Bittersweet Monsoon

                                                                    [Pic courtesy: Wikipedia Commons]

There were times when thinking of monsoon brought before us imagery of joy. Of dark clouds overshadowing the sky, intermittent break of thunder claps and benevolent downpour wetting not only the land underneath, but also soaking us deep within for relief from fierce summer. One couldn’t resist from running into the rains to get drenched from head to toe and never missed opportunities to ditch boring raincoats or umbrellas.

As young girls on bicycles commuting to school under heavy monsoon downpours, we laughed at the disappointed faces of people trapped inside cars, buses or under shades, torn between the longing to get wet in rain and preventing their expensive ensembles from getting color washed. Those days, when deliberately jumping into puddles of water on roadsides, making paper boats, taking a rain shower or watching every green leaf swirl with joy, ran synonymous with a day of bountiful monsoon.

The neighboring muddy field suddenly got transformed into a football court, with boys of all age, sorts and sizes displaying their machismo while playing a sport which looked absolutely picture perfect in rain. Little children ran around the field’s periphery, chasing frogs and imitating their hop, while their concerned parents kept calling out for them to return home.

However, that was years ago.

Of late, the imagery of Monsoon has slightly changed.

One gets to know that rains have arrived in neighboring cities only once the social media timeline begins to get flooded with messages of traffic jams. Photos of hapless office goers commuting to their workplace in two hours for a distance they usually cover in twenty minutes, begins to do rounds on facebook. Angry emojis, distressed pictures of people caught in ruthless jamming of vehicles and even videos of verbal spats arising in a traffic going berserk, conveniently replaces happy memoirs of a rainy day.

In a place like Delhi which makes headlines for being eleventh most polluted city in the world, monsoon comes like an impending horror. A little drizzle and the half patched roads and pot holes at every second road turn, wait to swell into mini lakes. What looks like a small and neat puddle to splash into, might actually be a deep manhole that may gulp down an entire human body into city’s sewer drainage running into Yamuna.

One no longer drives to office but river rafts the vehicle through flooding roads. Obviously, the walk from parking to the building is also no less than swimming through a kiddie pool. While the hygiene conscious or high on maintenance colleagues of mine make faces of wrath at plight of dirty water around, the adventurous ones take to the game of filming garbage floating around and click ruthless pictures of the filth. Sharing on social media, however, would be an option contingent on the benevolence of the network provider, who most likely would have taken a day off on the occasion of rainy day.

One midnight some years ago, I not only got stranded in office for six hours but also lost connection with my family who finally swam their way through dark streets to rescue me.

I’ve come to believe that if there’s anything that can make life messier in an unmanageable monsoon, it is poor mobile connectivity.

Just in case it rains torrentially for over 24 hours, consider taking a boat ride in place of vehicles, local trains or metros to prevent getting marooned at one place. Besides, it’ll also give a feeling of riding a Gondola in Venice! How interesting is that! Drop the idea of taking a bath at home and instead, enjoy a natural waterfall under drainage pipes from buildings. This also encourages water conservation. How about snorkeling for goodies that got drowned in deep floods or roping in your friends to play Waboba in office?!

Disappointed with the rains, are you? Not everyone is. The few species that really make merry of the season are tiny monsters of Darwin who know how to ‘survive as the fittest’ in rainy froth and compost, littering in open streets – Mosquitoes, moths, bugs, viruses and flies!

Sometimes I wonder, why do we even call it raining ‘cats and dogs’ when it actually rains ‘mosquitoes and flies’ in monsoon?

Nevertheless, if there is anything that could bring a rainy day to a perfect closure, it is Single Malt or chilled Scotch, flavoured in liqueur aroma. If that doesn’t work, try our desi cup of hot ginger tea with some steaming homemade onion pakoras. A perfect panacea for relief from headache of traffic jams and fatigue of water sports we have had throughout the day. Thankfully, some nice things about Monsoon never change!

Do women want to be treated specially or equally? Do men know the difference?

Women! The most talked about, debated, interpreted and empathized lot in the country. As if she was a newly arrived accessible-to-all product in the market! Almost everyone around seems to be having an opinion on her. Why just opinions? Many actually have an unverified judgment to pass about her being. If she stands for other women, she could be a fame-hogging damn feminist and if she condemns them, she may pretty well be an enemy of her own clan. If she’s well-read and voices boisterously, she is a maligning image to traditional sophistication of Indian woman persona and if she is illiterate, she is a self-proclaimed victim who deserves to suffer in wrath. If she looks hot and sexy, she quite possibly is an over-ambitious vacuous girl who uses her body for malicious favours from successful men and if she is laid back in bed, darn her for not satisfying her man’s desires.

