That bloody son of a bitch

Featured in YOUTH KI AWAAZ

A while back, I got down at the bus stop after a not-so-good day at work. I had so much on mind as I gloomily walked on the non-existent sidewalk of my street with no street-lights. I had a whole kilometer to walk, and that’s a lot especially when spirits are on the lower side. I plugged in my ear phones, played my favourite song and pressed the volume-up button repeatedly till the music was blaring inside my ears. I walked more, trying hard to keep random crap off my mind, while playing pebble football by myself.

It was dark. I walked and walked and walked. Abruptly a bike from behind me stopped next to me, maybe three inches from me. I looked up and got the shock of my life. Three inches away from my face was an ugly face making a very very disgusting kissing face. I was horror struck. I shrieked, I moved back as far away from the guy as I could get in one second. I don’t know what I felt, I was too shocked to feel anything. I freaked out. I stood there with an undescribable expression till the yucky fellow did the “cool” DRRRRRRRR thing on his bike before he disappeared into the darkness.  Two random men across the street stared at me amused, as if I was doing some puppet show here.

It affected me badly. I couldn’t get that ugly face out of my head (Yes I will call him ugly and any vituperative word that comes too my mind. I can throw shoes at him. I can do anything). Then I was afraid and also angry at myself, for being afraid. But I couldn’t do much,I was still scared. I looked all around cautiously before every step I took. The two-member audience across the street, looked at me like I was some thief. I ignored them and walked as fast I could, yet very carefully. The darkness was eerie. I was alone and this man could be dangerous. I walked a little more hoping I’d never see his face again. But how often do wishes come true!? Ten metres from me, down the street was the yucky guy waiting to harass and bully me or any other girl passing by. He stared, dirtily. I took my phone out and held it tight, ready to make a call should any problem come up. I hurried across the road, I don’t know if I walked or if I ran. I made a call, I think I just pretended to. This man rode off. I thanked the Gods and the spirits and the guy who invented mobile phones.

I wish I had thrown at him, the pebble I was playing with. I wish I had called him a bastard on his face, for the whole road to hear. I wish I had made a scene, I wish I had humiliated him. I wish I had done something that would haunt him the next time he tries to intimidate a girl.

Alas, I did nothing, all I wanted then, was to get home. 

Confessions of a shopaholic

This post is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with Snapdeal.com

What is my hobby? Shopping. At least, it’s one of them.

I shop only when I need something. Only, I can very easily convince myself that I need something.

I love and enjoy shopping. I get so happy, shopping. Nothing can make me feel better than a new bag or a shirt or even a pair of chappals. The vibrant colours, the life these shops add to the world around, the crowds they attract, these shops (the ones on malls and on the streets as well - I don’t discriminate) are amazing. Sometimes I force myself to walk past the mannequins, ignoring my urge to take a second look, in an attempt to dodge the consequences – the buying and the after-buying-guilt. And here and there, when I give in to desire and go for another look, I hope against hope that the it fits me, because there is no decision tougher than the ‘to buy or not to buy’ one. It’s said isn’t it, that the right thing to do is never the easiest one. When I'm shopping, it makes so much sense.

One day, I had to hang up on my dad to avoid a conversation that was inching towards my account balance.  Some retrospection told me what was draining my account. That’s the day I decided to bring it down, to stay home a bit, to stay away from malls and shopping-places for a while. Barring Shilparamam that sells not-so-expensive and pretty stuff, I didn’t shop, at all. I stayed home, I tried cooking, I listened to music a lot, I blogged, I read, I Facebooked, I Youtubed and so much more.

I really did try to stay away, but it’s not my fault if Facebook, Google and every other site on earth is smart enough to know exactly what I want. They don’t show me phones or random stuff I don’t give a damn about. They show me exactly what I want, on every page I visit. It’s all right there, in breathtaking colours with huge discounts plastered on the ads. I did restrict myself to online window shopping (or should I call in screen shopping) for a long time, till one day when I gave in.

It was a royal blue short jumpsuit with a very elegant braided orange belt. And it was on discount :D. I do know how they raise the price to some exorbitant number and then dramatically slash a chunk of it and call it discount. Yes, I do know that, deep inside somewhere. But at that moment, all I saw was the discount. I wasn’t going to get another chance, was I? And who knows if I will ever find a jumpsuit as cute. And this was just a click away. It would be a perfect summer outfit, and who knows, I could visit Goa sometime. It would be so amazing. And I went off into a walk-in-the-beach-in-the-jumpsuit reverie. Back in reality, the ‘buy it’ button was gleaming on my screen. I clicked away happily.

