The second Gender

Women are considered as "the second gender", formed out of the rib of a man. She is meant to support a man, bear with the sufferings of this world with him, float with the joys and sorrows with him, sacrifice for him, reproduce for him and help his generation grow.

That sounds like an inscription from an early man's cave but what has changed now ? We go to pursue higher education, move out of the city, move out of the country, compete for the best of jobs and work as an independent contributor. No, we not only exist, to support a man, we also support our vision and fund our desires and build our own empire. The transformation from being the second gender to equality is still in process. So the history of the uncivilized hamlets still shadows us to our civilized concreted skyscrapers. We as second gender, not only support our men , also we survive as breadwinners.

This is a woman, who wakes up to the alarm snooze, prepares the tastiest breakfast, burns her forehead by her curler tongs, paints her eyes with her kohl pencil, goes to her work, submits her deadlines just like any other men colleague, delivers a presentation, calls her maid to check if her child took his medicines, does the family laundry, walks on her heels, beat the menstruation cramps, still affords to look good and with a smile survives this world like any other men or better than a man. She flies her aircraft, fights in the border, runs behind the criminals in the police force, makes decisions as bureaucrats, serves thousands of customers as chefs, runs her own business, heads government, runs NGOs and so on...

We embraced the burden of life equally, yet the gap between the two genders is broad, and we are still looked down upon by a chunk of population. We claim ourselves to be diversified at work, diversified with the privileges provided to us, yet are called feeble and fragile by men. This woman's day is not just to celebrate the womanhood or celebrate the power of a woman, but to signify the respect to be earned by us as we share the same space to that of any man, anywhere.

Women's day isn't a fancy celebration, this demands less number of cases of sexual harassment at work, equal wage payment at work, support from the society to call women at work post pregnancy and marriage, equal promotions if eligible, at work. Attaining all of these, may as well bring in a lot of integrity in women at work.

I listen ...

I see a lot of suicide awareness posts everywhere. "someone is listening...", well Im sure someone is listening and we have our people who listen to us, but this world has fastened its life such a way that people are entangled between the moss of progress and so called development, where ears - eyes- taste - touch and other senses got numbed under the heaviness of ticking clock and smoky eyes of metropolis. Someone is listening or not, but you can always listen, you have to listen and turn that deaf ear to the constant devil who provokes suicidal intent.

I guess from the phrase of "someone is listening:, it should be "I listen... ", I listen, I act upon, I know how to keep myself contented. Depression comes in everyone's life and it goes as well. There is always a hot shower bath, a cup of green tea, an amazing salmon steak or a glass of pineapple shake which can lift your mood up. Life is beautiful and that is the utmost truth. Every work that we do, is prestigious and there is no way that you can demean it. Work is life and this helps one going. Work and engage yourself in something always, that satiates your mind and soul, walk back from work. Walking helps , especially when you walk alone. Look up and see those birds that fly to their nest at the dusk hour, those beautiful neon lights that cheer up the city every evenings. Evenings are such beautiful mermaids that dress up in its own fragrance every time. That warm couch of yours, and your cosy kitchen . make yourself an amazing dinner, play those old school songs, watch regional films and burst out in lame jokes that comprise the 2 and half hours story.

Shopping or window shopping helps in surviving a depression at its best. Those lovely shoes and your favorite fruits from the grocer, or a hard coffee from the favorite cafe. You don't need a coffee partner, you may sit by the road and look at those buses who gushes in and out, or the mother that buys a candy floss for her kid, or the man who is waiting for his love after his long day. Its amazing to observe people around us, who are unique in their own way. Chop those red and yellow bell pepper, and those crispy spring onions to make a lovely warm soup. wrap yourself in the warm bathing robe or buys those pink carnations and lovely dragon lilies from the florist by the road or make an amazing orange juice for yourself. Go for a relaxing pedicure or a hot oil massage, read that book which has been lying on your self for long, dusted and old. Old books have an amazing smell that reminds of your good times. Hug those cushions, water those little pots of plants, organize all your earnings and your favorites junk jewelries, Look at yourself in the mirror, gaze at yourself and appreciate the you in yourself .

Happiness is not a term that has to equate to materialistic luxury. Happiness is derived from the smallest of things and could be lost in te richest of times. Suicide is a coward's act, dont let this life say good bye in hurry, think , sit, think again. Pull up your socks, put on your shoes and survive the heinous devil that fights against the beauty of our souls. If someone lends an ear, amazing! If doesn't , come close your soul and listen to what it says ! It asks for a living , living for a long, living for yourself , living for worth a smile !