Nevertheless, this article is not a rant about what laments have been put by society on women since ages but about why such laments have been put on her without her consent or approval? Did anyone care to ask her when and how far a victim she considers herself to be? Or did we rather believe the media circulated stories, word-of-mouth or the exceptional wisdom by self-established advocates of womanhood who claim to have read her mind and have spoken on her behalf?

High time! Let’s bust the myth. Most of the women I have known, from school to employment, from middle-class homemakers to liberated young lasses, from empowered ladies leading NGOs or start-ups to the ones who are marginally labeled off as hailing from ‘underprivileged society’, have mostly been mettlesome women of steel and valor fighting a hard day’s battle but without any dash of self-pity. Even the ones who tire day-in and day-out to get daily meals for the family by doing dishes in others’ households when their drunken husbands lay off under sun, refuse to think of themselves as a ‘poor wretched thing’. They work hard and inspire harder their children to redefine their forthcoming future.

So even when women do not feel as victimized, as weak or as slanderous as she is made a subject to talk about, the stories of her pain and discomfort do more rounds in our society than the tales of her courage, strength and endurance. The worrisome question is why at all do we want to see women as utterly victimized and marginally unsecure section of the society who can hardly fight a battle solely on her merit? Is she really that frail or does thinking of her as ‘weak’, when she is not, act like a soothing balm on a patriarchal mentality of a nation?

In a way, the proposition that women desire to be “treated equally” is actually downright ridiculous. It assumes that men are born or become superior to women who need to be pushed upwards to match their level. Which is also to assume that men and women are like rats and cats in a race who eventually have to battle each other out to reach the finishing line first? Seriously hilarious an assumption to start any emancipation from!

A woman is like a special piece in a big jumble puzzle. Special not because she is an alternative gender but because every other piece in the puzzle of society, including a man, is as special and important to arrive at the best fit. The very question of an equal, similar looking, ditto piece just doesn’t exist!

Most men know this. Those who do are the ones who have helped women complete their struggling journey in a most dignified manner in past many years otherwise there is no other thinkable way in which the race has progressed so far helping and nurturing one another.

And of course, there are men who don’t know. And also some who don’t want to know. Such number may be miniscule. Like men, who want to live in a self-spun myth of masculinity in which women will be the ones who would always perform Karvachauth for their long life, tie them a Rakhi pleading their protection or be the carrier of their surname’s legitimate child in their womb. There would always be few macho men who would not squirt an inch to ill-treat, harass, exploit or banter women to establish their supremacy and some who would not mind taking avatar of a Messiah on constant alert to save the poor, hapless fairer creatures. Honestly, it is best to let them be and move ahead with the progressing ones.

So what if a certain group distorts the puzzle of gender balance, has it not always been a few good men who have changed the rule of the game?

Women are as much a smart player. I refuse to think of my gender clan as self-pitied, victimized or sufferers of someone else’s malice waiting for positive discrimination to change their lives forever. To voice or assert for rights of one’s dignity, safety or opportunity is not the prerogative of any gender in particular but rather a movement of humanism. No matter how much level playing field one may fetch for women, she never aspires to be known for her gender but be valued for her ability, competence and courage.  

And like it is said, “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” Both men and women know that just right.

[I’m blogging for the India Today Woman Summit 2015 #WomenPower activity at BlogAdda.”]

Why I Am Proud To Be A Tea Addict

There is something typical about early mornings in most Indian households. A little before dawn sets in, the lady of the house jumps out of bed, slips her feet into her chappals and immediately rushes into the kitchen to begin her daily warming-up ritual: put the water in a kettle to boil, sprinkle in some black tea, pour milk, add sugar (and perhaps some ginger or cardamom for extra flavour) and let the dance of cha-cha-chai begin. While she may then choose to brush, wash, bathe, walk, jog or pray, the tea continues to brew slyly in the pot, losing its virgin golden colour to turn copper black and then blending with other ingredients to assume the burlywood hues of typical Indian masala-chai. She pours it into cups, ready to greet her loved ones with a good morning and a cup of tea, either in bed or at the dining table.

