Pink. Anger

I watched Pink today. It made me angry. It made me remember things I had chosen to put at the back of my mind. It made me angry because while I have bitched about those things to friends and they’ve bitched back, we never really raised much of a voice against it then, preferring to roll our eyes at “regressive Indian men” instead; preferring not to make much of a scene. Watching the three girls in Pink told me I should have. Maybe all of us who are in our 40s now and were single in the city about 20 years ago, should have been more vocal, should have done more than raising our eyebrows and shaking our heads at ‘idiots.’ Maybe it would have been a tad better by now. Pink is a movie with an ending that can be called happy in some ways because the girls are vindicated. But it leaves you silent, stunned with discomfort and somewhat deflated. Because even if not in the scale as it happens in the movie, bits and parts of these things have happened with you. Or someone you know/knew. You’ve had that sly, gossipy neighbour who makes her/his own judgement about your moral character just on the basis of when you land up home or whether you stand on the balcony wearing shorts. Yes it’s a Sunday and yes you’ve just woken up to have your first chai of the day but all good bhartiya naris either wear a respectable maxi (and make it even more respectable by putting a dupatta over it) or salwar kameez before they give balcony darshans to the neighbourhood men, right? You’ve had the colleague whose roving eyes landed on your chest ever since you attended an office party together and he saw you dance a bit wildly after more than two beers! You’ve been the girl who thought she would never take shit from anyone and then got down from a DTC bus because, hey, better be safe than sorry, right? You’ve largely tried to stay out of trouble, even if you felt that trouble should’ve been punched right back on its face! In the movie, Falak, one of the protagonists, loses her job because a bunch of idiots hell bent on revenge morph her face into a naked body and mail it to her place of work. Her bosses of course don’t believe in checking facts or even giving her the chance to explain. They fire her. It has happened to someone I sort of knew once. Unlike Falak, she wasn’t in a movie with AB to save her and probably did not have the support to stay on and fight her battle. We shared a hostel and her father and brother came to take her back. I still remember their whispers with the warden, the brother’s stern look, the girl hanging her head, wordless, shaking with tears, her friends talking to the father -- how it wasn’t her fault. I don’t think the father believed any of them. We found out much later she had been a victim of what we now call a cyber crime. I’ve no idea where she is now but that incident in the movie made me think of her, hoping that incident didn’t break her forever. Years ago when we looked for a PG in the safest city in India, all landlords would have one standard question: Boys ayenge kya? We would shake our heads and say no diligently. Finding a place was more important than inviting your male friends inside it. Just like it was important to ignore comments or whispers from neighbours that branded you as ‘those girls who come home late’ or ‘those girls staying alone...’ or ‘those girls who drink’ once you had landed a coveted 1BHK or PG. A PG was more important than taking panga, especially if you had a decent landlady or landlord. So you carried on with your life, you went to work, you partied you, came home late from work on weekdays and late from pubs and parties on weekends. You were 20/25 years old. You thought if you ignored comments and barbs they would go away. You thought you were too cool to dignify those with a response. You thought just do your own thing as long as there are like minded people around you and one day, times would change. You clearly thought wrong. There’s Pink. And there’s news like this: http://thewire.in/67205/bhu-rsss-ne...

Alone Now

These days, I’m re-learning to be alone. I’m re-learning to do things on my own – from going for a quick lunch on my own to just going about life. Or rather, daily life as it comes when you have small children, school, bus stop drops and pick ups, badminton classes, older parents and in laws and a work from home situation.

I’m also re-learning a thing or two about marriage. Or at least the way it is perceived by most around us.

Last October, my husband moved to another city because of work. He travels back home on most weekends and intends to continue the arrangement for at least some time in the near future. It’s an arrangement we are both very comfortable with at the moment. I run a start up along with a friend that is based in the city I live in and our children go to a school here they love. My husband is trying out a new job and city and wishes to see first if it would be long term. We see no reason to upset the apple cart at the moment.

So while I re-learn several things in the ‘husband’ department formerly, such as driving or fixing the kiddo’s bike, what’s been really interesting to see are the reactions of people around us.

It doesn’t matter that my husband is around on weekends and holidays, spending as much time as he can with the kids, helping out with things around the house. What matters is the time he is MIA.

‘Don’t you think your husband is missing out on his children growing up?’ says a concerned neighbor whose parenting advice I did not ask for.

