Rakhi and other such sappy things.

I remember waking up on the day of rakshabandhan with two rakhis in my hand, one for my father and one for my grandfather (we’re two sisters) . Being a young girl the festival just meant that I would get to have sweets and money which I would immediately use to buy the latest Archie, Champak or Tinkle.

Now this was a festival that came every year and as I grew up we religiously followed it. One fine day, I looked beyond the dairy milk and the money and asked my grandmother the significance of this festival. She told me a story from the Indian mythology which I forget (and don’t have the patience to google) but what I took away from it was that this festival celebrated the bond between a brother and his sister. Basically, by tying a thread around his wrist, a sister seeks her brother’s lifelong protection and prays for him in return. And “protection by a brother” was the term that I came to associate Rakshabandhan for the longest time.

Frankly, I’m not a religious person. But against the backdrop of the giant strides women have made to seek equality in all forms(with demanding entrance into temples they are forbidden to enter to rejecting old patriarchal traditions), I believe I come up lacking.

I remember my aunt(my father’s sister who has a son I send rakhis to) used to send rakhis for my father through the mail with a sweet letter.

And now this is a letter I write to her daughter:

Dear didi,

I’ve looked up to you as long as I can remember. You punched an IAS’s son (who deserved it) and I remember our grandfather being so proud of that!

You were a badass before badass was even coined! You were a tomboy when it wasn’t cool to be a tomboy. And there is still a part of you that remains so. As you grew up, you blossomed into the awesomeness that you are today. I saw you as growing up to be fearless, independent and incredibly hardworking. Whatever situation was put in front of you, you faced it. Even if there were any setbacks, you got there in the end. You’ve always known your limits and I respect you for that. I’ve seen you taking up everything with this enthusiasm (your dancing for instance) losing your inhibitions in the process.

So if it comes to it and someday I need protection and advice, I shall be coming to you instead!

Happy Raksha Bandhan! (In advance)

K.


 

 

Now there will be people who’ll tell me not to inflict my feminist crap on their festivals/traditions. This isn’t about the fight for women’s rights, feminism etc. This isn’t a fight. Period. I’m not asking you to do the same. I’m not asking anything.

This is my thing, so butt out.

You’re 23, act like it?

Well it wouldn’t be my birthday without me writing a post about it.

Winds of change, change of winds, fart noises.

My sense of humor has devolved to that of a five year old’s. That could also be a direct consequence of watching all those Minion movies.

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It’s funny ’cause humans do it too!

Yes, I plead guilty to possessing minion accessories. I should be jailed.

I’ve lost a few along the way, people, not weight. And I’ve gained a few as well, weight, not people.

But for once, I’m optimistic and I’m scared too.

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“Obligatory song reference”

But I know that I will survive.

So here I am, giddy like an anime schoolgirl, overtly joyous, extremely anxious and riddled with the need to excessively punctuate.

I’m just a tiny bit less sad.

And I’m smiling tonight.

 

 

 

PS- Highlight of my night, the google doodle.

 

Begin Again and Again.

I started reading again.

This wasn’t premeditated. Yesterday morning I woke up early and I plucked a book off my very dusty bookshelf. A green cover, bold font, stack of pillows and a glass of lemonade was all it took.

And I finished it in the morning itself.

It had been a year since I had read a book but it felt like a decade. So was it a joyous reunion? Did my fingers rejoice at the feel of never ending pages? Did my eyes glisten as I read those tiny words crammed into a page? I think I need glasses.

Anyway, it was in a confusing, mixed state of mind that I ended the book in, incidentally which had nothing to do with its content.

After years of being an introvert bookworm, I had begun preferring my laptop to reading. And I actually uttered the following words: I’d rather watch the movie than read the book. Sacrilegious, I know!

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Oh mon dieu!

I literally stuck to my precious laptop like a leech. I lost myself in hours of movies and TV series.

I think it was because I forgot how to imagine, to build a world inside my head.

Or I just became impatient.

Here’s hoping this sticks.

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I’m overweight, bordering on obese. And this is relevant. I don’t state “uncomfortable” facts just for fun, drama and pizazz. Well, maybe.

The thing about being obese is that everyone has an opinion. Frankly, just substitute “obese” with “a woman” and that statement still rings true. But the most critical people I meet are oddly, women. I don’t believe they are being malicious, maybe some of them are. But that’s how we have been wired.

If I’m eating something: “Look at her devouring that pizza. That’s why she’s so fat!”

If I decline to eat something: “OMG, are you on a diet? You’re dieting now, wow.”

