The Prince of the Citadel

This is a short story I wrote in 2010, but was lying in my secret blog (Yes, I have a secret blog too :-))
Now after all these years, it was an interesting read. So here goes...

                                              
                         (Image taken from : http://www.beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/artwork/lost-citadel/)

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone. We lived in a bungalow which was situated quite away from the main colony where most of my friends resided and I had to walk about ten minutes to reach their homes, a walk which included a railway bridge and a vacant plot which was full of shrubs and about 2 kms away from the main railway line, there was this big red bungalow which was always in the best of the condition though no one ever saw anyone there. The ‘princess of the town’ owned the vacant plot. The princess herself did not reside in the town but had moved abroad. Everyone talked about her property being maintained by a housekeeper, but no one had seen him.
There was also this legend in the old town that the house was haunted by the ghosts of the ‘princes’. The legend had passed down from generations which said that the royal family had a curse and none of the male members crossed an age of thirty, as a result the blue blood was not so pure anymore and the city had been reigned by female rulers belonging to another royal families brought to the city through marriage. The legend said that all the male members, fathers, brothers, and sons lived in the house after their deaths and overlooked the city. They partied at nights in the open verandah of the bungalow and walked among the common people of the town in the day.
One of the princes, who ruled about 300 years ago, was deeply attached to the city and he had constructed a citadel that was in shambles today located about two kms away from their palace, the red bungalow. A railway line ran near the remains of the citadel now. Nearly all the passengers of the trains that crossed that part of the city at nights closed their windows because many people had claimed to see a well-dressed man scorning at them from the citadel. It was claimed that sometimes that man would peep inside the train windows and look intently at people. As a result, it was a ritual; the windows used to be closed. The more adventurous sometimes left the windows open, but it was said that the prince made it a point to scare the ones who dared. He did not like being disturbed so even the engine driver never let out the siren while in the range of the citadel. The legend said that the prince was forbidden from entering the palace. It was something he had done while living and people claimed to have heard his cries of despair at nights, when he heard the other kings partying while he stayed alone in the citadel.
I usually walked that part of vacant plot to play with my friends and returned before sunset. On some occasions, my mother would invite my friends over. One day it so happened that I was playing with my friends and our topic of discussion strayed to the ‘prince of the citadel’. I was raised in a contemporary family and my parents had made it a point to rationalize my thinking as a result I never believed in the legend or the ghosts. The curfew of not walking through the barren land was still applicable on me but the reasons given by my parents were related to safety as the place was quite isolated. My friends with a more traditional outlook though stood by the story. So a bet was placed and I had to walk into the citadel at night alone. It was not a big deal I could do it. I had imagined it all when the plan was hatched and my logic said that if I could imagine it all until the end I could do it. I just had to calmly walk to the citadel, climb up the stairs, wave at my friends and come back home. Simple. The only problem was that when I tried thinking about it, I saw myself entering the citadel but when I tried picturizing my return the red bungalow popped up in my imagination. Something was wrong, I usually followed that routine of imagining things before I did them and if I could, all was safe. If I could not, there was a problem. That is how I knew my return was going to pose some dangers but under no circumstances, I could back off. The image that an eight year old carries in front of his friends is fragile and has to be maintained under all conditions. I was going to go through this. Period.
The day was fixed, I informed my parents that I was going out to play and then at about 7pm after the sun went down, we walked to the citadel. My friends maintained a safe distance and I was asked to walk down to the citadel. I managed to stride up to the foot of the building. All the while, my friends kept making scary noises, but I was not scared. I knew I could do it. However, the moment I walked up the stairs my courage had diminished greatly. And then I saw it, a pair of black eyes boring through me. When I reached the first floor where the window was located, I saw someone hunched near the window, fighting the cold. That person kept staring at me and I was frozen. We kept looking at each other for a long time, then my nerve cells reacted and I shrieked. The next second, I was running. I had no sense of direction but I sensed that someone was chasing me. I reached the vacant plot still screaming and in my confused state, I misunderstood the red bungalow for my home and ran in that direction. I climbed the stairs at the front and reached the verandah. The lights were on there and a round table was set with chairs around it. But it was vacant. And then I saw four well-dressed men walking to the table. I let out another shriek and was running again.