Another lets me know how her husband would never agree to such a thing because their children would be inconsolable.

Yet another tut tuts at how “poor me” is always running around, picking up and dropping the kids, finishing outside chores. “I did that earlier too, when my husband lived here,” I tell her. “It’s still different, at least you had him back at the end of the day,” she replies back, because of course that is the prize all good wives wait for at the end of the day, don’t they?

If that is meant to inject some sadness into my cold cold heart, it doesn’t.

Yes, there are times when you want another adult to have a conversation with at the end of the day. An adult who may speak in monosyllables and stay glued to the TV screen but is a comforting presence anyway.

Yes, there are times when you wish you did not have to discipline the squabbling kids at dinnertime on your own for four nights a week and sometimes more. But there are various devices to keep us all connected more than enough these days and whether it’s a kiddy battle or a much needed conversation, it can be dealt with via that medium. Then there are friends who could be easily arm-twisted for a mid-week beer J Not exactly the end of life, is it?

I may sound irked but I’m not disputing any of the things people have been saying. These are fair points, all of them and there is probably a sense of genuine concern. What amuses and bothers me in equal measure is the sense of incredulity I get behind these questions and conversations. Being comfortably alone in a marriage and admitting it doesn’t seem to be the done thing. If you are in a marriage, at least in India, you need to say and do the right things.

And it isn’t just being alone.

Anything that is different in a marriage is usually questioned, if not openly, then with very thinly veiled interest. A friend works a full time, demanding job. Her husband is the stay at home dad at the moment, working on his nascent venture, with more time on his hand than his wife has. It’s he who is around the kids all the time. It’s he who is the playground dad. Their marriage too gets the same incredulous reactions. Doesn’t he mind the late hours? She is asked.

Doesn’t she miss the kids on her frequent travels? And of course, the inevitable, how long do you plan to continue this? Because life has to be planned to power point precision?

So what do I make out of this? In a marriage, your behavior and beliefs, at least to the world at large, need to be the socially approved ones. Yes, you may be the mother who works but you also need to be the mother who shows up sometimes at the playground. If not, you are possibly without any maternal feelings. You may be the mother who is comfortable playing single parent for a while; the mother who doesn’t mind stepping out for a drink with her friend on a weekday while her husband is in another city but please do not announce it to the world. You may be ‘alone’ but far from lonely but please do not make that public .

That’s not how tried and tested formulas work.

Thought Process

A thousand thoughts in my head. Cannot sleep. Am I becoming a very different person from who I set out to be as I age? Is it true that I find it hard to take feedback on myself? Perhaps part of it is true. I do tend to get ‘defensive’ about my actions very often these days. The intention isn't to react like that but I do tend to. Where’s it coming from? A place of insecurity? A place of self doubt, inferiority?  Because I want to prove that I'm right in what I'm thinking. That my actions are justified. That I'm not racked by self doubt.

And if it is, where’s that self doubt coming from? Why is my head constantly thinking of whether I have earned approval or respect and at times, in a not so appealing manner, actually striving, no struggling to achieve it?

Why is it so important suddenly? Earning this respect, approval, praise of those around me? Have I always been this way? Have I always craved it but not been able to acknowledge? Or is it what age does to you?  

Not the best of days but then it isn't the worst of them either. A somewhat unpleasant (to me at least) interaction, a warm chat with a venerable 76 year old about her charitable work, a dip in confidence levels thanks to the unpleasant chat, a rise after a quick nonsense chat with two old friends....this is what it is about, isn't it? Good days and bad times.

The post from a hole

I'm neither here nor there at the moment.

I was like this eight or maybe seven and half years ago, when Big A was about 8 months old and my new mommy feelings were strong as ever but not enough to survive on them alone. My friends worked. My husband  worked. My mom worked. My neighbour worked, even though she did not really want to. My maid worked. Everyone worked expected me. Oh yes, I worked too. But day and night shifts that are done at home and involve children, high chairs, scattered cereal, splattered sofas, squeaky toys all over the floor, potty seats and wheels of the bus sung for the 25th time to put the tyke to bed are invisible. It's just something you do when you are home 24/7. It's not work because real work requires a smart office chair and desk, a nifty computer where you do other things than check mommy blogs, kids furniture and upload photos on Facebook. And get paid at the end of the month, which is what makes it all real. f

Irrational? Yes. But when you are in a baby induced hole, you tend to have such thoughts, even if you love the hole you're in.

