My friend Manoj...

The last time I wrote on this blog was in 2018, at Manoj’s behest to lend voice to India’s ongoing MeToo campaign. Being a champion of women’s rights, he believed that all the perpetrators of sexual assault must be outed and brought to justice.

Today I am going to write about this friend of mine. Manoj Beborta. Mostly because, I’ve been waiting for the tears to dry out all night, but they haven’t, and this is my fleeting attempt at finding some closure. Well, sort of…

Manoj and I were mostly friendly colleagues and then former colleagues, who started talking because one fine evening at office cafeteria during dinner time, I was talking to someone and I called Ram, Raja Ram. He at point in time was a little bit inclined towards Hindutva ideologies, and started arguing as to why I didn’t call Ram, Lord Ram. My response was plain, “Because God cannot be as stupid as Ram was in the story of Ramayan, therefore to me he is just Raja Ram.” We continued arguing a bit longer, and then I went back to resume my night shift, while he missed his cab back home. That is how we met, and that is what we used to laugh about years later. This was the year 2008 or 2009, I just cannot remember anymore.

Over the years, we stayed connected on Facebook and chatted once in a while, but we reconnected after my father’s passing. It’s funny to think, that with so many years of friendship behind us, we don’t even have one picture together. What I have are memories… Memories of drifting conversations, my favourite kind.

Memories of ghost stories we shared sometimes late at night, memories of teaching him how to cook rice or khichdi on phone, or just memories of us arguing about which superhero was better, Batman or Ironman.

He hated the idea of getting married so much that he once told a girl set-up by his family that he’s gay, just to get away from the situation. We were in splits when he told me that. That same June afternoon, while we were out and about walking close to my place in Delhi, he mentioned that he had to pee. So, I offered him to come over to my place, and he accepted, but just as we reached the gate, he heard realized that I have a dog and ran away, like really ran away. Such was his fear of dogs back then.

Then a few months later, when we met, he asked me what gifts one should take for a dog-nephew. Turns out, he was going to Bangalore to visit his friends and their dog, Babu Rao. And boy, was Babu Rao able to transform his phobia! The same guy ran off from my gate because I had a dog at home, started befriending and feeding stray dogs around his office and home.

Manoj meeting Babu Rao

Friendships are formed sometimes with the whole person, and sometimes with just part of a person’s personality. I am not sure what was the case with my friendship with Manoj. We weren’t the kind of pals who’d talk on a daily basis but when we did, we picked things up right where we left off. We shared our ideologies about feminism, politics, environment, women’s rights, and women’s safety. We also had our conflicts over Marvel and DC superheroes, but we both shared our love for Daredevil.

It feels sickening to write about this SoB in past tense, mostly because I can still hear him say, “Kriti, 100 jumping jacks! And you are not allowed to stop.”

He made us a promise, four of us - three of us friends and my sister, that when the pandemic ends, we will do a Delhi street-food fortnight. We planned to hog all of Delhi’s specialty street food and carry Gelucil in in our bags for “emergencies”. That promise remains unfulfilled. So does the promise of raising a toast to life and friendship. And the promise of coming to my place and hogging all the delicacies cooked by my mum, and all the cocktail prepared by my sis. So are all the plans and promises of reforming this world and bringing a change.

So, what am I supposed to say right now? Rest in Peace, my friend? Because, I am vengeful, and you of all people must know that by now. So no, my friend, you are not allowed to rest in peace. You must stay here, in the fourth dimension, guiding us, to do the right thing, and to make this world the Utopia you always made fun of me dreaming about. Because, you know, and I know, the dystopian 1984 world is what we live in but not what we love.

#MeToo Campaign and I - A Sequel

The #MeToo campaign is back – this time in India, and so are the innumerable memories, none of them pleasant.

A friend called me today and asked me to share my experiences on a public platform, some of the experiences that I had shared with him in many conversations spread over several years. I have very few friends and fewer are ones that I have trusted enough to share those stories. I call them stories as it adds a sense of third person experience, for calling them personal experiences would only bring fresh pain and rage. The rage that is self-consuming and pain that is incurable while it lasts.

Over the years, I have honed the art of speaking about those experiences in a detached tone. The detachment is not just in the tone but also in spirit. I am conflicted in whether to write these recollections in first person or third. But I have promised my friend to share my experiences and I can’t do that in third person.

While I sit here, contemplating writing about them, I can feel my heart racing and I know that I will be done with half a pack of smokes tonight – at least.

Let me begin from the beginning,

Summer of 1998 - I was not even 14 then. The school swimming pool that was long under construction, finally opened and we finally got the long-awaited swimming training for the second consecutive summer. The first coach that we had was a decent man who left after first summer and another coach was hired. I have always been told that I am a natural in water, and maybe rightly so.