The next thing I remember is being in my bed. I had a scar, which looked like a whiplash cutting my right eyebrow. I don’t remember much about what happened but my mother filled me in. She said that after I failed to reach home, as it was getting dark, my father was sent on my search. He heard the scary noises from the vacant plot where my friends stood making them (he did not know that, of course) and had returned home to take his service revolver. When he came back, he heard me shriek and started running after the voice and then he had found me unconscious in the verandah with a whiplash wound.
My friends saw me with renewed interest after the episode and a new story circulated the city that I had met ‘the prince of the citadel’ and that I was whip lashed by the partying kings in the verandah. I did not deny any of it, but for the days my father was posted in that city, I embellished the details of that night with new musings from my overactive brain. When I left the town, everyone believed that I had talked to the prince and that he told me how so lonely he was and he wanted to come with me, which I had vehemently refused. After the prince refused to listen and persuaded me, I had left the citadel shrieking at my disapproval and ran straight to the palace to complaint to his forefathers about his stubbornness. I always highlighted the fact that I was brave enough to stand against the prince and had the guts to warn him that I would complaint to his forefathers. This was my version of the story to hide the fact that I was scared. I never mentioned the dark hunched man at the window.
Another version of the story was by my friends, in that version the prince had indeed come out of the citadel with me and I had screamed when the prince entered me to use my body as a host to reach his destination. The fact that I ran towards the red bungalow from the citadel was a further proof, they said that it was to meet my ancestors and to join their party. I should say that my friends’ version was better than mine was. It made sense because my version was tainted with my weak effort to hide the fact that I was scared. The result of their version was that I was looked at with a certain amount of respect after that. Even the parents of my friends made sure that they pleased me lest they would infuriate the prince who lived inside me. Many a times mothers of my friends remarked that I had developed a royal attitude. It was the look in my eyes they said. Everything about me had turned regal. I was not complaining. I was the ‘prince of the citadel.’
I was using the sobriquet to the best of my advantage. Soon, my father was posted in another city and we moved out. I carried my little autograph book was filled up by my every friend and every one wrote the same thing. They were going to miss the prince.
I insisted on keeping the windows open as our train passed from that area of my city. In addition, I am not sure why it happened but a shiver ran down my spine as the train crossed the citadel. I was sitting at the window and staring at the citadel, but I did not see anyone, nor did the other family who shared our compartment with us. They were five people- an old couple, their son and his wife and their eight-year-old daughter. Like my father, even they did not believe in the legend and that is why they allowed me to keep the window open. I was staring intently at the citadel, hoping to see the shabby man I had seen that day, but no one was there. The prince was gone too. And then I wondered if my friends were right, what if the prince was me now? What if he lived inside me now? The thought was scary but romantic. I told the eight year old we were traveling with about my escapade. Her name was Sheeba; she was also traveling to be in the same city I was going to. Her father was in a bank and they frequently changed places. When I told her about my theory, she seemed impressed. I liked her and very soon with some aid from our parents we exchanged addresses and phone numbers. I was to keep her posted about the status of my theory and that I did. I went to an all boys’ school so Sheeba was not in my school but I managed to meet her in the evenings for a game or in a park or when we went for a stroll. She never asked me about the prince and gradually she lost interest in that theory and our topics changed to her grades and hobbies and the extra curricular.