So by the time A hit 8 months, I hit the paranoia button and decided that I had to work. Not full time of course but on a freelance basis. My life depended on it. Yes am quite shallow that way and not exactly ad-material for motherhood.

Now A is about to hit 8 years next month. I have work on hand. Have always had for the last eight years. Small time stuff that's enough to keep me happy, occupied and delusional enough to think that am doing 'real work.' I even have a 'venture' of my own with a friend that is on baby steps but is there, nevertheless.

But the discontent of it all is hitting me back again. Is the work I'm doing really worth it? Where do I stand among everyone else? Has the baby hole sucked me too deep inside? I'm restless and panicky as a friend pointed out today. At least that's how I'm coming across.

Weird? Perhaps to the outside world. Normal? To some mothers-in-a-hole who tread the same line of thought. Abnormal? Certainly not!

In which I go soppy

“I’m suffering from the empty nest syndrome!”A mother whose daughter has just left for university abroad commented recently on a Facebook group I belong to. In less than two minutes, there were other mothers in similar situations commiserating with her. Mothers with children who had just left home to attend college in another city or country; Mothers with children who had started working elsewhere or were about to take off soon, whether for college or work.

As I read the comments, I realized that precisely at that moment, I was rather thrilled to have the children out of my hair. The big boy had gone off to a birthday party and was safely away for a good three hours, while the younger one was sleeping next to his grandparents and would be mollycoddled by them once he awoke, saving me some time.

I thought of the house as it usually is, especially on a holiday. Books all over the sofa, crayons on the dining table, blocks hiding under cushions, balls, cricket bat, NERF guns everywhere, a sock or two flung across at some point, which I’d been too lazy to notice or pick up. Yes, I’m a total pushover when it comes to setting boundaries for play areas within the house. I looked at the mess and instead of getting worked up as I always do, thought of how it would all look once the kids had grown up and left home, like these women’s had. The house would be clean. Almost clean, as the husband wouldn’t be attending college again I suppose. But clean in a way that you wouldn’t trip if you didn’t spot that tiny car on the floor. In fact, there would probably be no tiny cars at all. The boys would be 18 plus anyway and too fixated on their X Boxes and play stations or whatever new comes up in the next 10 years. They wouldn’t want you to sit and play Dragster with them or demand your attention every five minutes. They would be teenagers, almost adults. Attached but detached as well, in their own world.

And so as I thought of all this in a rather uncharacteristic, maudlin manner, I suddenly couldn’t wait for the boys to come bouncing up to the room and take away all the free time I had. Because 10 or 15 years isn’t long when you have children who keep you on your toes and make you long for precious minutes that you get to yourself and stop being a supply chain.

Before I know it, they would be out of the door and the floor would be squeaky clean with no tiny cars, no spilled juice or Chocopie crumbs. As I kept up the weepy imagination, the doorbell rang and in walked the boy. “How was the birthday party? Did you eat anything?” I asked out of sheer habit, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop. “It was okay,” said junior with supreme disinterest and a look that said, really mom? You can’t wait even a minute, can you? He walked to his room, picked up his Beyblade and started playing, oblivious that mom had spent the last half an hour agonizing over and imagined life without him in the vicinity.

The process of detachment has already started. And it is extremely disconcerting at times. Let the nest overflow at of the moment.

I need to write
I have to write
Yet it's a bait
I'm loath to bite

Letting Go

An edited version of this appeared in a parenting column I sometimes write for an online newsmagazine in Bangalore. And just because I mentioned parenting don't think that you will find anything of great importance here. Just the regular vent of a mildly neurotic mom.   

These days when we get back from Wednesday evening drums class (which incidentally is in our vast and not very secure apartment complex), I let A boy cycle it to our building all alone. In keeping with tradition, I start off by shouting instructions loud: Keep to the side/watch out for cars/don't go fast, etc, etc. It doesn't last long as he is out of my line of vision soon enough.

When I reach our building, I find A boy waiting near the elevator, thrilled to bits at having tasted freedom.

I can finally understand what Lenore Skenazy was getting at. Sort of anyway*.