I waited three long days. The courier was in my hands. I was excited and eager.  I unwrapped the packing hastily and tried the jumpsuit on. And it all ended so abruptly. The tailor at the end of Pitchumani street in Salem would’ve stitched something better. I looked like a joker.

The online shopping guys have amazing photographers. Beware. L

P.S. I haven’t given up. I still e-shop. *facepalm*  

The brutal murder of Aarushi

Numerous scandals and acts of crime have been brought to light by the media. The media has not always succeeded in bringing about justice, but it surely has done one thing amazingly well - It brings people together for a cause. The unity that a crisis brings about is inspiring. It’s beautiful, how random Indians from random cities get together to stand up for another.  We are a remarkable country. Yet injustice happens in this country. 

Of all those many cases that the Indian media has made unforgettable, there is one that has intrigued me more than any of the others: The Aarushi Talwar murder case.  I’ve been a keen follower  since day one . Here are a few reasons why.

1.       This is not a case that’s still in the courts, but based on some antiquated incident that happened long before I was born.  This is recent. It happened on one unfortunate day in 2008, sometime after my boards, before I left for university.

2.       Aarushi was 13, almost 14 - a kid. She wasn’t some rowdy woman involved in a drug/money dispute. She was a charming little girl that was excited about her 14^th birthday party. I couldn’t get how someone could be so cruel and callous.

3.       The crime was so heinous, so heartless, so merciless that it hooked me on to it for the next many days.

4.       A group of girls I made friends with referred to me as “the Aarushi looking girl” the first few months in college.

Initially, there was no uncertainty about who the murderer was, none whatsoever. DUH, It’s got to be the Nepali servant, Hemraj. Why even search the house, let’s just give it the most typical story - “Illegal immigrant and servant rapes and kills pretty daughter of dentist couple”. The world cursed the servant and Nepalis in general. Some even fired their poor Nepali servants. Later, one policeman walked up to the terrace with a cigarette between his fingers and a smirk on his face, simultaneously judging the Talwars’ decision to hire a manservant in spite of having a daughter. Just that moment, his whole world fell apart seeing  what lay there in front of him. There was the body of the Nepali servant. He was murdered too. Their clumsiness and the sloppy conjecture got the police into big trouble.

After the initial debacle, the police could no more fool around. By this time, the world started to curse them for their inefficiency. And the ones who fired their servants, cursed the police more. Meanwhile, the media caught up. Every piece of inside information leaked out. The police could no more dally. They had to buck up, and they did.

However, after medical reports ruled out sexual abuse, and after some other tests/investigation ruled out the involvement of certain other suspects, the light turned to the Talwars themselves. The police and the media considered all the typical Indian motives (honour killing, et al). But investigation ruled out some and there was no evidence to corroborate the others. Aaj Tak probably found the story too boring and decided to add some masala. It brought a new suspect into the picture. The police ran their usual rounds of tests and interviews and declared that he was not guilty. The only people left were the Talwars. The slit on Aarushi’s throat, they said, looked like it could not have been done without dexterity. And that made the doctor couple look even more guilty. Aarushi’s dad was arrested and later released on bail. The couple has been making routine trips to jail. The CBI could find enough evidence to neither prove them guilty nor prove them innocent. Her mom is still behind bars.

I still watch every piece of news that’s aired. I read every article that’s published. The investigation still goes on. The progress is meager.

If it really was the Talwars, I have no words.

And if it wasn’t, I don’t think there has ever been a more deviously committed crime.

Either way, it’s an unsafe world. And justice is difficult to find. Let’s just hope she rests in peace.

Dear moral policeman...

Featured in YOUTH KI AWAAZ 

Before I start with so many other things that I want to say, thanks a ton for worrying about us, our culture and our morals. My heart swells in pride to see your selflessness. I can’t name too many Indians who would care so much to help us this way knowing it’d land them in jail. We are very very grateful to you and the least we could do is to return your favour – No we’re not brave enough to go to jail, just some friendly return advice. Gratitude, you see. That’s virtue number two that we were taught. Poor us, the Indian youth, very few morals we have, so might as well show them off every chance we get.

So what’s virtue number one, you may ask.