I soon forgot the old connection and was carried away by my new life at the new school. There were some changes in me. Mom attributed those changes to her upbringing and my subconscious mind told me that it was the prince. I could use fork and knife without spilling anything now, a feat mom had invested a lot of her time on but I had refused to learn and then out of nowhere I had the best table manners Things happened at their own pace from then on. I was always great at mathematics, it was genetic, my father had masters in mathematics. I had no interest in history or geography. But suddenly, I was good in that too. My social studies grades shooted up and I was not complaining. The prince was very giving; he was enhancing my capabilities without asking for anything in return. I was enjoying living with him now. Very soon I found myself talking to him. If I saw something new, it was a routine to take his approval before I took a decision. When I cleared my class X exams, my future course of action was to be decided. My parents wanted me to pursue science to enhance my mathematical talent but I decided to go with arts.
“And why arts?” my dad questioned.
“Because I want to study history,” I replied calmly. There was this development in me. Earlier I was a temperamental child but I grew up to be a well-behaved adolescent. I had never lost my cool, growing up, accepted all the curfews imposed by my over watchful parents with grace. In my mind, I had become manipulative and political. I could have my own way usually without throwing a tantrum. That was a good sign, which could be attributed to growing up, I chose the prince.
“What is in history?” dad asked.
“There are many things which happened in the past that I don’t know of.”
“And how are they going to help you?”
“That’s what I want to figure out by actually studying the past. The past is the answer to many present situations; maybe I can change the future by actually studying the past.” I replied.
I had a vertical distance from friends my age; I was too perfect for their lousy taste. So I do not know if sixteen year olds talk to their parents with such articulateness or not. The only friend I had was Sheeba and she had turned religious, for her everything had an ulterior motive decided by God. So we do not decide our path, God does that for us. I refused to accept her theory, the way she had dismissed the prince theory years ago after believing in it for a short while. So I had no chance of finding out about other sixteen year olds. I was perfect in my own world. Even my closest friend of years, Sheeba was not so perfect anymore. She was not even cute now. Sometimes when she got idealistic on me, I wanted to kill her. But I did not. What stopped me? I had no clue; it could be one of the two- my own upbringing or the royalty of the prince. I had never done anything violent.
Something had changed, maybe her attitude had made me distant from her or maybe she grew up to be a different person. I was no longer attracted to her. Other than her, I had very few friends. The guys in my class maintained a distance from me, there was something about me that disturbed them. I never cared to find out. I was happy to be on my own.
Needless to add that I managed to convince my parents and joined arts with a major in history. I was good at it selectively. My classmates were good in modern history that involved the Indian freedom struggle but all that was like news to me. I excelled in ancient history though. The Maurayan dynasty, the Gupta dynasty, Mohenjo-Daro & Harappa civilization were my strong points. It did not seem that ancient. I could visualize it. And the key to understanding and remembering history was to visualize it.
It took me years to find out only because I was not looking for it. It was while I was doing my masters in history. I had begun to spend a lot of time in the library and that is where I found the book that covered the history of my childhood town. It had pictures starting from about a thousand years ago but I flipped through half of the book and landed on the page, which gave a detailed account of the building of the citadel. It felt live. I also read about the prince. The book was written by one of the local historians and it gave me all the answers I needed
I stopped blaming the prince for everything after that. If I was improving, it was me or like my mother felt it was her upbringing. I could never be the prince. I could never be the person who had about three hundred years ago created havoc, who had in his freakiness to survive more than thirty years of age that was given to all male members of his family killed many. A man who had run from pillar to post to uplift the curse. He was abandoned from the palace because he had been cruel to his people, all the other kings before and after him had made peace with the thirty years and they lived happily and lovingly for the years given to them. The prince of the citadel could not do that. Reading it all, made me sense that the prince was a lie. A childhood notion in my head, which made me believe that I was the prince. I could never be.
That night, I went home a changed person, like the curse was lifted from my head. I did not feel weighed down by anything. I reached home and all I wanted was a good night’s sleep, my overworked brain needed that rest. But that was not to be. I had just slept for an hour and there was a knock at my door.
“Happy thirtieth Birthday!” my mom sang