Since I was much ahead of the rest of my classmates, the coach offered to take to the deep-end and back. All of 14, I was none the happier, I was the first one who got that chance even before the tallest boy in the class. The agreement was that I will float while the coach will hold my hands and get me to the deep-end of the pool. While we were almost there, I felt a hand sneak into my costume and pinch my genitals.

Maybe that was my fault. Why was I wearing a one-piece swimming costume that showed my legs? I was so flustered and so scared in that moment that to this day, I don’t know if I was violated by the coach or one of my classmates. To this day, I sometimes replay that instance in my head, frame-by-frame and can still not figure out who it was.

I didn’t scream when it happened. I didn’t raise an alarm. I did not go and talk to a friend or teacher because it was supposed to be my fault somehow. I didn’t want to make a tamasha of myself by advertising how I invited trouble. 

To this day, I cannot trust my swimming coaches or fellow pool members. It’s as if my training in swimming froze where it was back in that summer. To this day, I prefer going to swimming classes at a time when the pool isn’t too populated for me to identify the culprit, should something happen.

Winter of 1998 - Soon after the incident, we moved to Delhi and the same winters we went on a vacation to Mumbai and Goa. I was 14 now and puberty was finally bringing changes in my body. After landing in Mumbai, we decided to take a local from Ville Parle to Dadar, where my father’s best friend lives.

It was around 7.30 pm and the local were packed thick with people – men and women alike – pressed against each other. For those who have ever travelled by a Mumbai local in that hour would know that expecting personal space in a Mumbai local is like expecting to see Penguins in the Sahara Desert.

So, as things were, I was also pressed against, and pressed by several people around me, and just when we were inching closer to the gate to get off at Dadar station, a bearded man in skull cap, who was pressed on my right side, pinched my breast, got off the train and hurriedly walked past.

The first thing that I noticed when we got off that train was – what was I wearing? It was black jeans and my favourite black top. I was fully covered barring the 3/4^th arms that were visible. This time I didn’t see my fault, so I told my parents, to which my mother remarked on how tight my top was while my father surrendered to the fact that even if we went after that man, he would deny, and we will end up making a tamasha of ourselves.

For the longest time, I had a phobia of bearded men in skull caps. I did not associate them with a religion but only with my experience. And it took me a long time of self-counselling to overcome that phobia.

Year 2018 – it is 11.30 at night and my pulse is 98. I have just finished recounting two instances and there are many to go. I just hope that find the strength to recollect all the instances as I made a promise to my friend. I must go on…

Year 1999 – it was the month of November, and I had just turned 15. Multiples of five are major milestones of one’s age, especially growing up, when one’s entire life is ahead of them. Turning 15, added a bounce to my feet, just three years short of adulthood, just five years short of twenty.

My entire family decided to attend the India International Trade Fair, the most awaited event of Delhi in those days. Once again, for those who have attended that event even once in their lives, they’d know that this event is a large-scale Mumbai local experience, especially on a weekend.

So, on a Sunday afternoon in the end of November we entered Pragati Maidan and started surfing from one state’s exhibition to another. People were moving swarms and while moving from one swarm to another, someone pinched my breast. This year, I was wearing the same black jeans and a full sleeve top – the one I had got for my birthday. This year, I wasn’t wearing tight clothes to invite trouble. This year, I did not tell my parents. I did not want to make a tamasha of myself within my family.

Year 2000 – a Sikh man on a scooter grabbed me while I was walking back from school.

Year 2001 – an uncle hugged me too close for my comfort to warm my feet in winters. For those who may feel the urge to ask – Yes, I said NO.

Year 2002 to 2011 –

Men masturbated in DTC buses, right in front of my eyes.

Men pressed their hardened appendage against me and other women and showed complete defiance on making eye contact.

Grabbing and pinching of other body parts became so common place that I can’t even recollect anymore.

A Pandit, a Muslim, a Sikh and more. Some who wore their religious identities, and many who didn't.

Year 2007 to 2012 –

A husband, who thought it was his birth right to ignore the resistance of his wife because marital rape was first-world bullshit for him. To him, I was his wife, his possession. For him, it wasn’t forced. According to him, he was exercising his conjugal rights.

Year 2011

A senior from college days got in touch with me regarding some product research that he was doing for a lingerie company. While discussing the said garments, he asked if can share some details about g-spot. A subject that was absolutely unrelated to his subject of research.

Year 2012

I was groped by a group of four men on two bikes on a cold December night while I was returning from work. It was 17^th December 2012, a day after the Nirbhaya incident, and a night before that incident was published. While my boss made it a point of kicking me out of office before sunset, the HR head, a woman, told me that nothing could be done as the perpetrators weren’t the company employees.