Friend, the first virtue we were all taught as kids is called ‘tolerance’. You missed that lesson, eh? It’s alright. It’s not your fault, you were taught too much about the “Indian culture” to remember such silly things. Let me explain. Have you read “Live and let live” anywhere? It’s in one of those books you borrowed from the ashram that has Gandhi’s picture right on the outside. I know it adorns that bamboo table in the corner of your simple house. Your neighbor thinks you’re some big overly intelligent guy reading history and philosophy and all, yet a simple guy wearing dhoti. Ideal Indian, friend! We’re proud of you. When TLC comes to your village, take them to your house and talk about Gandhi. Pakka it will be!

Friend, let me warn you, the world has changed. You have been the sole  “bearer, follower, preacher “ of our culture. But it’s no more that easy. It is a competitive world today.

1.        Orange clothes don’t cost too much these days. Also, you might want to change the colour, orange clad people are associated with sexual harassment cases these days.
2.        You get Gandhi and even Vivekananda books for free in some shops, I hear.
3.        Everyone loves to run on the roads yelling things. Even we did that in college.

You ‘ve waited all these years, the time has come to actually open and read those books.

‘Culture’ is deeper than you think. ‘Moral’ is a word that’s even deeper than that. Understanding of either of these two words is impossible if you don’t get the meaning of tolerance. Tolerance is what holds this world together. It is what keeps India, a secular country together. The wars are because of people like you, who are too intolerant to embrace this virtue that the rest of the world preaches.

Friend, you live your life, while we live ours. If you think sitting in your front yard gossiping about how short your neighbour’s daughter’s skirt is, is fun, we pity you. But we aren’t going to send our dog to bite you. It’s the same way friend. If we think partying is fun, mind your business. Gossip about us, if it gives you so much pleasure. But sending people to hit us? Violence is bad, did no one tell you?. And you were so audacious that you publicized this to the whole world, by stupidly getting a shameless cameraman to accompany you. Poor fellow, his TV channel must’ve desperately needed this to help its falling TRPs.

Did you forget that Gandhi’s favourite word was ‘non-violence’? Or wait, You didn’t even know!

You don’t know non-violence or tolerance.

And you are the moral police? LOL

Your existence is affecting our tolerance levels.

Friend, Go get a life!

With love and gratitude,

The Indian youth

P.S. This is some friendly advice, friend. Take it. You don’t want all of us taking you down, trust me. 

An evening that taught me a lot

On that gloomy skied evening, it took us a long and quite an uncomfortable drive on countless badly laid roads and rugged streets, each of which turned around a corner into an even more narrow lane with no streetlights, to reach the place. Traveling to another place in Salem, by car and for almost an hour seemed ironical. We reached the end of the maze. Hidden behind all those buildings, at the end of all the trees was the School for the Blind.

As we walked inside, the many little kids crowding around brought back memories of the last time I was here with dad. The manager explained to my relatives that the blind school housed not only children who were partially or completely blind, but also ones who were mute and hard of hearing.

Their meal began the conventional way- One of the kids would stand up and recite a long prayer and all the others would repeat every line. The earnestness in the prayer was so touching that it would have filled anyone’s eyes. I stood still observing all the kids around, while listening to all that was being said. There was this pretty little girl smiling at me all through. I could see she that she could see, and instantly I realized she could neither speak nor hear. Just the thought of it hurt. They prayed for the well-being of the sponsors of the meal, in this case, it was us. At the end of the prayer, they all applauded to express their gratitude and appreciation. The sight was poignant. Two of my aunts walked out of the room in tears.

It was then time for food. Again, going by the traditional way, we served the sweets and then the staff took over. My relatives were, I guess, too sensitive to take any more of it; they left the room. It was just dad and me inside. I believe that expression of love to such kids is vital; I refused to leave the room.

I could not take my mind off that li’l girl. I really wanted to talk to her, I had no clue how to. Talking to her was not a possibility. Sign language was something I had no idea about. For the first time in my life I felt a complete inability to communicate and yet a longing to express. I felt helpless. I felt horrible. All I could do was smile, and that’s all I did.

Cursing my powerlessness and myself, I whiled away time talking to other kids and serving food. An hour later, I was outside on the corridor, when this li’l girl walked up to me and gestured asking if I had eaten. I responded, saying I did. I followed this up with a couple of simple questions that she answered similarly. Then she wanted to tell me her name. She could not pronounce it; that instantly made me feel very bad. She, with her index finger wrote it on my palm for me to feel and comprehend. She was called Pavithra. Then it was my turn to introduce myself. I regretted having never properly learnt to write in Tamil. I still did give it a try, though I spelled my name wrong (which was very embarrassingL). Pavithra held my hand and led me to the girls’ dorm. She took me inside, showed me around. She then pointed to me, then to herself, and then brought her hands together to show friendship. I fought to control my tears.