SPEAK UP

This piece was also published here:
http://www.womensweb.in/2015/04/why-dont-women-speak-up/

I meant to write this since Dec 2012; when the horrific incident came to light and thousands of Indians were on street to protest it.
But I didn't, not because I had no opinion but because I was mentally shut down. I have been raised to be uncomfortable using words like ‘assault’, ‘rape’ even ‘molestation’, that’s not the things that happen to my strata of society, that's for a different class of people. I was raised as a cherished, protected child who still cries if someone talks to me in a louder voice. I just cant take it because I have never been talked to like that. My parents were the sober, educated class who focused just on education and good behavior. We were never forced to fast, observe any religious occasion with zeal. So for us, god exists somewhere, not in temples though. We are not atheists. But we aren't overzealous religious fanatics either. We have our faith in our heart.
But something changed in 2012, I didn't feel protected anymore, and I wished God existed in more real sense.
How could someone condemn someone to such brutality? I had spend sleepless nights after watching the movie “Khatta Meetha” where Akshay Kumar's sister played by “Urvashi Sharma” gets “horrific treatment” (again because I cannot bring myself to use the word rape) from his husband and his friends. So imagine, how many fortnight’s I spent awake after 2012!
I snapped again when recent events of a 3 year old being molested surfaced. I was the kind of person who changed topic when such discussions came up, now I discussed the issue with a vigilant male colleague without any awkwardness because we both were adults concerned for our kids.
And then it stuck me, the whole issue is this very behavior of mine. We as Indians are taught to be docile, we don't discuss these things. When we read the papers, we flip it in case someone sees us reading such news. We change channels when Edward kisses Bella in Twilight. We refuse to embrace our sexuality. Men and women aren’t sexual beings in India and that is the whole problem.
Because men being men have a different society one which berates women in ways they themselves don’t realize. Some are as bashful as to eve tease, some share videos on all-men group in watsapp of naked women, a mellowed down version is sharing vulgar jokes, then there are some who find relief in berating women- be it at work or at home. I once heard a man remark how a certain woman, a recent mother had it easy because she worked only 3 days a week. I bet his tiny brain couldn’t get across the fact that she was the one not having it easy as she balanced home, work and kids only because she needed to work, maybe because they won’t get through financially otherwise or maybe because she had the audacity to demand a career for herself. But I kept mum and yes changed the topic!
And we women, have learnt to be silent about the mistreatment fearing we might come across as strong feminists everybody hates. Face it, the favorite is always the salwar clad, long hair, soft spoken girl who smiles at all. And we try to be her because we don't want to be ridiculed by our male friends as ‘krantikari-kalam waali bai’ ("a feminist"-I got called that when I debated for women rights)
But its high time this attitude changes, we as women need to speak out, as the need for discussion on women’s rights exists because the partiality exists and we need to face it head on.
India's daughter’s was made by a non-Indian woman, because we fail to talk about this issue, and for record I am on the side which opposes this documentary, not because of the content but because of the intent. I also oppose the scared government who banned it. I just wish such an issue was handled a bit more respectfully. And yes, I don’t agree with Javed Akhtar when he says that such films will highlight the issue. How will a film shown to foreign audiences change Indian mentality? (And that’s where I oppose the ban). Also, how will showing the closed mentality of some so-called educated lawyers, make us change ours? The film got made because we Indians lack the courage to touch something so recent in fear of scratching recent wounds, because we believe time heals everything and we don’t talk about such things ever.
I met an European once on a trip to India, and I asked him, how do you like it? His reply was, “Its dirty” What this film does is tell the world about our culture from a restricted point of view. Its like taking all the BBC audience to an Elephant with their eyes shut!
It gives a skewed view to the outside world about India, and I am under no denial here, we do need to bring about a reform in Indian society. I also disagree with the director when she says, the film was made to highlight how all Indians got together to protest against it. Because, the only message that gets through is that such an horrific incident occurred not the subsequent protests.
My stand here is debatable, because I am standing on thin ice balancing real facts, nation pride, the need for reform. But somehow I am convinced that the real solution does not exist in making films for foreign audiences garnering support of Meryl Streep, Frida Pinto, Hillary Clinton etc; but exists in bringing out a change within. Lets face it, Slumdog MIllionaire did not remove slums from India, a foreign director made a film, earned money, made a certain age defying actor a Hollywood celebrity, but over the years things did not change. So will they not change after “India's daughters” and with years to come we will remain the same. Unless…
Unless, we SPEAK UP, learn to not change the topic, learn to assert our rights, learn to not keep mum when closed minds berate women. So that next time we make a film, it would showcase the vibrant India, that respects women, which you just have to love.
 

Whom do I want to be?

This piece was also published here:

http://www.womensweb.in/2015/01/dont-deny-chocolate-please/

Let me start by declaring that according to my weight my height should be around 6' but I am not 6', I am a normal 5' 3" and I have spent most of my adult life wishing to be taller or more importantly slimmer.  I have also spent most of my teenage life dreaming of a 6' partner,  but that's another story for another day :-)
This story is about me and how since globalisation I woke up every single day feeling I am fat which by the way I am;  there's no denial here. 
Can I blame my body image on globalisation? 
Maybe I can, maybe I should blame it on bollywood, maybe on every single issue of Cosmopolitan.
But I choose to blame it on sedentary lifestyle,  my genes, hypothyroidism,  PCOD etc. I have my excuses ready. 

