Wednesday, 30 April 2014


Yesterday my Aunt barged into our place infuriated. It is not every day that you get to see a woman as calm and composed as her, all red and fuming. Without as much as a warning, she began pacing on the verandah mumbling “How can they hit their child. He just broke a few glasses. Kids do that! Why would she hit him! My own friend hitting her child!” And in my mind, this was going on, “Why is she making such a fuss? The kid deserved a tiny hit”.

I was hit a few times as a child and to be quite frank, I totally deserved every single hit. Whatever I am today are due to those fantastic hits.  My Dad never hit me on my face but regularly gave me a spank or two on my hands or my feet while my mother believed in punishing me by pinching me below my arms. I know I deserved every single hit. They were painful but never over the top brutal and only hands were used in the process. No, this did not make me hate my parents or be afraid of them. They knew their limits.

I was a bad child. From hanging on to my father’s foot until he got me a Cadbury’s lollipop, to threatening other kids that my father would hang them on the ceiling fan while I switch it on, to making a picture of  a mango when asked to draw a globe, I had a lot of issues. I was not someone who listened to words of wisdom and I was certainly someone who loved making faces every single time someone asked me to not to litter the place with pieces of paper. I was a nightmare and my mother still reminds me of it. I was a mess and the only language that got communicated to me was a little spanking now and then. They tried everything. The made me go to my room and stay put all day, only to find the walls used as a slate to draw figures that looked demonic. They reprimanded me by taking my toy truck away, only to find me play with a toy that my parents do not remember buying me. Turns out, I was into childhood kleptomania restricted to toys and teddy bears. I was the child every couple prayed against.

I remember how once I asked my mom to make me an Omelette, an omelette that was as thin as paper because it reminded me of Paper Dosa. My mother tried, only to find me rejecting the 5 omelettes she made. My Dad came and awarded me one good smack on my buttocks and then asked my mom to make me another omelette. I don’t know if it was paper thin but I do remember eating it. It was bloody tasty! I can still remember the day when my Dad ran behind me in his lungi and Baniyan until I somehow managed to wriggle under the bed but got stuck midway because of my monstrous belly. The spank on my bum could have been mistaken as someone playing a congo. That incident gave me a good handwriting. Don’t ask me how.

But hey, don’t you dare call my parents monsters. They never hit without purpose and their hits were not the kind that would leave massive marks. Also, all the spankings were forgiven when my Daddy would later take me, on his white vespa, to have a ‘Top N Town’ Cornetto Ice-cream in Butterscotch flavour. Thus, spanking also made me go fat.

There is nothing wrong in spanking your child now and then. I have nothing but respect if your child was born as someone who weeps just by a slight rise in your tone but I was not that kind. I was a problem child, who always brought out a defensive smirk on my face whenever I was scolded. Who wouldn’t want to spank that!

I am not promoting violence here or abusing your children to the point of brutality. I know people who use iron box, belts and chairs to hit their little ones and these people need to be behind bars. But for all the others, who are waiting for their kids to outgrow their bad behaviour with age or to build a character on their own, while they try in vain to change them words, my answer is ‘SPANK THEM’, but never too hard. Cruelty should not be seen as a path towards disciplining your child. 

My brother was never hit because he was the kind of kid who would cry buckets on receiving just a scornful look from my Dad. If your child is like that, you my dear are the chosen one.

But if your child is like what I used to be, you now know what to do!

P.S- This is just a personal blog. Expect nothing. I have no creative writing skills. J

Wednesday, 23 April 2014


The first thing an Indian parent usually teaches his/her child is to shake his hand and say bye. ‘Bye Bolo Beta Bye!’ they tell him, as the confused kid takes an initiative to move his hand in a windshield wiper motion only to be amazed by the applaud that his act receives. The kid would not even as much as smile at you, yet because of the parental tuning, he inadvertently gives you a bye. Since then the kid carried into his adulthood, his perennial dedication to saying ‘Bye’.

Now think about this, you drop in to visit someone you know. The welcome and the ‘hello’ is always cordial, pleasing and definitely not overdone. Just letting you know that they are happy to see you after long. Now compare this warmth with the one that you receive while you leave. The byes start as soon as your buttocks leave the couch all the way till half a kilometer from their place. Small waves, big waves, tired waves, sleepy waves, just-for-the-heck-of-it waves, they give it all to you and they expect you to wave out of the car window, sometimes even jutting your head out, till their eyesight blurs. I do not understand this stuff.

