Monday, 16 February 2015


I am not particularly good at remembering names and dates. When I meet someone for the very first time, I skip the usual “what is your name?” question and directly jump in to enquiring about the place they belong to or their thoughts on mint chocolate ice-cream. I am also bad at remembering dates and if you have known me for a while, you would know how I have never wished you on your birthday or the fact that I didn’t give a call congratulating you for getting married until you returned from your honeymoon in Bali. Even if I have surprised you by wishing you on time, you are just plain sure that it was because of the Facebook reminder. Actually it would be justified to state that I have never cared enough to remember milestones, including mine.

Today is my blog’s 4th birthday and this is a scheduled post written a week back because I am sure I will forget about it. Now since I have established the fact that names do not matter to me, I had kept this blog anonymous but never letting that filter out the content that goes on it. If you have been reading me from the beginning, you have pretty much figured me out or at least the kind of person I am. I like being anonymous, not because it helps me write better or because I am scared of being judged, but because this works for me. I am anonymous because I am not a writer and I don’t intend to publish a book. This is just a blog and I am just a blogger. Plus, I find a little bit of mystery, attractive.

There is no story behind this blog being named ‘THE RED HANDED BLOG’ or that there is ‘AN UGLY HEAD’ on its web address. They just came up in some corner of my mind and I found it catchy. Many like to put my blog in the ‘HUMOUR’ category. I don’t know how that happened, especially when my first ever blog post shows me as 21 year old girl who was depressed because college wasn’t treating her well. But over a period of time, humour started to define everything I wrote. There is no creativity in the posts I write, I suck at rhyming words and I never have been much of a story writer. What I am exceptionally good at is self mockery and it has helped me see that life is beautiful if you see it from the right perspective. This blog has made me a much happier person. I am thankful. I also made some new friends through this blog and decided to make my anonymity conditional. These people would forever be a part of my life; of that I am sure.

I don’t participate in contests, I have due to my anonymity not been able to be part of amazing blogger meets and I don’t earn a single penny from my blog, but it was all a personal choice and is something that I hope to continue. I am also not a regular blogger and I am extremely humbled by the readership that this blog has been able to garner. Someone recently mailed me that the only reason I have readership is because I am anonymous. That someone was anonymous too, but without readership. Well, I don’t know why you read me, but I am thankful to you for doing so even if it is only because I am anonymous. Thank you.

4 years of blogging! This is surprising to me because I am the kind of person who loses interest quite fast. My family knows that I blog but have never been interested enough to go online and read. They say why write when it’s never published in print. They ask “What do you get out of it?”  I don’t know. Some write just because they like to.

So to all those who have been reading this blog, regularly or occasionally, I call you family. Thank you for commenting and thank you for laughing at my expense. Your every single comment means a lot to me and I value your inputs. I hope you continue reading this blog.

Dear ‘THE RED HANDED BLOG’. Happy Birthday! I don’t normally tell you, but I love you.

But most importantly, thank you Dad for instilling in me the love for writing.  

P.S- Please appreciate the Photoshop!

P.P.S- Today is also my first day in my new workplace. Coincidence much? 

Monday, 2 February 2015


Last week, when Barack Obama and his wife visited India to be a part of our Republic Day parade, rumours had it that Mr.Narendra Modi might gift 100 Benarasi sarees to the first lady as a gesture of goodwill. Now this way of tightening cross border friendship deeply troubled me because our Prime Minister failed to answer one important thing, ‘Where will Michelle Obama find a good Blouse tailor?’

Once a girl reaches the threshold of womanhood, she begins to understand that she can no longer inveigle herself into believing that her T-shirt can make up for a saree blouse. It is then that she begins her pursuit to find the one who understands her enough to wondrously stitch out the perfect saree blouse and mind you, a good blouse tailor is not an easy catch.

If you think about it, blouse making shouldn’t be an arduous task. You provide the tailor with the matching piece of cloth which you spent hours to select, leaving you wish that you were colour blind and all he has to do is stitch out a decent blouse by following your measurements. You even ignore it when the tailors, irrespective of the gender, use more of their hands and less of the measuring tape to chalk down your size. You brave it all, just for that one perfect blouse. The result is almost always, disappointing.

My first blouse tailor was obsessed with Egypt. Why else would he stitch out a blouse that made it look like I had pyramids built on my chest? Another tailor made a blouse so tight that I began to think that I had deceived puberty and was continuing to be flat-chested. The tailor I went to get a blouse stitched for my college farewell ardently took down all the measurements and promised to not disappoint me like the others did. Interestingly, I attended the farewell wearing a blouse that resembled a shirt because the tailor didn’t want to upset my family by cutting my back low. Then there was this particular tailor who added pads inside my blouse and his reasoning was a classic “Medem, aapke wo jo haina, wo kaafi nahi hai.Sleepless nights were spent considering a boob job.

Now it is a universal fact that all women secretly hate each other. There is this woman my mother is friends with whose blouses are so perfect that you might doubt if they were pasted on her. Others including my mother would regularly swarm around her encouraging her to divulge the name and whereabouts of her tailor. Her answer was always, “Yahan ka nahi hai. He belongs to my village. I got this stitched when I went home.” Such a bitch!

Recently, I happened to come across this particular guy who ran a small tailoring shop named ‘OOH LA LAAA’ near my brother’s school. I wonder what might have been the reason behind me choosing him. May be it was the proximity to my place or the fact that he was ready to first stitch a trial blouse to clear my confusion. I was sold! After a week of questioning my patience, this gem of a guy gifted me a blouse that made me wonder if he knew my proportions better than me.  I had finally struck gold after going through so much dirt.

A woman’s relationship with her blouse tailor is unique. He knows what she means when she requires a Vidya Balan style blouse, or when she says “Bhaiyya front deep chahiye. But not that deep ok?”. He knows the contours of her upper body better than her boy friend and he is ready to make alterations to her heart’s desire. He is true to his words when he says he will give her the blouse on Saturday and he never messes with her cup size. He knows when she has gained a couple of kilos and silently increases the length of the blouse to cover up her peeping back tire. He should be declared an Indian Super hero.

I wore my new tailor’s creation to a wedding recently. A friend asked, “Kahan se silwaya?”. I flushed a bit, looked at mother while replying, “Yahan ka nahi hai. He belongs to my village. I got this stitched when I went home.”

I blame it on Muliebrity!

P.S- I am not dead. :)