In 2008, New York based writer Lenore Skenazy let her 9-year-old son take the subway home. For weeks her son had been begging her to be allowed to travel alone and she finally relented by leaving him with a MetroCard, a subway map, some money and loose change in case he had to call her.

When Skenazy wrote about the experience in her regular column, there was a flurry of reactions that ranged from calling her a child abuser to appreciating the way she allowed her son his first taste of independence.

I remember reading Skenazy’s column when the incident happened and being in two minds about what she did. Was this right or was it being too radical? And would I ever be able to do the same?

A boy was only three then and safety and ease of travel factor in transport systems in India are vastly different from what they are in say, New York, but the question in my mind was, when would I finally have the courage to let him be on his own, without parental supervision in every step of the way? And given the way things are in today’s overprotected parenting world, when would I finally learn to let go?

My son is nearing seven now and I find myself facing that question again. We live in an apartment complex that is not ‘gated’ from all sides, leaving the road from our building to the park open to all kinds of vehicular traffic, from cars to water tankers. Sadly enough, the traffic peaks from 5 pm in the evening, just when children are out to play.

I would love to send my son out to the park alone, he’s at that age when he needs to go out and make friends on his own without mom hovering in the background. But even if I trusted him to safely keep to the (non existent) sidewalk and reach the park, do I trust the speeding cars, tankers and trucks? No I don’t and would rather not take that risk. At least till he is eight.

We are mostly a generation of overprotecting parents. “By the time I was seven, I would walk to the grocery store across in the locality and buy eggs for Ma,” says a friend who would cycle to said grocery store through roads teeming with scooters, rickshaws, cows and bikes. But the world was a safer place then, he reasons, because he wouldn’t let his 8 year old girl do the same thing now. “Not until she is at least 12 or 13.”

Are we ruining our kids’ lives and depriving them of some much needed life skills? In his book No Fear: Growing Up in a Risk Averse Society, author Tim Gill points out that activities that previous generations of children enjoyed without a second thought have now been labelled as dangerous and the adults who permit them branded as irresponsible. He says that childhood, especially the crucial years between 5 and 11, is being undermined by the growth of risk aversion and its intrusion into every aspect of children's lives, restricting children's play, limiting their freedom of movement.

This in turn constrains their exploration of physical, social and virtual worlds. The author is talking about UK here, but the situation could apply to India as well. 

Most parents I know (including yours truly) do not let their children venture out much on their own. Our justifications are unsafe roads, unsafe play areas and of course, an overall unsafe world.

We are being overprotective of course. But I trust that when I finally let him be on his own (another year), it won’t be too late for him to face the opportunities and experiences that will allow him to stand his ground and teach him to overcome his fears. Yes, but the solo bus or metro ride is still a few years away.

* Skenazy incidentally coined the cringe worthy term Free Range Kids. Just saying ;P 

Berry Weird Post

Made strawberry jam at home today. Turned out better than I had expected and was surprisingly easy to make. At least easy for me, not having made jam or even thought in that direction before. Had wonderful visions of serving only homemade fruit jams like strawberry, apricot, peach, plum, etc to my children and gifting them to people in pretty jars during Diwali, X-Mas, housewarmings, etc.
The dream ended right there of course. Because my version of gifting goes somewhat like this: I know in my mind it is Diwali/X-Mas/Whichever event demands gifts of jamlike proportions four weeks from now.

Week four: I keep thinking.
Week three: I think some more.
Week two beginning: I pass shops that could possibly stock suitable gifts but give them a miss because there are still TWO WHOLE WEEKS left.
Week one: I pass shops that could possibly stock suitable gifts and have a SALE sign. I give them a miss under the excuse that the older child needs to be picked up from bus stop (two hours from now) and the younger child is alone at home with the maid (and has been since 10 in the morning and not for the first time but still, you can never be too careful, right?). I have 7 days after all.
D Day: I rush to store I passed by earlier. Buy gift at full price when similar version was on sale only a week ago. Rush home. Realize have forgotten wrapping paper. Dig out Fabindia paper bag, put fear of God (and no TV for three weeks) into the older brat and make him paint it. After which we spray it with glue and then glitter, the boy having tasted the fun part of the activity now. Spend an hour doing Fabindia bag makeover after which I have barely 10 minutes to get ready. Realize as I'm leaving house there is glitter in my hair and the boy has some on his nose.