But my acceptance and my excuses do not make bollywood go scott free. Now I  am going to use some names.
I recently got a meme forwarded on watsapp of Sonakshi Sinha with the tag " Gayi Bhains Paani Mein". I laughed a lot (hypocrisy, I know). When she appeared in her first movie,  I had said, "Wow, what great personality". Slowly she started getting ridiculed for her weight,Ditto Vidya Balan.
Somehow I feel Hollywood is more forgiving than bollywood when it comes to weight,  of course Caucasians have a  different genetic makeup, but Kate Winslet,  Renee Zellweger, Queen Latifa all are praised for their talents.
I totally do admire Chandra Wilson from Greys Anatomy,  her personality is so powerful that one does not notice her weight.  Wonder when bollywood will be that open minded.
What amazes me is the section of society that dictates the very narrow range of body measurements in which every celebrity should fit and by extension every woman is forced into. And so we struggle,  go on crash diets, do yoga, gym, spin classes, zumba, mumba or whatever latest fad it is. Why, I still wonder?

And then there's sexist attitude of society,  men are not subjected to the same stringent standards as women. So we kept liking the cute and adorable R Madhvan and we still do. 
I remember when my overweight male relative asked me at my sister's wedding what my plans were to reduce weight! My response was, " Same as yours". (This when I was in healthy BMI range and he surely had pot belly, which he somehow felt a tight Tee will press)

Then there was this other older relative who very nicely told me to reduce weight if I had to get married,
My response- Your son is overweight too!
His response- "Ladkon ka chaltaa hai"
(I am out of emoticons for my response)

I do understand that only people who care will say such things for your own good. But please convince me this way-

1. Tell me how being overweight puts me at a higher risk of heart diseases and diabetes.
2. Tell me how my knees will be dead by the time I am 40.
3. Tell me to be fit for myself not because I have to get married.

Fitness is a drug and I discovered this few years back when I joined an awesome gym and became addicted to running.  Back then I ran 7 km on a treadmill every alternate day without my lungs giving out. The other days I swam about 25 laps of a 50m pool.
And with all the right happy hormones ( endomorphins I guess) I was a happy person. I never threw tantrums, didnt get depressed if I had to pick the L clothing in a mall of certain brands when M didnt fit. Coz I had a positive body image.

And then life happened, so I gave up, slowly my height criteria started getting bigger,  I needed to get a bit more taller for my weight and buying high heels wasn't helping either.
But let me tell you thats perfectly normal, we are humans not robots and some days something else is going to take priority over being totally dedicated to your bodies and on such days you have to realise that the extra kgs is not the only thing that defines you. It is important for sure, TO BE FIT NOT SLIM.
but there are other things that are a better definition to you- your talents, your relationships,  your hobbies.
Point is- I have struggled a decade to come at peace with myself,  to strut in a room full of people without being conscious of my weight, to believe that my personality is what defines me and not my weight.
I do come across the narrow section, I mentioned earlier who feel its okay to make fun of my weight and I let them do that without being offended,  hell, I sometimes joke with them about me- my fav being , " I am very slim below my knees" ( coz I know I have killer calf muscles) But when such people go overboard, I can point blank tell them, "Lets run and see who stops first, the day you beat me at that,  you can make fun of me, till then, shut the f*** up"
because let me tell you another of my observation- Fit people dont judge you, such jokes are generally by slim people who remain slim by denying themselves the pleasures of life and then take that frustration out on you!
My sister and my best friend are the slimmest people I know, both blessed with an awesome metabolism and both have never ever made fun of me.

Bottomline- It sure is important to be fit, but not torture yourself to look like a runaway model coz face it, most of them are anorexics. It is also more important to value the people in your life and see people for their talents not weight. No one ever noticed how much sushma swaraj weighs, coz what matters is how much her words weigh! Be like that.

OTOH, here's a conversation I had with my husband-

Me: Have I like become too fat?
Him: No, you're like you were before the baby.
Me: Will you love me if I become too too fat.
Him: Yes obviously ( He's lying, I know)
Me: No,  idiot! you will let me know I am letting myself go and that I should do something about it!
Him: oh, that's allowed, is it?
Me: Of course, if not you who will tell me?
Him: Okay!
(Winking and taking away my chocolate bar from my hand)
So, yup I have started running again!

We all are MAD here

During engineering we inherently learn to rely more on the logical side of the brain than the creative one and we learn to measure everything.

Length in meters.
Mass in kilo grams.
Heat in calories.