Yes, I’m fat and yes, I’m decimating a pizza. I’m a wreck, sure. if you’re so offended, don’t look at it.

No, I’m not eating the namkeen you offered. No, I’m not on a diet. I just don’t like the look of it. I get to decide what I put in my body. And yes, I’d rather have a pizza.

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This post seems like a love letter to pizza, doesn’t it?

Okay, things got away from me there.

I know I should do all the things you suggest. I know that I’m living an unhealthy life and that being obese is not ideal. Some of you are friends and you have the right to tell me so because I have opened my life upto you. Your intentions are good and you worry that I’m not fit. I agree, being obese is not healthy and neither is being stick thin. And you don’t want either for me.

To those of you who aren’t, it is none of your goddamn business. Don’t randomly come up to me and tell me of some “ayurvedic medicine” that helped your brother’s wife’s third cousin lose weight.  It’s not okay for you to do that, not on the metro, not on the street, not bloody anywhere. Don’t subject me to your ideal of beauty, don’t chip away at my self esteem like it’s your right to do so because you have eyes.

I’m not a blot or an unsightly mark. I’m a fucking pearl and the world is my oyster.

 

More to come. Let me know what you think. Oh, and Happy Women’s day! (belated)

 

Alternative Taglines Or my attempt at being funny.

Well. This blog is titled “THIS BLOG IS DEAD”. WordPress lets you put a tagline beneath it. And the thing is, you Have to be witty or it’s not worth it. So, thanks Obama!

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However, I take a challenge like Indian Politicians tackle national issues. First they create hype, then they blame everyone else, and finally they try to make a half-hearted attempt at solving it. So these are mine:

THIS BLOG IS DEAD

#1: Just like Batman’s parents. 

Yeah, I went there. I’m heartless.

#2: Just like this blogger’s sense of humor.

Damn, this should have been an obvious first. I really am losing it.

#3: Just like yo mama!

Things took a dark turn here so I decided to stop.

#4: Just like its blogger’s hopes and dreams. 

Well, we knew I was depressed. So I chose this. But I keep thinking…

qbzyi

Why aren’t there any posts on this blog?

For the new readers (hahaha As if): Well, I finally lost it.

For the old readers( hahaha as if): You knew it was coming.

I used to watch Two and A Half Men, you know back when Charlie Sheen didn’t have any tiger blood in him and Jake Harper was cute, oh and Jon Cryer had hair. So in a particular episode, fuck it, I’m not transcribing, what are pictures/memes for anyway?

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My dilemma is, I’m not particularly fond of alcohol. So I’ll do it manually. Beginning with this blog.

There were posts here, there might be new ones after this. The thing is, I have no fucks to give.

This, my friends, is a breakdown.

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Goodnight.

To the man in the pink slip

To the man in the pink slip in the metro,

You were wearing a pink slip, jeans, rouge and a matching pink lipstick. You were merrily singing along to songs with your earphones plugged in.

“Next station is noida city centre”

As you moved towards the doors, the horde of people (mostly consisting of young men) moved to one side giving you a wide berth. And you kept singing along. They laughed at you, and conspicuously started talking amongst themselves. You just exited the doors and made your way to the exit gates. As you were doing that, two old couples expressed their anger at your attire.

I also saw you two weeks ago, in the same metro. I was making my way to the coach nearest to the stairs. You were in that coach, arguing. Or defending yourself, I later realized. You were wearing a shirt which had an open back. (This is relevant because I only heard snippets of what followed.) A man raised an issue with it. And this time you replied. It came down to abuses flung your way. Horrible words spoken by callous morons.

But they aren’t to blame, no, not entirely. You were vigorous in your defense, sir. But you were alone and I was a bystander. I am sorry.

You were cornered. You have the right to express yourself. But you also have the right to my support. It’s not asked of me by the law but by the nature of sheer humanity.

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

I was silent and I am responsible too to an extent.

You don’t deserve this. No one does. I am happy that you stood up for yourself, a feat that I haven’t accomplished. I prefer to ignore.

You, on the other hand, inspire.

I hope there isn’t a next time but we live in a country that outlaws the very expression of your existence so there probably will be.

I am sorry.

 

How do I write when there is nothing left?

Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.

My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.

Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-.  Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)?  Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.

Regardless, I was happy.

Well, mostly.

Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.

Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).

This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.

Because I’ve stopped reading.

I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.

Bare.

 

In conversation with.

Talk me off a ledge
you’ve put me on
Let me breathe
free from you
You are a struggle
and I want to win
So I keep trying
until I give up
I could be happy
but are you?

You will always
exist in my shadow
Can’t let you go
do I even want to?

……………………..