importance of being me

Of Betrayal, Revenge, and the Rise of the Amazons!

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Tue, 13 Oct 2026 11:36:59 +0530

After a wonderful vacation, coming home and picking up the reins of daily life can be quite unsettling. The mind, which had been happily occupied with new sights, sounds, and experiences, suddenly finds itself back in familiar surroundings. And mine, for one, seems to have developed a mind of its own! It questions everyone, everything, and almost every action.

I confess I am an escapist. Whenever life becomes overwhelming, I retreat into my little world of games and fiction. These offer me a parallel universe where nothing depends on me, where I am not answerable for anyone’s actions, and where the complications of real life can be safely kept at arm’s length. It is a comforting place to be, even if only for a while.

And then there is social media.

I find myself scrolling aimlessly through Instagram and Facebook, where an endless stream of short stories competes for my attention. Some are delightful little romances, full of tender moments and adorable children. Others, however, leave me rather unsettled.

These stories usually revolve around women. Women with cheating husbands. Women suddenly thrown out of the cocoon of security they had taken for granted. Women trapped in relationships with controlling men from whom they must eventually escape.

The plots may differ in their details, but the endings are remarkably similar.

The woman suffers. She struggles to rebuild her life. She discovers her inner strength, becomes astonishingly successful, and eventually returns to confront the husband, boyfriend, fiancé, or mother-in-law who wronged her. The wrongdoers are suitably humiliated, while the heroine emerges triumphant, independent, and vindicated.

And just when the story appears to have ended, a series of short, pithy sentences follows, dispensing wisdom about love, togetherness, family values, mutual respect, and the importance of giving one another freedom.

One almost feels that these little stories are less interested in telling us what happened than in instructing us on how we ought to live!

I often wonder why these stories keep appearing in my feed.

Is it because of algorithms? Most probably. I may have clicked on one such story out of curiosity, and the ever-watchful AI has concluded that I am particularly partial to tales of betrayal, revenge, and female triumph. Having made this discovery, it obligingly serves me more of the same.

But here is what puzzles me.

If I have read so many tender love stories, why does my feed not overflow with those instead? Why does a sweet story about two people falling in love, or a heartwarming tale about a child, seem to have less staying power than a story about a cheating husband and a woman who rises from the ashes to show him what he has lost?

Perhaps these stories are simply more engaging. Perhaps outrage, indignation, and the promise of revenge keep us hooked longer than quiet happiness does. Or perhaps stories of betrayal and injustice are so plentiful that the algorithm has an inexhaustible supply to draw upon.

Whatever the reason, I find myself wondering whether the world really is as grim as my social media feed would have me believe.

After all, there is no smoke without fire—or so the saying goes. If so many stories revolve around unhappy marriages, controlling husbands, abandoned women, and broken families, does that mean these are the realities of modern relationships? Are women perpetually the victims, forever having to fight their way towards their rights, their happiness, and their freedom?

Or am I simply being shown a distorted picture of the world?

One question leads to another.

Women bear children, but does that make childcare their sole responsibility? Many of these stories feature unwed mothers abandoned by the men who fathered their children, left to manage the emotional, physical, and financial burdens of parenthood alone.

Why should this be so?

We live in an age when women are increasingly educated, economically independent, and capable of making their own choices. They can earn a living, support families, build businesses, and carve out lives on their own terms. Yet the stories suggest that many continue to endure harassment, violence, and controlling behaviour, sometimes for years.

Why do they put up with it? Is it fear, financial dependence, concern for their children, social conditioning, or the hope that things will eventually improve? Perhaps it is a combination of several things.

It would be unfair to assume that leaving an unhappy or abusive relationship is always as simple as packing a suitcase and walking away. Real life is rarely as accommodating as fiction, and the road to independence may be far more complicated than a few triumphant paragraphs suggest.

Yet I cannot help wondering why the burden of keeping a relationship together so often appears to fall on the woman, while the burden of rebuilding a life after its breakdown also seems to be hers.

Is this genuinely how relationships work, or is it simply the narrative these stories prefer to tell?

What intrigues me even more is the response these stories receive.

I sometimes read the comments, and they are often filled with women passionately condemning the male or occasionally female character responsible for the protagonist’s misery. Many readers appear convinced that the stories are true, or at least representative of what happens behind closed doors.

The accompanying message is often that we never really know what goes on inside a home. A smiling couple may be concealing a deeply troubled relationship. A seemingly respectable man may be a tyrant in private.