SI unit, Imperial units,  everything with a  definition. Everything explainable.

But there are certain things which cannot be measured,
Like Love (Cheesy), Pain, Hatred, Madness.
It is all relative.
If I ask my partner,  How much do you love me? And since having a baby, I do ask him that a lot, blaming it on hormones, but somehow in a day spent in nappies and feeding schedules, I keep needing the validation. The answer, if I get any is always the same and its always unmeasurable.  You just have to feel it. But it can be measured in grade point system-
If after my lappy goes kaput, I ask for a new one and I get it the very next day-A
If after my lappy goes kaput, I get new one without asking- A++
If I keep on asking and the answer is soon- B
If I keep asking and the counter question is, Do you really need one now? Its F.
My point is love here is measured on Demand vs Supply curve. If my demands are met, I have a wonderful partner, if not,  my partner has a demanding wife!!
That's how it works.

Lets talk about hatred, Can you really measure how much you hate someone?
And does "not loving" equalise hatred?
If I say I hate Poonam Pandey, does that even make sense? She doesn't affect me on a daily basis. So indifference should be the word. I am indifferent to her.
Hatred is such a strong emotion,  stronger than love,  and hence should be used sparingly. But it isn't measurable either. Comparatively, yes. 

Pain is relative too. What pained more, Root canal or Labour?  For me, both were spaced apart by some years hence the direct comparison scale was lost or foggy.
Root canal was followed by ice cream
Labour by my sweet Lil kid, so by that logic, relatively labour was less painful than root canal irrespective of the fact that root canal went for measurable 1.5 hours and labour was 12 hours.

Next is madness,  how do you decide how mad someone is?
The WHO has guidelines to classify mental disorders. The severity is also classified- measurable.
So anxiety,  depression,  post natal depression, OCD, phobias all are in one category.
Bipolar disorder,  schizoid , mania in another.
Schizophrenia,  ADHD in other.
And treatments are decided based on the severity.  So the psych decides if someone is able to move in society or needs medication and consultation.
But there are two sides to this classification.
In India,  psych consult for something like depression,  post natal depression  even bipolar disorder is taboo.  We have a strong family system and everyone from our aunt to cousin is a professional psychiatrist. So it is frowned upon. 

Why would one spend money on consulting when your mom is gonna tell you the same thing? 

And I defy this logic,  sometimes help is needed and at the right time. An educated,  modern , logical mind says- mental illness should be taken seriously and treated the same way as physical.

But then my Indian mind remembers my favourite character from "Alice in wonder land"; the CHESHIRE CAT. And the way it announces,  " We all are mad here".
I have a tee with that quote and I am really fighting myself to get that tattoo. How silly is that?  (Again immeasurable)

I know it sends the wrong message,  but we are all mad to certain degree,  relatively,  so why bother as long as you are in control and have a strong support system.
I also am reminded of a short story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez where in a spirited young girl takes a lift on highway from a mental institution bus which is transporting inhabitants and ends up being mistaken as one of them. Her partner comes to visit her and believes that something is indeed wrong with her.  It's perspective,  and like the cat said we all are mad here!
Irrespective of the taboo,  the fear, madness should be taken seriously. If anything makes you feel less than capable of being normal ( again immeasurable) help should be seeked. And if you feel you have a coping system, be it shopping ( what you can afford), running,  writing crappy blog posts, you are fine.
Bottom line- Life is not measurable and nothing is simple like the engineering units. everything comes with a pinch of salt. What we do know is life is finite and demands a unit system that simplifies things, that makes you get up in the morning with a smile and sleep without nightmares.  Not that you can do it everyday,  sometimes sh*t happens, but you deal with it, and measure it against the good days and as long as the balance is in the favour of good days- you're fine. 
Still don't feel fine- Remind yourself,  "we all are MAD here"

Is romance dead?

Remember the time we swooned over SRK dialogues. He always got the most romantic dialogues.

Remember his monologue in veer-zaara?

Remember the way he looked at Manisha Koirala in Dil se?

Remember him saying "agar Ganga ki iffazat karna Pyaar hai, toh hai"

Remember how as teen agers,  the idea of perfect romance was someone,  somewhere, who would say the perfect things,  look at you the same way.

That was all a decade back.

Today, remember the moment we read some one expressing their feelings on Facebook and cringe?