Year 2013

A college friend came to meet me soon after my divorce and stayed over for the night. While we were chit-chatting about college days and life in general, he made advances that I clearly refused. But high on, Hindi films’ and their infamous message that “there is a yes in a girl’s no” he forced a kiss. He received a tight slap and then profusely apologized for his actions. To this day, he apologizes for his actions and I think that it is enough. But I made him a promise to bring him to justice, should a story of any of his wrongful actions come out even after 50 years.

Years 2014 to 2017

The unremarkable years in the sense of violation, not because the world became a better place but because:

I stopped going out alone,

I stopped going out at night,

I stopped meeting friends outside my house

I stopped taking public transport

Bloody, I stopped living my life

Year 2018

A former colleague visited my place and we sat drinking and chatting. While he was supposed to leave in a couple of hours, and I kept reminding him of that, he kept delaying and then requested to stay the night as he was too drunk in his own words. While I was making my sleeping arrangements in the other room, he suggested that that sleep on the same bed as him. I politely declined. The next morning, I woke up to my apartment door left ajar in his wake, as he found it too awkward to wake persistently knock on my door. The same person who did not find the idea of staying over at my place too awkward the previous night.

When I confronted him, he called me a bad host as I should have woken up at 6.30 am to see him off. He told me that he’d leave at 6.30 the previous night. And of course, so what if he was also the same person who had said he’d leave my place in a couple of hours.

From where I stand, I was labelled as a bad host as I refused to sleep with him. But I am thankful to him for not forcing himself upon me. I am thankful because he took no for an answer. Whether he accepted it gracefully or not is a different story altogether.

It is 1 am on the clock, and my fury, and rage is beyond comprehension. While writing this recollection of my experiences, I contemplated going to office as my favourite colleague is on night shift these days. I contemplated setting the world on fire. And I even contemplated setting myself on fire. As a matter of fact, my insides are burning as if they are already on fire.

For ages, women have been conditioned to find the blame in themselves,

सर झुका के चलो, सब ठीक रहेगा। 

नज़रें झुका के चलो, सब ठीक रहेगा। 

कपडे छोटे न पहनो, Tight न पहनो,

ज़्यादा bright न पहनो, सब ठीक रहेगा।

ज़्यादा हंसो, खिलखिलाओ मत - सबका ध्यान जायेगा,

अगर कुछ हो भी जाये तो उसे भूल जाओ,

Molestation is better than rape, सब ठीक रहेगा। 

अच्छे घर की लड़कियां ऊंची आवाज़ में बात नहीं करती,

अगर गुस्सा आये भी तो गाली नहीं देती।

इस आज्ञा का उल्लंघन किया तो मानो मुसीबत को न्योता दिया,

जैसे सीता ने लक्ष्मण रेखा को पार किया - 

अब सब ठीक कैसे रहेगा?

Through my marriage of four years, I could not bring myself to the thought of procreating. To this day, I can’t even imagine adopting a child. Many people have asked me why… BECAUSE I REFUSE TO BRING ANOTHER LIFE TO THIS AWFUL WORLD.

I am filled with rage as my parents failed to protect me. And I am filled with even worse rage as I failed my sister in protecting her. Why do we always try to find a reason to blame the victim? Why do we always try to justify the actions of the perpetrator? Why do I see so many people sharing their stories saying #metoo? Why can’t we have a world where there’s no story of #metoo?

Here’s to all the remarkable people in my life – Shame on you!

To the teachers who shamed me for wearing a mini skirt on my 13^th birthday – Shame on you!

To the men who ever grabbed, pinched or groped me or any woman – Shame on you!

To the shameless people who blame the victim and support the perpetrators of heinous crimes – Shame on you!

To the ex-husband who at the age of 33 could not understand the language of consent (I am 33 today and somehow, I understand), so – Shame on you!

To the parents of that ex, and other such men – Shame on you! For you created and raised such remarkable pieces of shit that are over-populating the earth.

To the men and women who have abused children and robbed them of their innocence – Shame on you!

The world would be a better place without you.

#MeToo Campaign and I

The last week found all of social media flooding with the #MeToo campaign. The campaign that was sparked by the Harvey Weinstein allegations to convey the magnitude of sexual abuse in our society led a lot of people, men and women alike, to open up. Some just posted the hashtag while others wrote about their experiences in detail.

I, for one, was confused about it. Mostly because there have been so many, that it will be exhausting to open that Pandora’s box. More so because it will fill me with rage, rage that won’t do any good in it’s true form.

I was catching up with a friend when he mentioned the futility of this campaign and how it is useless and propagates self-victimization. Needless to say, that made me angry, sad, upset, and everything in between. How could anyone accuse any such initiative, of people coming out and talking about abuse, of self-victimization?

