R.E.T.I.R.E.M.E.N.T

As I type this piece, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar has retired. Also, as I type this piece, thousands others have retired & retiring from their workplace.

Thousands just like SRT who are as good as him at their ‘jobs’ retire everyday from their work. They do well, inspire others. They say goodbyes to their colleagues, collect their belongings in a cardboard box, cut a ‘we will miss you’ cake… and as they walk back home they wonder to themselves, “What will I do tomorrow morning?” They wonder where will they use their work clothes, what time will they have their morning tea, what will be happen to the mail that will be dropped off their work address…

We will all retire, one day. We all work hard. We all make ‘beautiful’ innings be it on the field, cubicle, garage, kitchen, school…

My Nana ji retired as a college principal, a long long time ago. He used to cycle to college. Today, I am wondering what the thoughts in his head were when he rode the cycle from college to home, the last time. I remember the ‘moistness’ in his eyes. After he retired, he worked to restore documents of historical literary work. He inspired us till he left us.

Just a few weeks back, my dad retired after a very beautiful, challenging & inspirational innings. I had dropped him this mail on the last day of his work, “Hello papa! You must be feeling both sad & happy! But I am sure you will enjoy and relax & then you can come and stay with us! Yippiees!!Love you.” And he replied, “Dear Purva, I am not felling sad at all. Of course there will be a change in my life. I feel it would be ‘better’ than ‘present’. I will enjoy life in another way. May do something new.  My new e-mail address from 1st August is….. @gmail.com. Love, Papa.” Today, I am looking back and smiling, my dad had planned his ‘farwell’ so well! He had even created a new e-mail id since he would not have access to the official id! He is 63, he is an inspiration!! And he has taken up a new course and is prepping for his exams! He had an exam last Saturday! J J I am moist eyed as I am thinking how he found the courage to tell us that he would not miss dressing up for work each day, attending meetings, buying a goodie for us on his way back… Dad, you inspire me, each moment!

Today, I wish each one of our jobs & careers were such that we got a chance to connect to millions, beyond our cubicles, and each one of us got the same ‘retirement’ as Sachin got today.

Everyone who retires is sad & deserves a hug.

Respect to SRT & all others who have said goodbye to their work.  

Image: here

Do diye zyada jalao...

Do diye zyada jalao... 

I am sure all of us have way too many places, people, moments, memories that deserve the extra two diyas... 

I have a lot to feel grateful this Diwali and I hope it is the same for  you! "The lovely cupcake, my niece, please don’t grow up. The ‘can’t-live-without’ sister, I will always call you at all odd hours. The ‘make-me-proud’ daddy, you are my inspiration. The smile, keep visiting me and all those I love. The books, I loved all the nights I spent with you.  The new-found joke partner, bro-in-law, we rock.The Wi-Fi, you are the reason I wake up each morning. The ‘know-it-all’ mommy, how come you have a solution for everything? The grey cells, please don’t give up on me. The husband, thanks for being a lovely room mate! The Indian Trumpet magazine, thanks for making my life so colourful & stunning! The cosy work desk, can’t imagine life without you. The blessings, keep coming. The deadlines, you make time dearer.The lessons, I am learning. And all the wonderful people I have met & will meet in this new land, Dubai! 

May each one of yours world sparkles a lot more this Diwali!

Image: Personal album

The bitter truth about Karwa Chauth!

The DDLJ Karwa Chauth scene!

I have just finished reading a piece on Karwa Chauth by Shobhaa De titled ‘The bitter truth about Karwa Chauth…’, which appeared in Mumbai Mirror on October 19^th (Link here, http://www.mumbaimirror.com/mumbai/others/The-bitter-truth-about-Karwa-Chauth-/articleshow/24354820.cms) and I couldn’t stop myself from penning my views on her piece!

I respect the women who fast, and do it with full belief and faith. I will be fasting too and my hands are not devoid of heena! In fact, just two hours back I got heena on my hands and I think it looks lovely.  And while I was getting it done someone commented, “Hey, you don’t really look like the type who would fast!” Now, I honestly don’t know how people who fast are supposed to look! In fact, a few days back someone had even commented, “Hey, you don’t really look like someone who would be a vegetarian!” Again, I don’t know how vegetarians are supposed to look! Am I to walk around with a cauliflower on my head! J  Well, that’s another story.