Of course, this is possible. Appearances can deceive, and suffering is not always visible to outsiders.

But does the possibility of hidden unhappiness mean that we should begin to suspect every apparently happy relationship?

I find myself asking another question: Are most men controlling, selfish, and wicked?

My own experience does not quite support this conclusion.

Among my friends and acquaintances, I have come across many men who are caring, responsible, and considerate. Some enjoy making jokes at their partners’ expense, but then, I have seen women do the same. A little teasing, when it is affectionate and mutual, need not be a sign of disrespect.

Of course, my circle of acquaintances is hardly a representative sample of society. I cannot claim that my experience tells the whole story, any more than a collection of social media posts can.

But surely there is room for a more balanced view.

There are men who hurt women, just as there are women who hurt men. There are people who manipulate, dominate, and exploit others, and there are people who devote themselves to making their partners feel safe, valued, and loved.

Why must we allow the worst examples of human behaviour to define an entire gender?

And while we are at it, why do we so readily assume that women are always the emotionally stronger sex? Physical strength may differ on average between men and women, but emotional resilience, courage, kindness, and the ability to endure hardship are not the exclusive possessions of either.

Human beings are considerably more complicated than the labels we attach to them.

There is, however, something about the changing attitudes of younger women that I find both interesting and encouraging.

The women of the new generation seem far more willing to express their opinions; question established conventions and pursue their ambitions. They are creative, outspoken, and increasingly unwilling to accept the idea that marriage or motherhood must define their entire existence.

They want choices. They want respect. They want the freedom to decide what sort of life they wish to lead.

And why shouldn't they?

For generations, women have been expected to compromise, adjust, accommodate, and preserve relationships, sometimes at considerable personal cost. The desire to break free from these expectations is hardly surprising.

But I sometimes wonder whether, in rejecting the old rules, we are in danger of creating an entirely new set of assumptions.

Does being independent mean that a woman must prove she can do without a man? Must every story of female empowerment end with the heroine triumphantly demonstrating that she never needed her partner in the first place?

Surely, independence should mean having the freedom to choose, not being obliged to choose a particular way of life. A woman should be able to live happily on her own if that is what she wants. Equally, she should be able to enjoy a loving relationship without being regarded as any less independent. There is no shame in wanting companionship, just as there is no shame in choosing solitude.

The real achievement lies in having the freedom to make that choice without fear, coercion, or social pressure. And surely, a world in which women are empowered need not be one in which men are diminished.

And here is where my already restless mind begins to wander into rather more fanciful territory.

If women continue to become more independent, more assertive, and less willing to tolerate behaviour they find unacceptable, what will the future look like?

Will men eventually find themselves relegated to the sidelines? Will women decide that they are better off without them? Will the Amazons return to rule the world?

And, in a rather more absurd leap of imagination, will we one day have to worry about male infanticide?

The questions sound ridiculous when put together like this, and perhaps they are. But they arise from a genuine curiosity about the direction in which our ideas about relationships, gender, and family life are moving.

For centuries, women have had to fight for rights and freedoms that men often took for granted. Correcting that imbalance is both necessary and desirable. But equality is not a seesaw on which one gender must rise only for the other to fall.

A world in which women have greater freedom need not be a world in which men have less dignity. A society that values women's voices need not silence men's. And a future in which women are no longer compelled to depend on men need not be one in which companionship between them becomes obsolete.

Surely, the ideal is not a world ruled by women or one dominated by men, but a world in which neither needs to rule the other.

Perhaps I am taking these little stories far too seriously.

They are, after all, stories, written to entertain, provoke, and keep us scrolling. Some may be inspired by real experiences, others may be entirely fictional. Their popularity cannot tell us how common such situations are, and their neatly packaged endings cannot capture the messy, complicated reality of human relationships.

Yet, when we encounter the same themes repeatedly, it is difficult not to wonder whether they reflect something larger about the society we live in.

Social media offers us a peculiar window into the world. It allows us to witness experiences beyond our own, but it also presents us with a carefully selected stream of material designed to hold our attention. The more we see of something, the more familiar it becomes. And the more familiar it becomes, the easier it is to mistake it for the norm.

Perhaps the danger lies not in reading these stories, but in forgetting that they are only a small, selected part of a much larger picture.