Of the roads and the hills !

Someone somewhere said "people are good everywhere, you need to know how to blend with the culture". This is correctly stated, and you unfold this well, on roads. Roads that are dusty, stony, paved, peached... roads that  teach you all the lessons unlearned inside those four walls of concrete. There is an interesting story behind travelling, you get to see sky that wants to talk to you, behind the shroud of smog, and the paleness that reminds of the weariness of the city and the people. The dusty roads and the film of smoke above blends together to bring about a cradle of hymns that remain unsung , they fade away with the hustle bustle of the metro trains that gush in and out with heavy ignorance towards life and people. The small food joint that has been standing still since 1896, talks the history that has floated by the river of yamuna or Ganges. The short bawarchi sings away to glory while preparing his pot of biryani, heavily loaded with ghee and saffron. The dingy room is filled with he haws of evening folks, that relishes over Mughal food and talks of the survival , talks of business.

Evenings turn into nights. Boarded into car, rolling across the states, wading through the harsh traffic, roads take you to meet new stories, awaiting to be weaved by a traveler in his own knitted kit.The favorite driver tells stories, the story of "pahar". The kumaon ranges that nestles his family, the apple orchard that blooms in the winters, the little girl that waits for her father to return from city after every month, the bliss around in a poor family over a cup of lamp curry  and bread.

The mosques that sing of peace and harmony from faraway town and the freezing cold waters of Ganges that cleanses dirt of people. Interestingly, the cold breeze that carries the words of Allah, do not know the difference of castes in the town, the water that is cold and swift , has no time to crib over caste ism. They purify, cleanse, teach people to live by, live for. The roads also take their turn upto hills. The hills that have given birth to coniferous trees. The tall and vigorous forest welcomes the  traveler with all their might. those pink crispy leaves and the beige colored flowers sway by the sides to spread happiness to the traveler that has come to search for peace.

The mountains that glow in the sunset hour purifies the traveler's soul. The little lantern hung by the hamlet and the thin smoke that blows up, the olive moss over the rocks, the green waters by the caves, the brooks that sprawls over, the merchant who returns from the market place, the violet wild flowers who shade their petals off, chants the hymns of peace, love, life.

The Garhewali cook comes to his duty, prepares rice and lentils and some fries. The cow boy takes his herd of mountain goats back to the shade, the temple bell rings against the winds in the mountains, the child with red ribbons on her hair rushes to her grandma's lap to listen to stories of "the princess who was sick and no doctors could cure her ...". The day closes to begin a new beginning, the traveler walks on.

The road takes him through the misty mountains, to a new destination. He collects the pebbles on the way, that know the stories of carts, the pine fruits that know of the love that has bloomed under the tree, he captures the sounds of chirping of birds that have seen the wounded deer resting under their nest... the waterfall that has been the witness of the false promises made by those two young lovers once in the hour of dawn ... traveler moves on !

One fourth of a century

How does it feel to have lived this planet for a good 25 years ? Well, a white paper and pencil would shrink that to a millionth time of how  a baby  transformed to a girl and a lady and on. This is a huge sack of experience that couldn't be described or jotted down. This is amazing how mid 20 crisis blooms in a life of a woman ( because I don't know how it would be for a man), That amalgam of sensing responsibilities and the desire of withdrawing oneself from the shack of life is interesting indeed. They say 20s is the best time to create memories, yes it is! Its the time to smell the soil when its dry and soon it gets wet by the seasonal rains. Its the time to go broke middle of a month and arrest oneself for rest 15 days. These are the days, one should abandon oneself to isolation to see what world looks like ? how the world survives in its own viscous lifestyle? How it feels to work more than 9 hours a day and walk back on tired feet home.

Living independent is a very interesting thing that I have come across. You know you can enjoy over a cup of latte or bowlful of tomato soup and enjoy a 2 am movie. Isn't it interesting to listen to the silence of the late night at city. The silent corridor with a pot filled with dry soil and a disturbed growth of a plant which smirks at my life, and those soggy odor of shoes that remind me I have grown up and life has embraced me with all its grace and it expects me to hug it back.