Isn’t it obvious that none of the victims are looking for pity? Isn’t that the reason why none of us have chosen to speak about the abuses perpetrated on us over the years. That and the fact that we still try to blame and shame the victim. The same friend also went on to put the contemporary fashion under spotlight. According to him, as many others, surge of testosterone is the primal instinct which is triggered by any show of extra skin. Extra in this case is subjective, for some experience the trigger of those instincts when they see a little bit of arm of another person, or the tiny feet of a baby.

So, on behalf of all those who participated in the #MeToo campaign, and also on behalf of those who have been abused in some form or another but could not openly participate in the campaign, I am writing this today.

#MeToo campaign is

- not about self-victimization

- not a collective pity-party that we have launched to massage each other’s hurt self-esteem

- not about making everyone feel insecure or become cynical of their surroundings

- not just about women who have been abused but also men

It is, in fact, about

- Conveying the magnitude of sexual abuse and how prevalent it is

- The fact that is not just concentrated in one industry, place, or situation

And most of all, it is about offering a hand to show that we are there for each other. So that somewhere, someone can see this support and can come forward and talk about their experience; for you believe it or not, half the population on this planet is silently suffering and not talking about it. They are still thinking about how they could have done things differently to avoid those horrific experiences. I know that I am still thinking about it.

Behind the veil of tradition

The series of incidents I will narrate henceforth, are all isolated. Some of them may even appear to be lighthearted in nature. But the reason I am going to narrate these incidents here is provoke some thought in the readers’ mind. The incidents so to speak, are a recollection of a person I know, but it could be any of us, or all of us.

First, some facts...

• The person in this narrative is a woman
• Lives in the tech-capital of India
• Owns multiple pets
• Prefers an asocial lifestyle
• The city in question is supposedly a great place for women to thrive as most people are well educated and from decent families

-           

About a year ago, during an official dinner, her colleague made a remark in passing which had a sexist undertone. When she tried to discuss the matter further, bang came the formidable F word. Are you one of the feminist types? - was the question. Turns out, Feminist is the most dreaded F word of our generation, even more than the other four letter F word.

A year on, another official gathering, mostly comprising of men. Well, to put things into perspective, she was the only woman in the gathering. In an attempt to humour the guests of honour, one of the colleagues quipped that the city they live in has weather just like a girlfriend aka unpredictable. To this, the married guest of honour quipped that the weather of his hometown is like a wife aka hot and humid. While she did have a comeback on the tip of her tongue, the distastefulness of the entire conversation left her muted. She could have retorted saying that the city they were in has the climate like an engineer’s career. As distasteful as the others’ remarks, and below the belt. That could get her tag of “a bitch,” wouldn’t you agree?

A colleague at work boasting about her cab driver’s driving prowess. How wonderful that he manages to get her home faster than other drivers as he’s swift, even on the wrong side! But the other day, they got stuck bumper-to-bumper with another car coming from the opposite direction. She (the colleague) was aghast because the car on the opposite side (read the right side) was being driven by a woman. Now, how can a woman drive at all, leave alone driving on the right side of the road?

And then the mass-molestation incident happened in some city on the New Year’s Eve. How could those women be wearing whatever they were wearing (nobody knows what they were in fact wearing), and how could they be so drunk (again, nobody knows if they were drunk at all) was the collective question asked. Men will be men after all!

This woman in question has more than a couple of pets to make her house a home. She is regularly asked a nagging question, “where will you leave your pets when you get married?” Is that even a valid question is what she wonders. Why is a woman expected to leave her life behind if she gets married? Her mother has a bigger worry of how will she find a partner with all these pets at all? Men apparently don’t appreciate women who have pets, or life of their own.

On a given Monday, one of her colleagues was asked by another, “how was your weekend, bro?” To which, his riposte was, “Oh! Married men don’t have any weekend.” Needless to say, the comeback was collectively lauded. The women who overheard this conversation were left wondering who will take a note of the man-babies. The ones who can’t find a missing pair of sock without crying for help from their ever-caring mothers and/or wives. But no, women who talk about these matters are tagged as “cribbing wives”. How can a devoted wife complain about her husband not being responsible for his health? Tch!!

And then one day, this woman did something unimaginable. She chopped off her long manes and showed up at work with a cropped look. Want to guess the best question that was thrown at her? “Have you joined some sort of women’s liberation association?” While she was expecting, and did get questions like, “did you have a breakup?” this question took the cake. She did retort saying that she doesn’t need to join any association as she is the association.

The best incident of all is yet to follow. During a general discussion around the festivities of Diwali, a colleague mentioned how he was stuck as the only “boy” in the girlish task of painting Rangoli in a group of girls.