For some, the most magical properties of the drink appear in its perfect timing and temperature. I remember my grandmother driving the whole house crazy if she wasn't served tea on time and piping hot, along with a Hindi national daily. If this ritual failed, her bowels would revolt and she'd be quite incapable of producing a satisfactory movement. Tea was probably the only laxative she knew of in her entire life.

As little kids, tea made us furious. We'd watch in envy as the adults sat together at dawn, chatting about their plans for their day, sipping their tea and occasionally dunking Marie arrowroot biscuits into the brew. We youngsters had to make do with some distasteful health drink with hot milk, signed off with an elder's instruction: "You can have tea only once you're grown up." We'd lay out our sour grapes on the table: "It'll ruin their complexion," or "It tastes so bitter," or even virtuously proclaim "Good children don't." This, when a rebellious few of us had already made a secret promise to ourselves to adopt the forbidden drink as early as we could.

Today, my love of tea extends beyond the taste and ritual of it. It is as much about the magical stories and memories that get spun around cups of tea.

Our numerous train journeys invariably began with a tea vendor on the railway platform shouting in one particular musical note, "Chai, garam chai!" He'd serve the chai in a piping hotkulhar (clay cup); the man was always in such a hurry that he would often run parallel to a moving train, literally snatching change from our hands and hopping like Spiderman from one bogie to another. I can almost smell the aroma coming from that clay pot. It was a constant companion to the friendly gossip, conversations with strangers and offerings of snacks that were such a staple of train journeys.

The other day in office, a friend who happens to be tea-hater, picked an argument with me over my habit of downing five cups of cha a day. She was horrified! She probably thought I was trying to battle depression with my addiction to tea. And perhaps, yes, tea did serve an emotional purpose, connected as it is to so many memories and narratives.

Narratives of bonds getting stronger during preparations for competitive entrance exams in which a few of us would study the whole night, protected from exhaustion by countless tea breaks. Like the maddening rehearsal days of campus theatre in which we spent weeks learning dialogues, making props and marketing our 'play' in the city suburbs, over sips of warm cutting chai with samosas. Of those endless chat (read gossip) sessions in our college canteen.

Narratives of my drawing room in which guests are allowed to pop in at any time, day or night, for a cup of tea to ease them into venting bottled-up feelings. How about the métier of a smart deal sealed between corporate executives over high tea over days and weeks? How can I not see the priceless guffaws of granny and her friends who sit sipping sugar-free (or sugarless) tea in our colony's park on a sunny winter day, cracking juvenile jokes? Or those tears of joy that well up in a mother's eye who when returns fagged from office is greeted by her child asking, "You look tired! Want some tea?"

Green for slimming, herbal for health, white for gourmets, Oolong for burning fat,black for caffeine, lemon ginger for immunity, 'kadha' for de-congestion, chamomile-jasmine for flavours. I didn't even realise when the regular tea transformed itself from beverage to medicine to health supplement.

While I sit here on a spring day - when there is summer in the light and winter in the shade -- to write about my trysts with tea, the mountains of Munnar and Darjeeling are covered with a green carpet of tea plants basking to beauty under the sun, getting caressed by the gentle winds and glistening with dew drops every morning. One day, these tea leaves from the hills will make their way to countless homes, become a part of so many people's memories. 

So while our Hon'ble Prime Minister chooses chai pe charcha as part of his foreign policy arsenal, I choose to enjoy sips in solitude with my fountain pen and paper. Yet, we both, like so many other Indians, are bound by a common elixir.

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This article was originally published on "The Huffington Post" and republished in "Chai Wallahs Of India" 

Wish me a wish!

Winning post at Blogadda 

I was twenty one when I got married. Too young even by modern Indian standards but then, it appeared as the only cure at that time for a young girl badly bitten by love bug and smitten by a handsome prince charming, like the one popping up straight out of some fairy tale that she had grown up with. Marriage meant lifelong friendship, late night gossips, drinking wine together in a closed room, pillow fights following kisses on foreheads and snarling at each other’s lovely misgivings. So far, so good! It was not much later that I realized that early marriage also meant making of a ‘bahu’ in a joint family, following a routine that fitted my ‘sasural’, learning to cook, wash, clean, do the bed, study for career and help others study for their careers, all juggling at the same time. Following the precision of clock ticking every second, did not even get to know when did I get trapped in the “Let’s do- When to do- Will do” vicious cycle of routines. I loved where I was and what good work was I doing but I loved it not enough to be take it to my grave. My wish-list, thereafter, has been increasing day by day.