My grandmother believes in crying for the whole community. I think she finds it inauspicious and inconsiderate to wave someone goodbye without her eyes brimming like the Seine river. There has to be emotions attached to every goodbye even if she doesn't know the person who visited. What she calls as acts of benevolent sentiment, might look to other’s as her cry for help, indirectly trying to let them know that we practice third degree torture on her. So much for bidding someone the good old goodbye.

Few days back, a family friend dropped by and just like every other family friend, he took over the television and stayed put on the couch till late evening. Anyone who tells someone to ‘consider this as your place’ was definitely trying to be Chandler Bing. Finally in the evening he decided to leave and my parents started their ‘Bye’ routine. “Bye! Phirse Aayiyega” my dad lies, while my mother churns out the “Bye!Milke bahut accha laga” as my grandmother looks straight up at the ceiling fan without as much as blinking in an attempt to bring out tears. As I stood simply smiling at the man finally leaving, with my right hand cautiously reaching towards the television remote, my Dad suddenly demanded “Bye bolo ungil ko!”, totally ignoring the fact that I am nearing my 25th year of existence. The man stepped out and my family kept on gargling on ‘bye’ until he was securely inside the confines of his Hyundai Eon. We continued to stand at the door waiting for him to start the ignition, when he decided to pick up a call. As my legs started the numbing game, I finally took the initiative to close the door and just then my Mother screamed “How can you close the door!!! Uncle is yet to drive away.” The door remained open till the man ultimately decided to keep the phone down and leave, but not until he was awarded a fresh set of whimsical ‘Byes’. The night was spent sleepless, thanks to the mosquitoes that had utilized the opportunity fruitfully.

I understand the emotions attached while bidding someone dear and near a temporary bye. We as Indians even believe in following our family member till the gate, even if he/she is just going to the local dispensary to as much as buy a pair of strepsils. But I do not understand this everlasting ‘bye’ that we render to someone who is just an acquaintance. The straining of the neck out of the car and stretching out your hand, just for some meaningless bye byes.

You might say that we are a hospitable bunch of people. But if you think about it, it simply looks like you are rejoicing over someone’s departure evidently more than their arrival. Atleast try not to make your joy so evident.

So if because of some catastrophic reason I decide to visit you, just give me a single bye and a kind nod. Don’t wait for me to cross the boundaries of your myopic eyesight to close the gates and go back inside.

But if you really want to go an extra mile, you can choose to do this.....

IMAGE COURTESY- and proper utilization of Google. 

Thursday, 17 April 2014

An Open Letter to My 16 year old Self.....

Dear 16 year old me,

Look, it’s your future self — 8 years in the future, to be exact. I am a lawyer now and not a hippie as you are planning to be. I am still cool and to tell you the truth, life is much cooler than you think it is but kid, you shall discover all that eventually.

I have a few things I should tell you and I know that it might prick your heart, but for the sake of self salvation I think I owe you a few pointers towards the right direction.

I know that you are not happy with yourself. Let us just put out in the open the insecurities you are battling with currently. You have an ugly hairstyle which your mother plaits and ribbons everyday with black, as you step out to school. Your Gandhi style spectacles and bushy eyebrows are also a cause of major concern as well as your ever expanding waist line. But Honey, I have a piece of advice for you. You will not always be like this. Stop fretting over how you look and start appreciating what you are. You are a good singer and you have friends who have been with you since kindergarten. That is a great achievement.

I know that right now you are addicted to Yahoo messenger which by the way would be the root cause behind your fucked up board percentage. I know how you get a high by simply getting into chat rooms and fighting with every random bloke you can find. This shall also be the place where you learn the word ‘Nincompoop’ which by the way would be the only addition to your English vocabulary that Yahoo messenger will ever make. You think that all this makes you cool. Well in all honesty, you are being a complete loser and you are just wasting your time, which you shall regret the moment you step out of the examination hall. Also ‘spicy_chick_here’ is a really bad username and has sexual innuendos that you ignorantly overlook. 