The nights that are so colorful when we do the town and the toxic drink that amazingly makes you forget the burden that life heaps on you every single moment. Those 3  am talks and the late night returns are the  best ways to dive  in 20s, and waking up early to work. The feeling of coming close to a man and realizing the grace in you to bring him closer , losing yourself to him and the beautiful cycle of moving away! The beauty of life unfolds in every single drop of tears and every he - haws at the roadside with fellow people. The wonderful art of trusting people, most probably the strangers in the world where we grow up.

The art of learning to cook because you are  hungry and that moment when it tastes good! Every single hour of discovering yourself makes it all! These memories that are created on those stony pathways, bars, on sunny days, cold nights, amidst fragrance of dragon lilies and the back coffee dates, make you learn life is  amazing and its just 25th year of survival! There is a fear attached as the change in phase could be difficult but there is excitement as that would be a change in routine life that we deal.

Growing up and surviving 25 years is like a basket of small and big talks that could weave a fabric of memories , which just aint meant to be cherished but looked upon to move ahead to our 30s. Amidst all those bunch of lilies, bars of chocolates, boxes of doughnuts, mugs of beer, tiff with the boss, getting late at work, earning every penny, being a spendthrift, fighting with parents, being cheated, acting selfish, trying to be pretty, travelling to see hills, tanning at beaches, late night movies, long drives, doing the pubs, doing the laundry, booking a flight to home.... we have grown up and we have survived one fourth of a century. 

I wish to parent a daughter !

As we grow old, we change our bucket list with age, with time and life experiences. I stand to become a mother of a daughter someday. I am no feminist, neither I support women empowerment in every aspect of life. I want to raise a girl child, because I want to see how it feels to parent another woman. I have seen my mother raising me in a surrounding of a mid occur mentality. Where an Indian girl has to abide by several regulations.

 She has to learn and have a good command of English language, she has to secure the top in education, yet she needs to grow her hair long. She needs to maintain her glowing skin and care of her complexion and fight every day to lighten it. She cannot meet any person who belongs to male gender and even if she did, she cannot fall in love. Love is a crime, and only those who has shattered future falls in love. If her friend who happens to be from male species , texts or calls her, she is asked a plethora of questions, just to understand the fact if she is in a relationship with that person. Yes,  relationship takes a subjective viewpoint. What is actually a relationship? Well it means she has not only attached herself with the person emotionally but physically too. And if her hormone was not in control in her puberty, then she might be thrown away of the society that strictly forbids conjugal relationship before a ritual celebration called - marriage. She has to marry a person that belongs to her caste, yet financially strong enough to support her needs. If she has loved a man, she needs to get married to that person irrespective of what he turns out to be in future, If she gets pregnant before marriage, then she is no less than a sex worker in the society and that she can burn her face or drown herself but not live in the society that is so pure !She needs to fear rape, death, man, and the patriarchy. She cannot step out without covering herself to safeguard her body from being exploited !

I want to give birth to baby girl someday and raise her as a human and not a woman. I want to push her out of my house right from her young age, to understand what it means to be in the world and not just family. I would expect her to make friends with all communities and caste and make her understand that this is a hierarchy that we have designed and can destroy as well. That if her friend's father earns his living by selling groceries, he deserves the similar respect from us. She needs to swim, run, hop, walk and drench in rain, get tanned in sun and go through a painful path of life that 70% of Indians do everyday. I would want my daughter to have bad relationships. So that she breaks her heart , cries, understand what it means to be with a person that cannot support the meaning of love. She would grow again like a phoenix and would go out there and make better choices. I would want her to take bad decisions in life, so that she understands what it means to spoil time and lose value. I would want her to study the subjects she wants to and not force her to take up something that the world puts a value of ! She needs to travel, travel alone  so that she knows what it means to be diversified. She needs to know how to protect herself and not just cover her breasts from the eyes of a man. I would encourage her to stay up till night and still go to work next morning to live in the reality. She should go out and booze and let know what it means to take a toll on her health !I would not want her to get embarrassed about the fact that she menstruates and hides sanitary napkins inside her pocket. She needs to earn hard for survival yet let her know she is pampered by her parents:that she can fall back to her parents in the hour of need. She needs to know what it means to fight a life, the world full of struggle. And most importantly she needs not to put up a banner and screech for women's rights, she needs to follow her mind and not the one that framed by her society.

I want to parent a girl child, so that she understands the real meaning of living a life of a human and not a woman or a man. I want to tell her, she is a woman and she needs to do things that a man cannot do and not what man can do. 