Now you know why I can never gift jam. Or, given the highly organised way in which I work, ever make it again.

This piece appeared in a parenting column I sometimes write for an online newsmagazine in Bangalore. And just because I mentioned parenting don't think that you will find anything of great importance here. Just the regular vent of a mildly neurotic mom.   

Good morning and welcome to the Mummy Pick Up & Drop Off service. I'm the chief operating officer cum chief pick up girl here. The job description fits me to the tee as I am always picking up things -- clothes from the laundry, toys from the floor, soap from the bathroom basin, child from swimming class, bus stop, playdate, skating class and so on. We welcome all sorts of applicants as long as they have spawned at least one offspring, possess a reasonable ability to be on their toes for the large part of the day, have a suitably haggard appearence while trying to appear cool and collected in standard 'Mummy Chic', i.e.,
one loose kurti/long top and slacks/capri. Please note that at least one of the above garments need to have pockets to carry napkins, house keys, car keys, wallet, lollipops and so on.

Applicants also need to be good multitaskers and skilled in one-handed operations such as folding stroller while holding baby, bag and other paraphernalia; feeding banana to baby on the hip while speaking to other moms about the older child's fussy eating habits and instructing maid at home over the phone; typing an email while reading bedtime stories to child; skateboarding while balancing the child on one hand and four tea cups in another. Ok so I made that last one up but I am quite sure there is some super multitasking mother somewhere in the world who can do just that.

For details regarding timings, rates and job satisfaction about the Pick up Service you could speak to some mommies themselves. They are found quite easily in parks, school bus stops and if it's holiday season near the swimming, art, craft, tennis and a million other camps. The perks of the job include almost nothing, unless you count hanging around aimlessly or finishing up your grocery shopping while junior does his training as a perk. Be warned that the job also has a good ability to play havoc with your mind as the brat whines about not wanting to go for Karate class, making you wonder if you are being the pushy mommy type. So you pull him out of it only to have him complain that AAAAAAALL his friends go for Karate and he is the only one left out. This of course makes you wonder yet again if you are a good mommy at all and if you understand your child. Our suggestion: Do not think. It interferes with the core job on hand which is to be shuttle service for child during school days AND vacations, along with in house chef, emergency playmate, boredom reliever and anytime cleaning service.

With such a massive job profile, when is the time to think?

What I would really like to say to some people I know.

What is an issue with you, a huge, life threatening, emotionally twisting issue with powers to wreck havoc with your mind, relationships and spirit could be an entirely non issue with me.

Not everybody is cut from the same cloth and even if the cut of that cloth may not fit or flatter you or not even appeal to your eye, it isn't necessarily a bad thing. It may flatter me. Suit my purposes. Make me adjust my world. Stay happy.

So don't get yourself in Gospel mode everytime you spot something in my life that doesn't quite match your expectations of how my life, and for that matter, everyone else's should be.

Just be. And let me be.

If only...:)

Doing nothing and other stories

This piece appeared in a parenting column I sometimes write for an online newsmagazine in Bangalore. And just because I mentioned parenting don't think that you will find anything of great importance here. Just the regular vent of a mildly neurotic mom.


 It takes you so long to write a 700 word story! Said the horrified editor friend of mine. I counted sheep in my head (helps me stay calm. Another good alternative is the in-your- head-grocery list) and waited for the one question that I hate hearing ever since I gave up working full time to be a stay at home mother: So what do you do all day? Really, what was it that I did the entire day? And what was it that the other mothers did, staying in this mysterious place called home where there really wasn’t much to do except manage a kid or two, keep them clean and well fed and keep the house looking like it wasn’t rummaged by a tornado. It didn’t require excel sheets or meetings so how tough or time consuming could it be? If general opinion is to be believed, there isn’t much that is done all day except for the above mentioned cleaning/feeding bits, along with copious TV watching and (gasp) even visits to the salon! With eight luxurious hours stretching before her, what’s a woman to do! Since I fall in the above category of moms with nothing much to do but still do not get the time to finish a 700 word article in 7 days, I decided to do some stock taking with other mummy pals of mine. Clearly I was a failure in time management and had it all wrong. I was sure they had it all figured out. So I decided to ask them them the question: So what is it that you do the whole day? “Umm...you really want to know?” Asked the friend with a four month old. The edge in her voice should have warned me off but I ploughed on. “At 7 I clean the baby’s diaper. 7.15 is feeding time. 7.30 there’s a diaper change again. 8 there’s some feeding again. By 9 I grab whatever food I can see around the house as I am so hungry I could eat an entire buffet and possibly even the baby. Happy now?” I hang up, longtime friendship at stake. The other one is better behaved but has no time to talk. “Sorry dear. My daughter’s friends are coming over and I need to make some nutritious homemade pizzas or else nobody will send their children over to our fast food consuming house again.” The third keeps it short and to the point. “Cannot talk. Filing the husband’s tax returns. After that need to take the car for servicing. Busy day. In fact this is how all my days are. I am the secretary cum driver cum housekeeper cum babysitter.” The fourth cuts my call. I had made the mistake of texting her my question. Amen.⊕