For the uninitiated (read international) audience, Rangoli is a form of traditional art painted at the threshold of Indian households during major festivals like Deepawali. Some households in India follow the tradition of painting Rangoli every day, although the tradition is slowly dying as the women of the household are getting busier in their life, professional as well as personal. Why women you ask? Well, read on…

On being asked to define stuck, he retorted saying that it is a women’s thing to do. Upon being further questioned as to did he lose his moustache, the visible sign of masculinity, in the process of painting Rangoli, he walked back to his workstation and sent a Wikipedia link. On being asked about the context of that link, he responded saying that “traditionally” it is supposed to be done by women. What ensued was a long discussion on tradition vs progress. On being schooled about patriarchy, the same young man denied having any knowledge of patriarchy in Indian society. He went on to say that what she was talking about might be from some other civilization but he is absolutely not part of that civilization. On being asked if he agrees with the caste system as well, since it stems from the same tradition, he absolutely refused.

A while ago, a friend and I were talking about feminism and patriarchy, and he made a beautiful point that all the isms aside, we should strive to be progressive. The friend in question is someone that I refer to as a closeted feminist, for a progressive society gives equal right to all participants, and the freedom of choice too.

For the flag bearers of patriarchy in the guise of traditionalism fail to realise that this patriarchy is killing their fellow brothers too. It is same set of men who visit other countries and come back whining about the tradition of racism. It is the same patriarchy that is keeping so many men from following their dreams of becoming a ballet dancer, a painter, a cook, a homemaker. It is thanks to this patriarchy, that there are so many gays in our society, married to the opposite sex and leading dual lives.

And so we continue watching the charade of #SelectiveTolerance.

The Sin of Having Breasts

So, while my readers are wondering where I have been for the last few months, well, I was reeling over the present state of ourselves. Of how we have started regressing instead of progressing? Where we went wrong and such.

We often blame the men for where we are and what we have become. But are they really to be blamed? Can we, the women, take the holy water in our hands and swear to have done everything possible to accept fellow women as they are?

Picture this… A woman co-worker walks into work wearing a V-neck t-shirt. She’s wearing clean clothes, conforming to the official dress code. Her mistake? Well, she has breasts. The next thing we know, fellow “well meaning” women gesture her to pull up her top.

Another scenario, another woman. She is wearing a salwar-kameez, absolutely sanskari you would say. Her mistake? Well, she has breasts and unfortunately, she also wears a bra. Oh gosh! How could she wear that stigma of womanhood and afford to let the strap show by accident? Another set of well-meaning colleagues/friends gesture towards her to get rid of the evidence with immediate effect.

We’re aren’t unaware of or unknown to our well-meaning mothers, sisters, neighbourhood aunties and such, who on more than one occasion have reminded us to “cover-up,” “wear a jacket,” “wear a chemise” to hide the fact that there is a woman walking out there.

Oh! And then come girlfriends and wives into the picture. How quickly we dismiss the women around us by calling them too slutty to be chosen as life partners. Because, a life partner worthy “material” doesn’t walk around showing too much skin or speaking her mind, or doing both now, does she?

Have we ever seen a father tell his son to shave off his stubble to hide the fact that he is man? Have we ever seen men gesturing towards fellow male colleagues to pull up their pants as their underwear elastic bearing the brand name shows over the waist of their trousers? Did we ever see a man whispering into another man’s ears that he needs to go to the toilet, like it was against the ten commandments? I’m sure, none of us have seen any of that.

The list is long, and frustration pent up for decades… and the deeper I dig, the more I find women guilty of acting against women. Why do we have to snigger with perverted men when a joke is made about what a woman is wearing? Why don’t we just tell them to mind their own freaking business and let the other person be? Why do we have to impose a certain image of sanskari women on other women? Most of all, why do we even try to manipulate men in our life by slut-shaming other women? Are we so out of logical arguments? Or have we regressed so far that we’d exceed any length to achieve what we want, without giving a thought to how our actions are affecting those people?

TRUMPing Rage

I’m aware that I’m kind of late, almost at snail pace in coming up with this piece. But All these days, I was trying to process the events taking place and my initial impulsive reactions.

Friends in the US of A, sounded concerned when the night of Nov 8^th, and needless to say we all shared their concern as citizens of one global village. Someone started an online petition, to convince the electoral college to reverse the decision of US citizens.

I first reaction was “Wow! Is that even possible? Why don’t we have that in India?” And yet, after much after thought I realized how much I disagree. Well, to begin with, electoral college in this case holds the position as that of a responsible parent. The parent who’s supposed to step in and sort all the problems caused by their child, who happens to be the collective majority of the United States. Much like our own Salman Khan’s father, ever so willing to apologise for his son’s stupid statements and actions.

Whether we like him or not, as much as we detest him personally, we really need to realise and accept the fact that Trump is now the president elect of USA. And as long as he hasn’t resorted to criminal and/or illegal methods to win the polls, the electoral college should ideally not reverse this decision. Good, bad or ugly, a mistake or the right decision, the majority of US decided to elect him, and they must have a taste of what it really is.

