a zombie at times when I am early to work and that of a waddling duck when I am late. I envy those women who pretend to be oblivious to the surroundings and walk with such clinical precision of a cat, how much ever late they may be!

Hopefully the number of mothers who now ask their children, especially the girl children to 'keep low' and to 'walk gentle' has dwindled. The myths of olden days when a girl who talked soft, walked gentle and laughed minimal being held as someone with a 'kind heart' and 'girly' girl remain shattered today. All of us have seen otherwise- those 'silent whisperers' are not always that soft and those 'rowdy louder ones' are not that harsh, when it comes to their lives. Those who have been at the receiving end of their arrogant stubbornness of the so-called gentle ones of the female species, would know by now that 'voices and walks' are deceptive!

It really doesn't matter how you dress up. The decibel of your voice seldom defines what you are. Your walk never reveals your inner strength and attitude. Whenever I see classes that teach 'soft skills' all I do is heartily laugh. Do you need someone to tell you how to be someone else you are not? Do you need someone to dress you up and put you on a display? Window dressing is needed only when you are not marketable ;) Instead, it is the attitude you have towards life that keeps up your image. Just be you! Laugh heartily...talk freely...walk with confidence! Love the voice that resonates from you. Romance your laughter. Enjoy the way you saunter...Shed your false skin. Leave out your pretensions. The world is ours!

p.s.: I do blog erratically. Guilty as charged :)

p.p.s.: I loved the Narendar Damodardas Modi suit. Narcissism has reached a new level and boy would I like Victoria's Secret to make ahem...such customised undies for women in hostels ;) You know why!

p.p.p.s.: Once we had to hang pumpkins to ward off evil spirits. Now it is sufficient to hang pictures of Rahul Bhaiya...see, the entire Congress Camp is empty!!!

I, the missus

This is one more post bordering on feminism, neo-feminism or narcissism...reader's discretion absolutely essential ;) Lightning stuck me one morning, as I was spreading the washed clothes on my favorite treadmill. What was I doing here? In a no man's land...deep in the desert, where civilization existed only beneath the abayas and where life seemed to oscillate between the mundane and the prosaic. Time seemed to have plunged into an abyss of sheer silence and darkness. 

When did I last see the sun? When did I feel the wind whipping my hair? When was the last time I hummed the latest song? Latest now meant few years before...and movies meant blurry images on TV where I had to make out the images of a hero and heroine romancing as shadows...shadow...that described me better. I had forgotten what I was. 

"I" ceased to exist somewhere in that flight between Chennai and Saudi Arabia. "I" was someone with a Central Government job. "I" was someone who had friends. "I" had an identity. I was a self-made, working woman- a mother of two. I loved my job. I enjoyed to draw my pay from the ATM. The feel of fresh, crisp notes slithering in my hand which was the fruit of my hard work was a powerful aphrodisiac.

All that "I" was ended the day I landed up in the desert, pulling the kids and pushing the luggage through the haunted airport lounge. "Cover up properly" was the first comment from the husband. Cover up...stay indoors...keep silent...don't walk beside me...your hair is showing...pull your scarf..don't look at the other males...be careful...don't board a taxi alone...don't go out of the house alone...the list of "Don't Do's" went longer than my grocery bills. Too much of being tied down and I forgot what "I" was. 

Hours of cooking, cleaning, mopping and sleeping...that was all I did. My whole wide world was a 1500 square feet flat with a sloppy washing machine and a stuffy kitchen. All that changed one fine morning. I had to rediscover me. The miracle did happen. A laptop did all the magic. A blog was born and so was the freelancer. Writing an anonymous blog is a luxury that not many could afford and voicing your opinion in various burning issues on world politics in Arab world is a humongous task. 

Being a woman in Saudi Arabia is itself a confinement and breaking the stereotype of an Indian housewife with nothing to do rather than pampering her ever growing muscle mass is an arduous voyage intertwined with grit and determination. Yet...I found a way. The letters to the editor column of Arab News daily paper was sprinkled with fuming anecdotes and anti- Pakistan, pro-Tamil views, courtesy my new found passion for writing. When I started receiving mails as feedback on my letters from unknown persons...I was overcome with glee. 

I was here to stay. I had made a mark- as a woman who was bold enough to voice opinions in a totally male dominated, exclusively Arab ruled Kingdom and I loved every bit of it. Cloud nine blog was receiving great reviews and finally..."I" was someone with an identity. "I" was a successful blogger, an equally successful freelancer and a perennial happy go lucky housewife. And with equal aplomb I landed back on Indian soil. 

That was when all hell broke loose. The country looked new, everything came with a price tag- friendship, honesty, dignity and affection. This is again a metamorphosis, I am learning the ropes afresh and two years back in my job, I am yet to find some proper footing. Life for the 'missus' is happy as always, provided we don't lose the identity of the 'miss'. 

Marriage and moving to a foreign country is just a chapter in the story of life and we need not ghost-write someone's tale. It is after all, our life. We do exist beyond the diaper changes, grocery bills and stinky kitchens. There is a blogger, writer, poet, wife, daughter, mother and sister within me. I can always don the mask that suits me better any time I want. No other name excites me like being called "Akka". Being addressed Mrs. L or the 'missus' of L never made a difference in my life. Despite all the struggles, I wouldn't say my life is all rosy and bright in my profession, "I" still live as "I", not the 'missus' alone! Never lose this "I" for being the missus or the mommy...Its your life after all, babes ;)

p.s.: Sorry about the erratic posting in blog. I am indeed busy traveling and unraveling the mysteries of life ;)

p.p.s.: This video should not be the p.p.s....should have found its place in the post. Ladies out there... enjoy watching ;)

 p.p.p.s.: How does one 'sit simply' idling in an office? In a crash course on idling and picking ear in a century old building at the State Capital. Another post on how to 'sit simbbbbly' follows...keep hooked ;)