So back to the piece by Miss.De. Is simple for me, just like I don’t keep the doors of my home open on Diwali in the hope of Lakshmi walking in, I don’t think a fast could lead to the prosperity or long life of my partner. I feel it is a custom and as & when my heart and body allows me to follow it, I will follow it. At the same time, I don’t think not fasting makes Miss. De a terrible wife. I think this is a festival just like many other Indian festivals and each one of us has the right to indulge and enjoy it in our own way! We don’t need to really adopt a ‘feminist’ attitude towards everything. Right? My husband won’t be fasting for me simply because it is a custom followed (as per their individual choices) by women. We don’t wish our fathers, a Happy Mother’s Day, right? If he wishes to fast along with me that is completely his choice, not a judgement on our affections for each other. And yes, some women like to dress up in ‘bridal finery’ on Karwa Chauth, which I think is their way of celebrating the festival! Don’t we dress up on Diwali? Or wear pink ribbons in aid of breast cancer? Or walk into mall adorned with red hearts on Valentines? I see nothing wrong in woman over-dressing on Karwa Chauth just like I see nothing wrong in woman under-dressing while attending ‘high-profile’ social gatherings, fashion dos, et al (which, the internet tells me Miss. De attends just like she attended this one Karwa Chauth lunch). I see nothing wrong in women fasting for a man, a custom, a tradition…just like I see nothing wrong in women dieting to be a size smaller or smoking or drinking to fit in a circle or generally because they enjoy it…  Each one to oneself, right? And yes, I do drink, diet, under-dress and over-dress!!

So Miss De you are a good wife and I am sure your husband would love you irrespective of you nibbling on a macaroon or two or a 1 kg chocolate cake! (Not that I am ‘someone’ who needs to say this to you) Whether you fast or don’t is your choice. And whether the rest of women do or don’t is theirs. But let’s not get so ‘cracked up’ about it! You may not believe in something we believe in, and vice versa. And just one question, did you always spell your name as Shobhaa with a double ‘aa’ or is it a result of something that some astrologer said to you and you believed it would work? Just curious, for the internet says you were once upon a time called Shobha! Beliefs and opinions are funny things, I tell you! But I am glad all of us have our own platforms, papers, FB accounts, blogs...to pen down our views!

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Gulf News, not again!

I have been debating with myself over the last few weeks/days on whether I should write this post or not. And there are many reasons for which it should not be written, especially by a journalist for it’s only a journalist who understands that a newspaper is made/created/written by a human being hence errors are bound to happen. I too, have made some at my job and am sure will make some in future too. But today what got me pen this was yet another ‘slip’ in the Gulf News!!

In The Views section of Gulf News August 27^th on Page A 27 (http://gulfnews.com/opinions/offthecuff/he-grew-up-in-jail-to-free-his-mother-1.1224232) is a piece titled, ‘He grew up in jail to win his mother’s freedom’. The moment I saw the headline I knew I had it read somewhere recently! The same piece penned with full details (Name, Age) had appeared a few weeks back in Gulf News’ Friday magazine (http://fridaymagazine.ae/features/the-big-story/freed-after-20-years-by-son-i-had-in-prison-1.1207832). While, I was surprised to see the same piece (written by different writers) appear yet again in the pages published by Gulf News, what also shocked me was the fact that this particular one didn’t carry any name (Assuming the names were not to be kept anonymous for the sake of the people involved, wondering why they were not there) and read like a piece of fiction. Two, the tone of the piece in terms of how the husband’s relationship was with the wife, who was in the prison, felt like we were talking of two different people! Three, the amount that the son paid to free the mother, two varied in the two pieces. I am not 100 per cent sure if they were talking of the same mother-son but one read and you would know it is.  Shocking that there is no check to ensure pieces are not repeated or factual errors are not made or stories are printed with complete information. Talking about a few days back I was flipping through the Tabloid! Section of Gulf News wherein I found two events being listed twice! I understand we all live in the world of Copy & Paste but a little thorough won’t harm anyone. At another time, when I called to attend an event I was told it was not scheduled for the day at all! Another slip that comes to my mind, which spoilt my morning cup of coffee, was the misspelling of Red Fort. Another one where the name of actress Vidya Balan was spelt incorrectly in the headline…

The list is long. The work of running a paper is tedious. But then, tomorrow is a new day!

  

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I can survive this day

I can survive this day. Days like these that leave me feeling empty and cramped at the same time. Days when ‘RAPE’ dominate the newspapers, TV channels and FB status updates. Days when roads witness candle marches and protests. Days when leaders tell me not to interact freely with men. Days when cops tell me I dress inappropriately. Days when men transform into animals. Days when I secretly thank god it was not one of my loved ones. Days when I say a prayer for the girl fighting it out in the hospital. Days when I shiver in fear. I can survive this day. I have to survive this day. I don’t feel sorry for myself. Today, I feel sorry for my parents. Sorry that I was born as a girl. Sorry that while I gorged on popcorns in a theatre they stayed hungry in anxiety. Sorry that while I worked long hours to climb up the career ladder they stared at the watch and prayed. Sorry that while I became an independent woman they worried that I was growing up too fast. Mom-dad, did I ever let you sleep? My prayers go out to parents with daughters. I wish they can survive this day.