For all we know he might just prove to be a good president. If not, there will be polls in four years’ time to fix this mistake. But stepping in of electoral college, to salvage the situation would never help the adults learn a valuable lesson.

As for the hypocrisy of this situation, the same people, who were in support of Hillary Clinton for being a woman running for elections, are now shaming Melania Trump for her career as a model. What has anyone got to do with the fact that she was a bikini model? And if we do have to share facts about her, then why not share the fact that she fluently speaks six languages? Or are really living in times of #SelectiveTolerance?

The term democracy by its very meaning is that the people elect their representative from time-to-time. Any attempt to twist that would cause a state of anarchism, in addition to the assurance that people can make any error or judgement whatsoever and Mommy would come to their rescue.

Think about it! Maybe it’s time to swallow that hypocrisy and pride, and learn the lesson.

India, The Land of #SelectiveTolerance

And proud at that!

Welcome to India, my holy motherland. The land of intolerance. There have been a lot of controversies in recent times about India being a land of intolerant people. Well, that definitely needs correction.

We the people of India appreciate free speech as long as Arnab Goswami disciplines people from all walks of life on prime time news, but we get baffled when common citizens express their views, albeit different from the majority.

We the people are tolerant, even forgiving, of film stars who drunk drive and kill people, and make inappropriate comments on rape. But we, the same forgiving people, uninstall a shopping app because another film star generally states his concern about the general state of communal disharmony in the country.

We the people, are proud of women who make a name for themselves as long as they don’t drink, smoke or live a life as they want. The moment a woman who has made her mighty khandaan proud is spotted with a cigarette between her fingers, she suddenly becomes a subject of ridicule. Tch! Tch! How could she blow off the respect earned by her ancestors with one puff?

We the Indians, are tolerant nay empathetic of men and women having flings as long as they keep the sanctity of unHoly matrimony. Who walks out of a marriage of convenience, after all? Aren’t we a land of tolerant people; people who tolerate toxic relations, friendships, work place, and marriage? How could one take the intolerant path of divorce? We are supposed to be tolerant! We are not America now, are we? We can boycott actors for divorcing their wives but watch first day, first show of actors who beat-up their girlfriends. It is after all their personal matter, isn’t it?

We the tolerant people, empathize with Hindus who eat beef during their sojourn abroad. After all, it’s a need for survival! But we, the same god damn, people kill if we even suspect that a Muslim has eaten or has plans of eating beef.

We are the mighty Indians, who strike a war against neighboring country on social media, while hogging Lahori Kebab. Who cares about Lahore if we can get those Kebabs in the neighborhood! Right?

We are so tolerant that our daughters leave their parents behind when they get married. Some of them even surrender their income to their family-in-law. But we the tolerant people have a landmark judgement from Supreme Court to divorce those wives who do not wish to live with the husband’s parents.

In fact, we are so amazing, that we worship Goddesses in various form on different festivals, but we stop our own women from entering the places of worship while menstruating. We are so tolerant that we worship a naked goddess but molest a woman wearing skirt. She is but a mere human after all.

We the people of India, take immense pride in our reverence for the said scriptures, but we, the same people never even bother to read even one. We are so great that Kamasutra originated in our land, but we could die of shame speaking of sex, sexuality or even condoms.

We are even better at acknowledging the fact that Gandharva Vihaah has been an ancient tradition. But we wouldn't shy away from ostracizing a couple living together without being married on paper, or even marrying against their family's wishes. We the people are really honorable for we take pride in killing for honour. The family's honour is attached to their daughter's marriage, wouldn't you agree?

We are the land of Ardhnarishwara, we even worship him her it, and yet we ridicule the LGBTQ community as best as we can.

We are a land of sanskaar (values), of parampara (tradition). We are absolutely not the land of intolerance. We are a land of #SelectiveTolerance!

A scribbler's distress

Hello readers from across the globe....

I see that you read my posts from different geographies, sometimes from my homeland India, sometime from the far west, and from all other beautiful places in between.

I just want you to know that it means a lot for an amateur scribe like me, to have such a diverse audience. But honestly, it'd be a lot more helpful if you could just spare a few moments to comment on my posts with your feedback and opinion.

It'd also embolden my confidence if you followed me on Twitter and liked my Facebook page.

Feedback is considered to be a writer's best reward, and it is only that that I seek.

I hope you will be able to spare some time to share your views on my posts. I really look forward to making my posts better and better.

Yours Truly,
Bombshell Ideas

21st Century Journalism = Mud-slinging in public?

Arnab: “In the guise of backing Kashmiris these sections (pseudo-liberals) including the sections of media are doing everything possible to support Pakistan sitting here in India…” On The News Hour, Jul 26. 2016.

Barkha: I hope I will always be someone whose journalism you loathe, because trust me, the feeling is so utterly mutual that it would kill me to be on the same side of any issue as you. In her Facebook post, Jul 27, 2016.