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain There was a time when I loved that quote and thought I lived my life according to it. Do I do that anymore? I don't think so. I am too caught up with day to day life, domesticity and the web of homed-in haze it can sometimes create around you. And of course the children are there. I want to be where they are. Very consciously. It means not catching a certain amount of the trade winds passing you by but it does not also mean letting all of it go. Did I become what I thought I would be at 20? Maybe not. Maybe yes. I did become happier I am sure. But then happiness at 20 has a different meaning than happiness at 40 right? That was a different kind of happiness as perhaps, is this one. So why the complacence? Passing phase? Perhaps yes.

My son goes to a school where they place a lot of emphasis on Indian culture, festivals, etc. While I'm glad that he learns all that there is to about Holi, Diwali, Dussera, Id, Janmashtami and Christmas, that is not the reason we decided to send him to this particular school. It therefore amused me no end to hear someone mention that this school was perfect for him as on his own he would not have learnt about our cultures and customs so much. The underlying text being that with a mother who doesn't create too much of a fuss about rituals or fasts or temple visits, the poor boy would have missed out on his stipulated dose of Indian culture. Confusing culture with rituals and religion never fails to amuse me. Did you imbibe more values and culture if you grew up watching your mom and everybody around you fast during Navaratri? Is your culture quotient zero if your parents never really visited the temple or kept fasts or rushed you to Kolkata during every Durga Puja season? The more I see around me, the more I believe that people confuse the two. So I never visit temples unless there's something within prompting me to step inside one. Does that make me less of a believer? Why is belief and faith confused with your willingness to be first in the queue to get the charanamrita or prasad or pay hundred bucks extra for an express darshan of star deities at the country's five star temples? Yes I know rituals have a certain comfort in them and all of us have our favourite ones. I love the Aarti, especially one I watched on the banks of Ganga years ago as a child and the Dhunuchi naach during Durga Puja (though very smoky and not very comforting if said Durga Puja is being held in a closed community hall). I also love the gesture of 'cupping hands over the arati flame and raising it to the forehead.' To me it comes involuntarily and there's something about the lamp, fire and smoke combo that makes it alluring. But does it increase my faith and believer ratings than earlier? Don't think so. I remain as much of a believer or as much of a non believer as I was.

Inky's posts are making me nostalgic these days, especially when she writes about evenings in Paris and the waterways of Amsterdam. The nostalgia isn't because I miss spending my evenings walking the cobbled lanes of phoren lands or staring wide eyed at unending perfume stores in Rue Je ne sais quoi. It isn't even for the heady whiffs of weed or the drool worthy sight of crepes and freshly baked baguettes.
You see, Inky's posts are making me remember a time when I could just pull the door and walk out (which is exactly what I did in those lovely cities). More importantly pull the door and walk out with nothing but a set of keys and wallet. No diaper bags, no water bottles, no squabbling over coke or chips, no wipes.
Before you lynch me for such unmotherly thoughts, yes I dearly love the kids and am thrilled to bits that I produced them but a girl is allowed to indulge in a bit of nostalgia isn't she?

Principals in delhi university colleges have decided to up the cut off marks to 110 per cent to prevent students from getting admission and colleges getting overcrowded. When reminded by rampaging parents that no student in history has ever got 110, except for that Apsara Pencil boy on TV who got ‘Sau mein se ek sau panch’ in Maths for good handwriting, the principals retorted that they were very well aware of that.