It has been thirteen years since marriage and I've learnt to find my sky where I could tick off items in wish list at my own gradual pace, in my own merrily way. So recently when I was doing my wardrobe for the forthcoming week as a regular Sunday ritual, I decided to break the mould. I shut myself in a closet for three mirthful hours and retrieved old photographs from archives looking for my favourite few. There it went. The ones in which I was dressed up as geek man supporting big moustache for a play that was staged in city's local theatre. Then there was another in which I was all dressed up for playing a new bride who had lost her husband in martyrdom. There was one from school in which I characterized the journey of a young boy through India's freedom struggle till his old age. And another when I played a ‘sutradhaar’ delivering monologue a good twenty five minutes long!! So many others in which I was either giggling, rehearsing, practicing lines, anchoring, putting makeup for stage or performing. In many of those snaps I spotted my prince, now my husband, standing beside me as partner to give a toast to whatever work, good or bad, I was doing. Tears of nostalgia welled my eyes. I wondered why on earth did I ever think of giving up theatre? Is there actually a point in giving up simple pleasures of life in pursuit of larger happiness? Don't little moments make up life? I resolved. I’d restart. I will go back to the ‘stage’ that has beckoned me, calling my name loud and clear continuously for last thirteen years. That is where I am meant to be. The next I remember is rushing for facebook, twitter and my old directory, hunting for names of friends who could help me take plunge into my second chance of reliving creativity.

As a little girl, I remember being highly opinionated. My nerdy opinions often fetched me snarls of elders who winked at me to ‘keep shut’ in public, of friends who thought I ‘pretended’ to be against populist culture and traditional norms, of men who thought of me as a feminist and even of colleagues who thought I was too straightforward in office to be climbing the ladders of success. But who cares a darn? What could I possibly do if I have a mind of my own and whatever I have to say finds little appreciation in the traditional way of thinking. They label me. Atheist, feminist, blasphemer, geek, nerd, oddball and may be a few more. My desire to express is in-suppressible but there’s this one weapon that has always, just always, rescued me from peril of labels. It is called ‘the pen.’ I learnt that firstly, it is mightier than the sword and secondly, while writing the story of your life, never let anyone else hold it on your behalf. So her I am! All set with papers and a fountain pen, often replacing it with keyboard on my laptop, speaking boisterously on multiple blogging sites or discussing forums on internet and preparing half-baked unfinished manuscripts or blueprint of a proposed book in mind. In the days to come, I want my writings to be read. I write for the same reasons I breathe. ‘Cause if I didn’t, I’d die.

Sitting near the bonfire in this cold breezy evening with a cup of ‘masala’ chai in my hand, when I take a look around, I gather warmth. Warmth in the eyes of my husband who checks out on me from some distant corner of the room, warmth in the laughter of my children who are gleefully working together on paper origami and warmth of love, cosiness and snugness of home. Yet, my mind wanders. I want to drift away from this comfort and travel alone to the lands unseen. Test myself in the hard waters and find that I can fare well even when I am on my own. To travel to the strangest places in our country without disclosing plans to anyone, to take journey as it comes, to see places and jot them down in my diary, to sleep for wee hours and stay awake for successive days, to sit by the waters and dance by the tress, to stop to breathe that one waft of pure air wherever I please.  As luck would have it, whenever I speak of freezing a month’s itinerary for some lone travel, my dear ones gush in out of love to offer me company and refuse to let me venture alone. Their love is overpowering! So much so that I always surrender to their concern for me while they daftly wait for my nod to say, “Okay guys, you can join me” and the trip has to be postponed to ‘some-future-date-to-be.” But the frame has to be broken for this date to intercept my life. It has to be now. So I guess when I’m done with writing this article, I’ll be seen fishing for a plan to some distant land, making it happen all by myself.  

So what if sometimes in life we miss the first bus? Second chances come because maybe the time wasn't right for the first one. It may not have a happy ending but it will certainly have the right ending, like the fairy tale that I would have spun for myself. 

This post is a part of the #SecondChance activity at Blogadda in association with MaxLife Insurance