And thus began a saga of mud-slinging, calling each other names, and question each other’s patriotism. The allegations have gone down to extent of feeling ashamed of belonging to the same industry as the other. One might be surprised to know that once upon a time, there was one channel, one visionary, one journalist extraordinaire to provide a nurturing ground to Arnab, Barkha, Rajdeep alike.

They were all trained under one roof, and must have had coffee in the same cafeteria, just like your colleagues and mine. They must have had some disagreements then, but time helped their love grow and flourish. And today, those disagreements have led to the level of abusing each other in public, knowing that entire nation’s aspiring journalists look up to them.

Back in journalism school, we were taught to be objective. A reporter is supposed to reports incidents as they are. If we arranging byte of those in favour of a matter, and byte from someone against it becomes a mandate, since a journalist is supposed to show both sides of the coin.

Today we see, the nation’s role models coming out like grade school kids and insulting each other in public. Honestly, I have never seen a worse case of abusing one’s resources at their best. Barkha, whose courage and ferocity gave me an ambition. Arnab, whose passionate debates constitute most of dinner time TV in the same pseuso-liberal families. They just seem to be short of pulling each other by the hair and dragging to the principal’s office.

When I look back, I feel ashamed of having once belonged to an industry where such an immature lot belongs. It is the same lot that keeps forgetting how they are deviating from the subject only in the effort of opinionating the nation, to satisfy their ego of course. It has become a matter of personal pride to either parties, to break down any matter of national attention from “For” and “Against” to “For Barkha” and “For Arnab”. It is no more a matter of debating issues at hand objectively, leaving the final verdict in the hands of the citizens.

But, oh no! No. How could that be? After all, the intelligentsia of the nation, the pseudo-liberals, and liberals alike has taken up the humongous responsibility to educating the lesser mortals. The lesser mortals whose impressionable minds are being impressed with the idea that those screaming passionately on the other side of the screen are the actual liberals.

Forgetting that a real liberal does not have to scream, ‘cause a real liberal knows how to respect another person’s opinion. A true liberal in the field of journalism would simply care about reporting the facts as they stand. A true liberal does not suffer with complexes contributing to formation of an opinion in their favour rather than the subject. For liberals would never let their personal opinion interfere with their profession.

Dear former Mother-in-law

I wish I had said these things…

10 years back when she met the parents for her boyfriend, they tested her patience in real sense. So strong, and so blind was her love that she still managed to sail through without killing anyone. 10 years back, when she was all of 22, she was asked if she would come back from work and cook every day. She was asked if she would conform to the traditional ways of married women. She was also asked if she would take permission before going to meet her family. She was asked if she would quit her career if her holy husband asked her to.

10 years back, when she was too young to understand the ways of this world, when she was just out of her teen age, she said yes in answer to almost all the questions except one about her family and career, by then she had started to wonder where she had gotten herself. So scared, upset and confused was she that a mere recall throws her into an anxiety attack - 10 years later…

Two years after that absurd meeting, the girl foolishly in love with that guy married him and went on to live with the entire clan under one roof. While she was strong headed enough to not give in to insane expectations, she was still vulnerable enough to get impacted by the daily criticism of not cooking for in-laws, of not wearing the marital attire, of taking her work too seriously.

Reading through Vagabomb’s recent post  about the things every woman should demand before getting married, she can only look back, cringe and then smile.

She hadn’t articulated her demands as she always took these things for granted. For her life couldn’t exist without the basics. But then it came onto her survival and she fought. She fought for all these things and more, and when she realized that the fight was consuming too much energy, she walked out. The world called her foolish for seeking divorce but she was not one for drama. She walked away and happy.

The said post is really ironical, for things like Time alone with family, Equality and respect, no ideal bahu pressure, no sanskaari wardrobe revamp, financial independence, freedom of choice to keep maiden name, an equal say in the family matters, time alone with partner, freedom to make decisions about body - are all truly basics. In a utopian world there shouldn’t be any need to demand these things. Additionally, she demanded a complete series of medical tests for HIV and STD, she offered the same for herself as well- luckily, this was accepted without much ado. But ironically, she had to demand these things, she had to fight each day, and even today when she thinks of that time, the anger and anxiety overwhelm her completely. And still she decided to recollect every instance and write this piece...

“Dear former mother-in-law, former husband and rest of the family,

I wish I had said these things when I first met you and got to know your insane expectations. I wish I had told you that if I intended to feed someone without him helping out, I would rather adopt a baby. I wish I had told you to get out of my bedroom, the first time you tried to interfere between the fight of husband and wife.

Dear mother-in-law, I wish I had told you to shut-up when you had asked me to wear certain kind of clothes. I wish I had informed you that there is no such thing as ideal daughter-in-law, as there are no ideal mothers-in-law either. We are all different individuals and living under one roof, we should try make life simpler for everyone - together.