“What are we to do?” said one principal who was being shouted at by an irate host with high BP on a TV Channel (real reason behind shouting: host was once denied admission in said college and now found great opportunity to vent his anger). The principal’s logic? Since students are getting higher and higher marks every year, they decided to raise the bar. “This will help us in many ways,” said the knowledgeable principal. “First of all, we will hardly have any students as barely anyone will get admission with such a cut off. Secondly, the ones that do get admission (for instance, my niece, the college librarian’s daughter, the science prof’s grandson, etc) with get complete attention of the lecturers as the ratio of student teacher will be 2: 20.” According to the principal, lesser number of students will be great for the teachers as they would get more time to ‘ideate in the staffroom’ (i.e have cups of cutting chai and read the newspaper). In fact, there may be times when the classrooms would be empty as everyone knows how many classes students bunk. This would be great for the classrooms as these would stay clean, saving us on sweeping and maintenance bills.”

When questioned by TV channels on his chances of admission with a 110% cutoff, the Science topper of this year who has the now useless score of 99% said he was extremely thrilled. “I now have the perfect excuse to reject the education system and take up DJing, something I have wanted to do for long but haven’t because of my overbearing parents.” He added.
Meanwhile the Sau mein se ek sau panch Apsara Pencil boy received mixed reactions across the country. While DU principals applauded him for giving them the idea of increasing the cut offs and planned to start an Apsara Pencil scholarship, students and angry parents blamed him for setting a “bad precedent of impossibly high percentage” and vowed never to use pencils again.

You know you are losing it when...

You go on eBay and feel the thrill of life when you spot the Electrolux Cordless Vacuum Cleaner on sale at the Global Easy Buy. Worse it leads to a series of fantasies in which you imagine situation where you remain calm and collected (like foreign woman doing yoga in white threadbare kurta that looks good only on her) even when the maid calls to say she is sick and therefore unable to come for the next three days. You imagine yourself cleaning the chocos off the sofa, the bits of craft paper off the floor and the various discarded pieces of parantha your son has artfully hidden around the house in a jiffy, because ta....da..this vacuum cleaner is a cordless one and moving it around is a breeze.
At some point you give yourself a mega shake and come out of your vacuum induced reverie. You even recover enough to open a new window and check out the latest fool-the-world gizmo Apple has on offer. But old habits (or recently acquired strange habits you thought only old people had) die hard. You return to the household appliance section and order a mini accessories basket for the dishwasher. Along with a wall mounted kitchen scale and swim diapers. And you feel the thrill of wonderful shopping wash all over.
Like I said. Help is surely required here.

Being Indian

You feel absolutely authorised to comment on anything and everything be it your neighbour’s son’s constant refusal to agree to an arranged marriage or your irritatingly slim gym partner who never seems to put on a pound despite the energy and chocolate bars she constantly consumes. Indians feel they have the birthright to comment on anything and everything all the time. It could be your appearance, you weight, your choice of school, hospital, lifestyle, brand of beer, the number of children or lack of it. We should replace unwanted comments as our national sport instead of kabaddi, which nobody seems to play these days.

You brave traffic, screaming toddlers and rampaging crowds to visit discount sales in a far off mall. All because you spotted the irresistible offer of a melamine dinner set free if you shop for Rs. 3000 in the morning paper.

You want Bollywood to get original and esoteric but would still pay good money to watch Band Baaja Baarat than Love Sex or Dhoka.

You spent your twenties dating ‘fast’ and ‘modern’ girls (read smokes, drinks, swears, thinks nothing of wearing a mini to work according to your mental dictionary) yet when it comes to getting hitched, you depend on Mummy and ask her to find you the gharelu seedhi saadhi type.

You crib about the lack of hygiene and cleanliness in trains, stations and even airports, yet think nothing of chucking a candy wrapper out of the window of your car. After all, there’s no trashcan inside and you just got the car cleaned and serviced.

Weddings are completely Bollywoodised events in your mind thanks to Yash Chopra, Karan Johar and clan. In fact, you cannot think of a wedding without band, baaja and baraat or the mandatory mehendi ceremony, even if weddings in your community are a completely different affair altogether.

You believe in being eco-friendly, saving the trees, stopping eve-teasing, helping Tsunami victims, cleaning up the streets of your city and saving the tiger. In fact you believe in many causes and champion them all. As long as they require you to sign a petition online and forward an email.