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the rape season?

There are seasons. If you are natureholic then you would know of summer, autumn, spring and winter. If you are a fashionholic then you would know of Autumn/Winter and Spring/ Summer, Fall/Pre-fall. And if you are an Indian then you would know of the scam season, rape season, incest season, dowry season, bomb season, murder season… This phase too shall pass? Once upon a time we got obsessed with kids falling in pits. The whole nation prayed for a child who was in a pit and troops of men tried to save his life. Did no one fall in a pit post-that? Were all the manholes covered after that? We don’t remember. We moved on. Once upon a time we got obsessed with incest victims? Our newspaper splashed gruesome tales. Did no hand reach a place where it should have not after that? We don’t remember. We moved on. Once upon a time we got obsessed with a 23-year-old who was gang raped? Then a six-year-old, then a 45-year-old, now again a 22-year-old… We will soon not remember. We will move on. This is the rape season. This phase shall too pass?

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Let the anger live

This happened to women you and I know. I am breaking their trust and narrating their secrets here because I don’t want this anger to die off. I want each one of us to stay angry.

Some stories have to be told.

I never feared the breeze. It was always a friend. I loved it even when it blew the flower in my hair in the wrong direction. I smiled at it even on the day when it took away my umbrella with it. I always tried to feel its rhythm and sing along. We were friends. We got along well on all days, in all seasons and at all turns. So why did it betray me? Why did it stand away from me, quiet and feeble. Why can’t it meet my eyes today? Why can’t I breathe in it anymore? Why did we stop being friends?

I loved that polka dotted skirt. It was a cheerful lime green with happy white dots. My mother had got it for me for my birthday. I had slipped into it, the moment she took it out from the brown paper bag. I still remember the giggly sound the bag made when I jumped and took it from her hands. It made me smile. I hopped around it till I fell asleep wearing it. I loved how it made me feel and look. I used to love the mirror.  A year later, I grew an inch taller. It could still cover my knees. I wore it to a birthday party of a friend. We were neighbours. When I walked back home, the breeze made my skirt flutter.  It couldn’t cover my knees anymore. It got tainted with a secret I guard. I still look into the mirror. I hope one day I will find myself there. Till then, I stare back at the stillness.

Some voices need to be heard.

It was a cosy winter night. My father had tucked us into bed. My mother was in the kitchen, warming up hot chocolate for me and my brother. We were laughing uncontrollably. My brother was five years elder to me. With pride he was showing us his young moustache. My father had then hugged him and called him a grown-up man.  That night I dreamt of him, my handsome brother. I am sure I smiled in my dream. Next morning, my father taught him how to shave. I watched.

At the dinner table that night mom laid down a special meal. We were even allowed to eat two ice-creams. My father’s friend shared the dinner with us. He made me laugh. He tickled me when my brother teased me, and I laughed again. There was a lot of noise in the room. The pots and pans made a clanking sound when mother cleared the table. My father walked up to his room to play the radio. My brother ran up to our room to get his shaving kit. There was a lot of noise in the room. My voice got muffled. My father’s friend too had a moustache.

Some love stories need to end.

We were a bunch of six. We had all bunked our offices for two days to spend a chilly weekend on the hills. It was a lovely drive uphill. I felt the tiny raindrops on my hand when I rolled down the window. We stopped at a dhabha and ate ghee-drenched paranthas with daal. My friend burped out loud when we got back into the car. We laughed out loud. I was in love with him, even when he burped. We reached at three am. We were exhausted.

We rented two rooms, one for the girls and the other for the boys. My boyfriend had carried my bag. I went to their room to get it. He was alone. He smiled at me and pulled me towards him. It was a cold night. The sun would rise soon. Half an hour later, our friends returned. I went back to our room, without my bag. Next morning, we ordered more paranthas for breakfast. He loved paranthas. I heard him burp. I couldn’t laugh. My head was filled with loud cries.     

Some shields should not guard.

It was a pale blue sheet. The walls were painted in stark white. My mother held my hands in hers. I could see my father standing outside. He looked forlorn and tired. I wanted to tell my mother to be with him. But she would not leave my side. She was my shield. I felt weak, I could not stay awake. I think I slept for a few hours. When I woke up, I saw my mother was shaky. She was trying to rest her head on the arm of the bed. My father was still outside. He needed some rest.

Next morning, they took me home. On our way back they asked me if I was participating in the college fest this year. I was a runner. My room was full of my medals and trophies. I don’t remember if I replied. I stared outside the window. I saw people jogging, some were running. It was very early in the day. Every day I watch people run in the park.  My mother still doesn’t sleep well. My father looks older. I smile at times. I have given up running.

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