Dear former husband, I wish I had smacked you in the face and told you to get lost when you first told me get things in my body changed. I wish I had told you to never see my face again, the first time you asked me to change my name. I wish I had told you that you do not deserve another man’s daughter if you cannot put in an equal effort to accept and appreciate her.

I wish I had told you that I would not bear a child unless you showed some traces of civilized human behavior. I wish I had told you that a daughter-in-law is a human being who makes a personal choice of motherhood instead of becoming a child-bearing machine.

Dear former so-many-people, instead of hoping that you'd evolve, I wish I had never married in your family, for everyday in that house was an exhausting fight.”

Today she thinks that she did the right thing in walking away. Our society preaches loyalty and faithfulness to the extent that we forget that things might go wrong. We forget to prepare our sons and daughters to bail out if things get beyond their capacity to manage. We forget that having a partner, or kids before a certain age, or posting together pictures on social media is not a life goal. It’s good to have these things but not at the cost of one’s own peace of mind and happiness. Today that girl is on her own, and is loving every bit of it. She might not have a partner to post together pictures with, but she definitely has a lot to do in her space and time.

Dil, Dosti, etc - When money enters the equation

The last couple of days have been tormenting, overwhelming and really disturbing to say the least. These days of disturbance led me to introspect and reflect on the relations that I have made and maintained through my life thus far.

To give a brief background, I asked one of my friends (best friend at one point in life) to return the money she had loaned from me on different occasions as it had been over ten years since it began. While I had written off that loan about three years back, I still felt the need to remind that person that the debt was still unpaid and I was still upset. What began then was a match of mudslinging which ended with me blocking that person from all channels of communication.

The last time I’d asked for my money back, she’d told me to manage my finances properly instead of spreading my hands. I was patient because she was carrying her first child then and I didn’t want the wrath to spill over to the unborn child.

In her last message which led to her being blocked, she had accused me of not being such a nice person who would keep mum if someone behaved the way she did. In short, she denied all that she had said and called me liar. She went on to say that she had to go through a tough decision during her second pregnancy because I had cursed her.

In the past, I had loaned two more friends, one of whom returned my money after giving me the same gyaan to manage my finances well. And well, the other person returned a hefty sum in such small parts that it was as good as trash to me. The second friend even lied to me of his wife not having a job while she actually did, and started returning my money only after I found out the truth and confronted/threatened him.

What I learnt from my mistakes are these 9 rules:

Rule No. 1: Never lend anyone money without having a clear discussion of when that would be returned.

Rule No. 2: Never keep mum if somebody crosses the line thinking that you’d end up ruining the relation. Quite honestly, the relation was ruined the moment that person crossed the line.

Rule No. 3: Never keep other’s need above yours or your family. Help only if you can afford to.

Rule No. 4: Watch out for signs. People with the intent to return the favour are quite grounded. They won’t spend on luxuries without paying back the previous debts.

Rule No. 5: It’s okay to grow out of friends/boy-friends/relations, don’t cling only to find yourself stranded. My biggest mistake in the first case was to cling while I grew out of her. Quite honestly, I had never even grown into her. It was more about clinging onto a phase of my life. And I paid for it with an affordable sum and scarring heartburn.

Rule No. 6: Listen to your family/close ones. While you might be blinded in the moment, your well-wishers may notice the signs. In all of the above cases including my former partner, my father had warned me absolutely blatantly. I had to burn my finger to learn my lessons.

Rule No. 7: Don’t lend. Don't borrow. Write the details if the need arises to do either.

Rule No. 8: Never ever disclose your salary even to your closest of friends. This was my biggest mistake. Every time I asked for my money back, from either of these individuals, they quoted my salary and remarked about how poor my finance skills were. - Make this the thumb rule.

Rule No. 9: Walk away when the damage is less. They who didn’t realise once, would never realise later. Conscience either exists or does not exist. There’s nothing in between. I kept adding to the previous debt hoping that the bigger sum would motivate her to pay back. Even got her an expensive dress with an agreement that either she’d pay back or return the dress. I got the dress back after following up for a year and a half. (Yes, I care about the dress. I am a woman.)

Last but not the least, never trust people who watch and like Ekta Kapoor kind of soap operas. They watch that crap and it gets into their head big time. <Experienced for real>

I have had my share of bitter experiences and still have been lucky to have friends who stood by me during hard times. Friends whose debt I’d never be able to pay back in cash or kind. I can only count my blessings and thank god for sparing me with only as much as I could afford.

There is no reason why one should survive suffocating or toxic relations. Watch out for the signs and bail out! In life we make plenty friends, some last a long time and some are lost in time. Cherish the happy moments but remember that the contribution in any relation has to be equal - Physically, emotionally, spiritually. You know it’s time to walk out when the proportions are distorted.