Stop praying to the good Lord to add some spice to your stale existence. I am suffering because of it right now as I am living a life so spicy that it burns during my morning toilet episodes. Enjoy the boring, stale, Maggi filled lifestyle that you have because once you reach where I am right now, life will keep you on your toes. Also stop going to the British library only to read authors that deal majorly with explicit content. You will get to experience the real stuff later in life so hold on your horses and be a good girl. Life is great!

Your parents are not your enemies so kid, you better listen to them! When they tell you not to take the bike to school, acknowledge their commands because if you had, I would not have had this scar on my right ankle. Being a continuous rebel for no cause whatsoever, is not a wise thing to do.

Tell our mom to let you sleep alone in a room because if you don’t start sleeping alone now, you will be spending 5 years of your law school sleeping in the hostel room every night with the lights on and a conglomeration of Jesus and Krishna idols happening beneath your pillow. Be a little strong.

This year you shall start your first ever blog on rediff and the title of your first post shall be ‘INDIAN MOTHERS- THE BIGGEST SPIES’. Of course you would delete the blog after a few months and you will do that for good!

I want to prepare you for your life ahead. I want to tell you to not accept any man as your boyfriend just because you entered College and having a boyfriend was like owning a purple Unicorn. Your first relationship is going to suck real bad but you would dump him over the phone while pushing French Fries down your Oesophagus. That is not love.  But hold on, Love shall happen to you and girl, you shall be blessed indeed!

I am not like you, yet I am so much like you. I have a better hairstyle and I no more wear glasses. I have learnt the art of applying makeup and I have reduced a considerable amount of weight, though the battle still continues. I am much for confident and happier than you are and this should make you happy because a few years down the lane, you would be me and you are going to love being me.

I know that you are getting bored, so let me tell you that you have a bright future ahead. Though I don’t know where life would lead me, I do know that you are walking on the right path, making a few innocent mistakes while on the go.

So believe in yourself kid and love yourself more, because you are precious to me. Also you are way cooler than you think you are.


24 year Old You.

P.S- Have you written a letter like this to your old self? 
P.P.S- Check out FOODPANDA? You can order food Online, provided it covers the city you belong to!!! Check them out  HERE
Image Courtesy- Maharishi Google

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

Hating the word 'Ladies' .....

There is something that detonates inside me every time I hear the word ‘Ladies’. It irks me and it makes me angry. Supremely angry and overly irritated. Yes, that is what that word does to me. Above all, I loathe being referred to as a lady. I am not a lady.

A ‘lady’ they say is a refined woman. She is a level or two more virtuous than an ordinary woman and has a more structured and courteous behaviour pattern. If anything, she is a better and much elegant avatar of this miserably faulty thing called ‘woman’. I am not a lady.

It vexes me every time I am part of a crowd which is addressed to as ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’. To say the least, I even abhor reading the term ‘LADIES’ outside the urinal. I need this word out of my life. I am not a lady.

I make mistakes and I sometimes repeat those mistakes for quite a many times. I say things without considering what the takers would think of me as a person. I do not cover my mouth while laughing and sometimes noises escape my mouth while eating. Sometimes I forget to comb my hair properly as I rush to work and most of the times I were different socks. I can gleefully wipe the bread crumbs off my hands onto my shirt as I lean in close to hug you and I do snort while laughing. My nails are always chipped and most of the times the nail colour on my hands differ from the ones on my toes because why bother bending low to paint your toes when you can hide them inside dirty combat shoes. I brush just ones a day and sometimes I do not even floss. I won’t bend a knee while kissing the man I love and I might just pull him closer than wait for him to do so. I like to blow bubbles through the straw into my can of coke. I will tell the man about my fantasies and get the satisfaction I need, than anticipate him to read my mind. I am not refined. I am not a lady.

And if anything I do not want a gentleman in my life. I need a man. I do not want someone to pull a chair for me unless my hands are hurt or paralysed. I do not want a gentleman to run forward to open a car door for me and I definitely do not want him to lend me his jacket. I am sure winter affects both sexes equally. I want a man who acknowledges that I am no lesser than him and allows me to make my own decisions. I want a man who doesn't feel that his male ego requires him to never let his woman pay. Split the bill with me and sometimes when I want to pay it all, do not tell me that it is your destined duty not mine. I want a man who doesn't tell me to choose a Virgin Mojito over rum because I am a lady. I don’t need a gentleman. I am not a lady.