What happened between then and now to turn us into such cynics?

The thought entered by mind as I got a recent article published and cringed at the editor's change of the title.  I literally hid my face and tagged a few less people on Facebook as I felt it was too cheesy.

And then I remembered the mushroom-cut Tomboy of a decade back who daydreamed of the perfect man,  blushed at every word SRK uttered, listened to Enrique, watched Notting Hill, When Harry met Sally,  Serendipity endless times.

And we played a game, wherein the next song on radio was what our crush thought about us.  It was a way to please ourselves.  (cheesy I know)

I refuse to believe that this is what growing up is.  Being practical isn't being cynical. Somewhere the innocence is lost,  but the idea remains.  Makes me question is romance really dead?

Agreed that being romantic doesn't necessarily mean being vocal about our feelings. That actions speak louder than words.  That not every relationship can be as intense as Heathcliff-Catherine romance in Wuthering Heights.( wish it could)
we live in an age of over-sharing where posting on FB  has replaced the private talks we shared with our best friends.
Where clicking that "in a relationship" button on FB is equivalent to commitment.  But does this not also mean that we should replace the word cheesy with sweet.  Maybe it's ok to express your love on FB.  Let the whole friend list know how you feel about your partner. It really is okay. All judgements aside. ( all this coming from a person: Me; whose partner is not even on FB)

What I mean is,  agreed that actions speak louder ( I already said that! ) so while on a personal level you feel the love in the cup of tea your partner makes for you every Sunday morning (not forgetting to put the cream of milk in the tea, coz he knows you like it), remembering to order your burger without onions each single time,  singing "kaho na kaho" with all the Arabic lyrics for you while alone in car.
Once in a while you also need the intensity,  the public display of affection, the right words said by the right person and doing that without calling it cheesy!
So next time someone does that,  please say sweet, coz it is sweet, it takes courage to wear your heart on your sleeve.  And hearing cute, lovey- dovey stuff really brings one closer and keeps us young. SRK maybe old,  the idea isn't!
so here's to keeping romance alive-
-Say what you feel! 
-write poetry for your partner.
-tell him/her how important he/she is ( on a social site may be or just sms)
- take a bottle of wine home with a dozen red roses.
- better still cook dinner together.
- rent your favourite romantic movie together (for guys)
or sit through star wars with your partner(for gals)

point is- do something to keep it alive.

Letting go

It started with Greys Anatomy. I got addicted to watching the tenth season airing on Zee Cafe. I had already seen some episodes from earlier seasons but didn't have a clear idea of the story line.
With too much of free time on my hands, the next step was buying the boxed sets of earlier seasons. So now I am on season 3.

And I know there were some characters that were killed, New characters added and season 10 just has half the cast of the earlier seasons. But the point is its still running. It's still interesting. At some point someone decided that the plot needs to be savoured. Maybe they discussed the possibility of ending it against giving it another shot. And maybe giving another shot worked with all the changes.

Well, Friends ran a decent 10 seasons without being boring. To be honest "How I met your mother" was dead in first few seasons but they pulled till 9. But it died a slow death, it lacked the finesse of Friends.

Another series I have been following since long is "Supernatural" after catching a glimpse of it while switching channels on AXN. Just a glance at Jensen Ackles and I was hooked. Apart from a super hot cast combination of Jensen, Jared and Jeffrey Dean Morgan, what it had was a strong storyline. I mean the whole Michael Vs Lucifer track was awesome. But guess that ended in season 5 and since then it's dragging, and frankly I never quite enjoyed watching it since. They do come up with sporadic good episodes, but it's done with. I don't know why none of the producers see it and end it decently. Why is there this stubbornness to reach the season 10 by just relying on pretty faces?

And that got me thinking about life and relationships, when do you decide if a relationship is worth saving or giving up on? Or in case you decide to drag it, does it deserve the slow death of HIMYM.
And who calls the shots of bringing about some changes to bring it back on track like Grey's anatomy, or let it drag and become boring like supernatural, just relying on pretty faces to see it through or in this case some aspect of relationship.

I know the comparison is bizarre. But it's not that incomparable too. You put your blood and sweat in making a television series, it's teamwork. The same holds true for relationships. You make a mistake in a series which your audience doesn't accept, you retreat and correct yourself. And wait, for acceptance. The idea is to milk the cow dry, till one of your writers say, I'm done. That should be the stopping point. The whole struggle is to give up before the audience gives up on you. Before your TRPs die, so that you go out with your head held high.