I was happy. I was sad. I was all of it together.

I want to reach out, do something more. For the present, I guess I’ll just visit her soon with a lot of goodies.

Instant Inspiration!

It was the eleventh of july, 23:55. I was awake and waiting. So was more than half the human race. There was soccer and excitement in the air, all around –in every living room of the li’l colony I live in, and on my wall on facebook as well. Every third second on fb, saw a new status update, some cheering on the orange Dutchmen and the others siding the Spanish 11, everyone on tenterhooks to see if Paul’s prophecies were right.

A soccer game, usually the last thing on my list, was right there on top, this day. The mood everywhere was electrifying. In spite of my drowsiness, I was going to stay up all night to watch it all. There was no way I was going to miss this must-see.

I stayed glued to the tv screen, till some point when I think I dozed off, only to wake up to see the 85^th minute with no score yet. The game went on that way for quite a while. There were so many missed opportunities by the Spanish, a few that made me jump, just to fall back on the couch a second later, in dejection. Most of the extra thirty minutes went on this way, with neither team scoring. 13 yellow cards were issued, with De Jong kicking Alonso so hard on the chest, for a second seemed like I was watching wrestling, rather than soccer. So went the game, a combo of yellow cards and missed chances.

And then came that moment, out of the blue, when Iniesta maneuvering the ‘Jo’bulani (yeah! I do skim through the news paper) impeccably, kicked it flawlessly into the nets, leaving Maarten Stekelenburg dismayed and upset. Up went the Spanish faction, cheering passionately. It was wild. It was crazy. Casillas’ men ran around in ecstasy, unable to contain the glee. I watched Casillas cry in overwhelming happiness. I was inspired, instantly.

The match continued. The match ended. However, the Dutch couldn’t recuperate. They were beaten, outclassed. Spain was the better team that day. They had won it, the World cup, after 2 lost finals. They had made it finally, under the brilliance of Casillas’ captaincy. They were elated. Words can never ever illustrate the level of magnitude of the happiness. The elation was high. It was emotional. Victory seemed so beautiful. Urged me to want the feeling, incited me to desire to win.

I went to bed that night, inspired.

Let me free!

When college suspends one guy for fagging, makes it an issue when a girl’s texts suggest she is in a relationship (don’t wonder how they read her texts, they don’t believe in privacy!), when the warden tells me what not to wear to the girls’hostel’s mess (no exaggeration!), when people have a problem if my dad chooses to buy me a phone with a camera, and the problem gets bigger if I’m on the phone after ten and and the worst of all, when they don’t let me step out of the campus when I feel like - not for a meal, or even just a stroll, I wonder. I wonder, what the logic behind all this is. Do they think restriction leads to what they term discipline?

I’ve two things to say to them. First, Not talking to people of the opposite gender and wrapping myself in layers of clothes, doesn’t make me disciplined. If you think it does, you’ve got a lot of thinking to do, before complete comprehension. Second, restriction doesn’t help. Get creative. Try other methods.

‘Discipline’ is the word I hate the most in English. It’s the least understood word, the most misinterpreted word, yet the most used word by every random person who loves to throw around free advice. These people, who believe it’s their responsibility to enlighten us, assume a girl is undisciplined when her hair isn’t tied up, a guy lacks discipline when he has a li’l longer-than-usual length hair. And the common rule for all young people, it’s indiscipline to have head phones on or play music loud.

Leaving aside this ignorance, and moving on, even if they want a non-smoking, single young man or woman who is a tee-totaller and completely covered , restriction is the last method that will work. It’s not rules that make a person, it’s a person’s beliefs and opinions that make him/her what he/she is. Once an adult, a person should be allowed to choose what is right for him. Surely, any 18 year old deserves this autonomy. This is what learning to live one one’s own is all about, and ironically, that’s the reason why one goes to a hostel. Sadly, we are all denied this choice. Restriction only causes frustration, and prolonged frustration will only lead to burst-outs. I write this out of frustration, that’s been building up for a long time now.

Rectifying a misconception is out of question when one denies its existence. So as long as this realization doesn’t happen, I guess we will all have to toy around with the rules, and find our way out.