My old Summer

Summer has always been my love. Summer comes with colors and beauty. There is a beauty in dried brown leaves and greenish pond that sits still by a scorching summer afternoon. Summer in the town glistened on the asbestos of the grocer's house.The pumpkin creeper lied on the bamboo fence, tired and disturbed by the heat. I looked at the courtyard, to the flapping wings of those lazy pigeons. They splashed within the bowl of earthen pot. I envied their peaceful life and couldn't accept the fact that they do not get homework to complete. Grandpa played cards with his mates, his wrinkles relaxed once he won a match.

The lane that passed by our old house, left isolated. It awaited for a man to pass by, a woman to escort her child back home, but alas! summer has censored the clamor of the busy lane to seclusion.The wheels of the rickshaw stopped by a huge mansion, the puller took a quick nap under the shade of a banyan tree. Children ran towards the sugarcane cart, to sip over a glass of cane juice. The juice tasted  yummy with a tinge of lemon and ginger. 

Men talked about their hardships through out the day over a puff of cigar, while women took bath before evening comes down. We would spend the afternoon at our attic, and watch the birds return to their nests at the day close. My sister would play with crayons while I would do pot painting.The sky would turn rusted as the sun would sleep by, the cooler evenings would invoke laughter and giggles. Evenings would lit the town up to good spirits.Girls would pleat up their hair and wait by the window to take a glimpse of her love pass by, women would light oven to prepare supper. My mother would call us to help her with chopping onions and ridge gourd. Girls engaged themselves to help their mothers, and whispered to each other about their crush who lives next door. We sat on the floor to have supper and laughed our hearts out as we spoke about the maid who fought with her ferocious lady and denied service for her, or we would speak about the man who bargained his wallet out for a half kg brinjal in the market.

Nights would not call slumber. The dampened humidity would keep us awake, when we would sit on the terrace to gossip about life. Father would discuss about what happened in the world where as mother would talk about her world that she weaves day n night. The express train would pass by whistling away, and we would suggest an idea of vacation. Mom would water her plants and get excited about a trip, which probably never happened. Giggles and laughter would embrace the terrace till we fell asleep. The jasmine grove would smell like seventh heaven and the breeze would call us to bed. Our beds were just beside where the jasmine creeper grew and the master window whispered the stories of red and blue fairies to our ears, and dreams ? dreams would just fall in place !!

The Lost Night

It drizzled over the hills, the stones were bathed over. The wind whistled through the hedges, through the wild yellow flowers. The sky was dark, the pine trees were drenched in rain. The expanded green meadow lied under the shroud of darkness. The hills kissed the clouds with its vigor, and the brooks sang through the creeks,  like a beautiful white maiden. The town whispered the tale of love, which embraced the winter night, which washed its sorrow in cold droplets of rain, which hugged the chilled breeze of temptation. 

She was awake all these hours, waiting for the return of her love, the trickling wooden roof waited with her. The fire place warmed her, as she grew impatient for the insane love to arrive soon. The hay stake lay silent, so did the spider cob around the corner. The beans stew on the oven got dried, with the growing anxiety of her. She dreamed of a garden, and some violets around, the honey bees and the flocking birds, the return of her luck, the return of her life, the return of her world, where she grew the samplings of affection and desires ----- desire to be loved, to be hugged, to be delved into the milk of ecstasy. For every winter night promised her to bring the warmth of sunshine back. Her torn red fabric of her dress couldn't rest itself to slumber. The promise to be returned, the hidden tears to be wiped off, the heavy heart to be lightened... she waited... with heaps of eagerness!

The tea estate stood still, as it waited for the maiden to sing, the teak wood stood patient for the maiden to come running through the aisle. they waited to listen to her giggle, to listen to her little heart bloom with joy, to see her hop on the dew drops, to feel her love. they waited for the return of her own self. Her dreams remained old and they scared her of the loss of love. she weaved her dreams under the walnut trees, she believed that her love would return, it unwind the smile that her heart is waiting for. she wanted to capture the cold night to her thin blanket forever, she feared of sunlight, as it would erase her dreams off. the cold night beside the flames of fire, weaves her dreams to return of her love, her paradise of the self she longs for.

The blanket murmured the song of return, the return of the depth where she would like to dive, the depth of paramour, the kisses of promises , the promises of life, the life of peace, the peace of making love, the love of souls, the souls of innocence, the innocence of night - the lost night.