Relationships work the same way, you make a mistake, you retreat and try to savour the situation or wait till one of you gives up. The whole point is in knowing when to give up. When to let go. And letting go is the most difficult part. Sometimes you can work past the mistakes and still reach season 10 without it being a drag, or sometimes you just let go with dignity and move on. And when you do move on, it's a one way road, there's no looking back.

Reminds me of an old poem-

"Taarruf rog ho jaaye to usko bhoolnaa behtar

Talluk bojh ban jaaye to usko todnaa achchha

Voh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumkin 

Use ek khoobsoorat mod dekar chhodna achchha"

So here's a question applicable to all relationships, 


Are you Friends and by default perfect.
Are you HIMYM, heading for a disaster
Are you Supernatural, pretty on outside but boring.
Or Are you Grey's anatomy, ready to reinvent yourself ?

Pregnancy and Beyond

This piece was also published here:

http://www.womensweb.in/2014/11/effects-of-pregnancy/


Motherhood changes you. And it isn't an overnight change but rather a frog -boiling-to-death(not the right analogy, I guess) kinda change which you only notice when you're on the other side of the bridge- a totally different person altogether. 
For me, however, the changes were in spurts. 
First to go was my appetite, something I initially blamed on bad batch of faasos chicken rolls. What I realised later was that the little girl inside me had decided that she was a vegetarian like her father, so there I was a true bred punjabi, a purely non-veg girl puking at the smell of chicken!!! And that also meant no more weekend trips to Hard Rock Cafe for the chicken burger, and tea just meant tea not the Long Island one! And mind you, that has to remain for more than an year.

Everyone tells you how great the whole experience of giving birth to a child is; no one tells you what all you lose.

Next to go were my favourite pair of heels. That's right! I was wearing flats! Shoes I won't even be caught dead in. And now here I am an year later with exactly 15 pair of shoes that don't fit! No one bothered to tell me that even after having a child, your feet or for that matter you won't suddenly go back to your earlier size. It would again be a slow painful process. So that leaves me with shoes I keep trying every week, hoping to fit in some day. Oh and yes the same is applicable to finger rings.

I am not supposed to talk about this or even feel a tiny bit of remorse as I have to act motherly and take peace in the miracle of life I created. And say profound things like how its all worth it in the end. And I do say it with the right amount of emoting. Maybe I will get there, once my hormones settle down, which by the way are yet another set of things that don't go back to normal very soon. And when they start going astray, you cannot even guess what all can happen to you, right from pigmentation to dry,itchy,flaky skin. You end up hating yourself and doubting if you ever will have the infamous radiant skin. 

The hormones also play with your emotions, so till they get back to normal, I am going to be snappy and thankfully , being in India I have an understanding, supportive family.
That's one side of the story, a materialistic girl trying to cope with loss of her things. 
Other Side is the ambitious girl who is suddenly on maternity leave with too much free time on her hand. Again, the advice is to cherish these moments, my Lil baby will only be this age once, so my heart should be swelling with pride over her every mile stone, how the first smile and first giggle should make me cry and make me feel how it is all worth it in the end. I did cry at her first attempt to talk to me. And my daughter is a Lil chatterbox who likes singing with me as I sing lullabies for her. And I love it. 
But there are 24 hours in a day, and one tends to reminiscence over the carefree old days especially at night when the clock says 1 am and your little bundle of joy refuses to sleep anyway. So you remember the time when u voluntarily stayed awake at night reading, chatting, watching movies, doing projects. When stress meant force/area, not the kind you feel when your Lil one sneezes twice in a row.

What I am trying to say is, no one prepares you for the reality that is having a child. The pregnancy books are full of advices and anecdotes of perfect women who were well just born to give birth. Maybe few years down the line I would pretend to be one of those women, but for now I want to be real. 
And in real world, all the confusions, sadness, coping with changes holds, and you live with it. Try to live past each day as it comes, hoping to reach the other end a saner person. And your only ray of hope is the cute little girl you created, whom you decided to bring in the world and whom you love unconditionally and irrevocably in spite of the fact that she is an exact replica of your mother-in-law and every woman knows that speaks volumes for the kind of love you feel.