Friendships are very important to you. You spent several of your formative years trying to ‘make friendship’ with the girls from your local college and now you have 475 friends. All on Facebook. In fact, you can’t even remember meeting some of them.

You may not know who’s the new telecom minister or the name of our Vice President but like everyone else, you believe that politics is a dirty game and love to rant against money-hungry, land grabbing politicians. In fact, you are absolutely certain the country is going to the dogs. You just don’t know the names of the breed.

The Second Coming

One of the advantages of being sleep deprived is you can always blame your slightly erratic and weird behaviour on it. For instance, thanks to the wonderful Vodafone network at home, I received a friend's congratulatory message at 4 am the other day (night? dawn?). She had sent it the previous day. "Thanks a ton." I immediately texted, thrilled to have something else to do apart from being a human rocker for baby and making mental notes on the vegetables to be ordered the next morning. And then, just to demonstrate what a thoughtful friend I was (the ideal 4 am kind), I also added, “And how is little A? Fever gone yet?”

Big mistake. Little A is her son alright but the fever happened to Little B, son to yet another friend whom I had spoken to just that evening, a time that at 4 am seems million light years ago. Then again, I had the best excuse in the world. “Sorry,” I texted (and lied), “message meant for someone else. Blame it on the lack of sleep.”

The sleep deprived state also comes with other advantages. For instance you could always avoid boring dinners with the excuse that you need to be up and about a bit and night and therefore need all the rest you can. “Oh of course we completely understand,” says the not so interesting acquaintance before launching into an account of her own nigh time feeding schedule and how she always slept when the baby did, when he was born 10 years ago. “I do the same,” I say in my well practised heavy with sleep voice and go back to reading some enriching literature like Julia Quinn, which I plan to finish through the two mandatory wake up calls at night.

In the meantime, being a human rocker is fast becoming a habit. Went for a regular baby check-up at the hospital and had to remind myself that it was a) the nurse who was carrying the baby who b) was fast asleep and therefore c)I needn’t go back and forth on my heels.

Need to also stop posting baby pictures on FB, though can’t help myself with some nice ones. Since baby photos invite the mandatory coos and awwws after a point I run out of things to say apart from Thanks. Now would you ever do that in offline life? If a friend came over, looked the little bundle up and down and said awwwww, would you say, hey thanks? Probably not. So there.

I spent one of the most uncomfortable evenings of my life sitting in Gladys Staines’ living room in Baripada, Orissa. The discomfort was not because of Gladys, who was a wonderful host, taking me around the leprosy clinic that her husband had set up in the morning and inviting me over for tea in the evening. The discomfort was all mine. I couldn’t just get it out of my mind that here I was sitting in a house that had once seen three kids running around, two of them boys who must have played football, chased the dogs and done all those things that boys generally do. All that was left of that for this woman were memories, haunted by the worst possible end any mother could imagine.

Sitting there, I didn’t have the heart to interview Gladys or remember the list of questions I’d prepared. It seemed enough that she had shared the work she and her late husband had done at the leper clinic with me in the morning; that I had seen her interact with the people she was caring for and the people who worked with her. It felt normal to sit there and simply talk to this amazingly strong woman who shared memories of her husband as and when they came to her, smiled if an object in the room associated with the memory caught her eye, spoke about her daughter who was then studying in Australia, spoke of her ailing father back home and the support she got from people around her in India and why she forgave the fiends who committed that heinous crime. She never mentioned her two sons. I never asked. There are some things you just can’t intrude upon. It feels like slapping the person awake from a stupor that's probably keeping them sane.

I wasn’t a mother then. Very far from the thought actually. I’m one now and cannot even think of what Gladys as a mother must have gone through after that horrific night. How would you feel if your husband and kids who weren't even 10 were burnt alive as 50 men with sticks ensured they couldn't escape the inferno? Would you feel they were converting people into their religion forcefully and therefore deserved it in some way, something the court judgement reeks of when it calls this crime not the rarest of rare and comes down heavily on conversion, completely ignoring the work done by the same man in other areas altogether?

So when I heard of the Supreme Court verdict that has removed the noose off Dara Singh’s neck, I thought of Gladys Staines. And prayed that Dara Singh’s conscience, which apparently tells him he’s innocent, gives him an equally horrid death within the walls of the jail where he will hopefully spend his life term now, mentally, physically or otherwise.