So the next time you ask me to ‘Behave like a lady’, remember that I have blatantly accepted I am not a lady. I am a woman, imperfectly perfect that needs no fine tuning. A woman, that is all I am. 

P.S- How many of you actually like a guy pulling the chair out of you ? Tell me that I am not the only one who doesn't .
P.P.S- You can participate in this giveaway hosted by the awesome blog 'iCynosure'. CLICK HERE

Tuesday, 1 April 2014

Of Childhood Crushes and Fantasies.....

Today morning as I was getting out for work, my glance slid towards my little 7 yr old cousin’s bedroom. There she stood with a huge poster of some Disney Prince and was standing on her toes in an attempt to stick it to her wall. This was the first ‘GUY’ poster in her room and I know that this wouldn't be her last. This was just a bud.

I was not an innocent child. To be quite frank, since I was studying in a convent school, boys were like Unicorns for me. Mystical, magical and unattainable, though unlike Unicorns they did exist somewhere outside the school compound. Unlike the other girls who were busy salivating about Barbie’s gay boyfriend Mr.Ken, I was busy fantasizing about MowgliMowgli was by God my first crush and I wanted to give him babies. 4 babies to be precise. One who could ride on the black panther ‘Bageera’, one to  play with the cuddly bear ‘Baloo’, one to slide down the slimy back of the snake ‘Kaa’ and one who could fight the evil tiger ‘Shere Khan’. I had planned it all while listening to the title song ‘Jungle Jungle Pata Chala Hai Chaddi Pehenke Phool Khila Hai’. Me and my Chaddyman for life!

But then I grew up to be 11 yrs old and Mowgli was not as pleasing to my senses as he used to be. It was around that time that our neighbor Mrs.Kukreja started giving the top floor of her house on rent to bachelors. There was this boy whom I called ‘Mintu bhaiyya’ who was a star among me and my other friends. But I was committing incest in my mind and bhaiyya was the last thing I wanted him to be. I wanted him to give me a ride on his Bajaj Vespa and share a Mango Dolly with me. The way he played Tea set with my friends made me jealous. But what could a girl with a boy cut and a deranged self confidence do?

One day I got up and tied my mom’s dupatta on my head and started pretending that it was real hair. Long-ass-length-hair. With lipstick on my dot like lips and another dupatta rolled as a saree/Egyptian zombie atire around my tiny body with t-shirt as a blouse, I walked to the Verandah hoping to parade myself like a peacock before my Mintu. But it was my father who broke my heart between his uncontrollable laughs when he said “Mintu left for his post graduation at Dehradun”. He left behind a packet of Britannia Little Hearts for me. My second crush broke my heart.

Then Hrithik Roshan came into my life. I would close myself in my parents room since I never had a room of my own, with the walkman playing the cassette of ‘ Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’. As I lay on my bed and the song started playing, I was suddenly Amisha Patel wearing her thigh length white skirt, gyrating uncontrollably with my Hrithik. I was the one for whom he made sea-shell necklaces and I was the one looking deep into his eyes beside the bonfire in a secluded island somewhere near Thailand.

 Then he went ahead and got married to a certain pale skinned Suzanne.

Hrithik Roshan with his 8 pack abs, carved collar bone, bulging biceps and swallowing arms, did not deserve me, said my Dad as tears rolled down my 13 yr old cheek while licking on the Vanilla Ice-cream he bought to calm down the waves tormenting his daughter’s little heart. Dads are the best.

I don’t do crushes anymore. I don’t remember anyone else whom I had a crush on besides these. At least nothing that was this serious and engulfing. So, what do I do now? Well I got graduated from crushing on people to falling in love. Much worse!

But the good thing about Love is, it doesn't come easy. I am a tough nut to crack.  But it did happen once and God, I would always thank you for that!

So dear Mowgli, I am glad nothing happened between us. My little cousin told me while reading the Jungle book that you are happy with a certain blue skirted girl named ‘Shanti’. I hope she pops out 4 kids.

Dear Mintu Bhaiyya. Wherever you are, Dehradun or Mussoorie, I hope you found someone who foresees your premature bald patch just like I did. But maybe you are already bald by now.

Dear Hrithik Roshan. You still look good in your latest ‘Baniyan’ advertisement. Call me. 

P.S- The above photo is a classic case of bad photoshop. Thank you very much.
P.P.S- Tell me about your first ever crush.