There are unhappy marriages, certainly. There is cruelty, betrayal, and injustice. There are women who struggle alone and men who fail those they love. But there are also happy marriages, enduring friendships, responsible fathers, devoted husbands, loving mothers, and couples who navigate life's difficulties together without needing an audience or a dramatic final confrontation.

Their stories may not go viral. They may not generate thousands of indignant comments. They may not end with a triumphant heroine delivering a devastating speech to a remorseful ex-husband.

But they exist all the same, perhaps they deserve a little more space in our imagination.

As for me, I think I shall return to my fictional worlds for a while. At least there, I can choose my adventures, close the book when things become too distressing, and retreat into a game when the going gets tough.

Real life, unfortunately, does not come with a pause button.

Still, I shall probably return to Instagram and Facebook tomorrow, where another tale of betrayal, revenge, and triumphant female emancipation will doubtless be waiting for me.

And my mind will, no doubt, start questioning everything all over again.

For now, all I can do is laugh at myself, and at my wonderfully addlepated mind, where questions jump about and frolic, and where even a harmless scroll through social media can turn into an existential inquiry into the future of humankind!

Love Beyond Comfort

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Sun, 29 Mar 2026 12:20:38 +0530

These days I am going through a romantic phase in my reading list. The trials and tribulations of the aggressive, feminist, docile, downtrodden, rich, or poor heroines as the case may be, is keeping me enthralled. I know you must be thinking that I am too old for romance but here I am old and romantic in this bitter war filled world psyche. A world where marriage seems to be on the way out (it has been like that for decades now; but I suppose, slow and steady wins the race!)

Of course, google keeps track of my interest and so I am bombarded on all fronts (specially on Instagram) by reels which are romantic. I have these eye candy English heroes who read love poetry, romantic letters, and dialogues in their baritone voices. I also have young couple who have just got into a relationship, just got married or are in the process of enlarging their family (some of them have four children already!) I do wonder how it would feel to have your whole day filmed and put up for public consumption. There is one young lady who is having her fourth child, she is in throes of labour but is being made up for a pre-birth photo shoot!

What Google insists on filling up my feeds is inter racial couples (I must have clicked on one of them sometime!) So, I have interesting couples- ‘Indian-Italian,’ ‘Indian-European,’ ‘Korean-Indian,’ ‘Chinese-Indian,’ ‘German-Jew,’ ‘French-American’… the list is endless. But let me assure you it is educative and interesting. I not only learn about all the different cultural differences, but I also learn about their commonalities.

I recently heard from a young man (not directly but via a conversation) that we should stick to our own culture while getting married. His argument was that if you love a girl who does not belong to your community you should not go ahead in the relationship. It is eminently possible to find the same qualities in a girl of your own community. Do you really love someone for their qualities?

According to him this and only this is a win-win situation. The reasons he gave forth was interesting- you do not have to change your faith, this in turn will lead you to be comfortable in your relationship, this in turn will lead to less confrontation and this will lead to an ease of co-existence.

I was so disappointed! Is marriage or having a relationship all about co-existence? Is love all about being comfortable? Granted I am not very experienced in such matters, but I know all about romance (theoretically!) Romance is not for the faint hearted. It is all about going against the grain. It is, I believe, “live and let live.” Wouldn’t a relationship be boring if each of the partners agreed with the other. Whether it was their faith or their behaviour in question.

There is a very uncomfortable trend that I am noticing these days where couples who have been married for more than twenty five to thirty years are going in for divorce. As one of them said, “There was nothing more in our relationship, we had squeezed it dry. The excitement was missing and so we decided to live our own lives.” There is nothing wrong or right in this but throwing away a bond where you have invested so many resources (emotion, time, feelings, and passion) seems pointless.

Going back “to be comfortable” I realise that if there is no discomfort there is no growth. If the Neanderthals had not interbred with Homo sapiens sixty thousand years ago, we would not be the intelligent and exciting race we have become. As far as I am aware, medical advisory about marriage is, we should not marry into the same genetic pool as some of our negative traits get amplified. In India we are not supposed to marry into the same “gotra” (system of identifying one’s patrilineal ancestry, tracing descent back to a common ancient Rishi. It serves as a lineage marker for, marriage, and rituals, where individuals with the same gotra are considered siblings and generally prohibited from intermarrying)

I thus appreciate the inter cultural relationships. They not only expand our horizon, but they also enlarge our gene pools (in case of offspring). They make the world anti-insular, humans more broad minded. The racist mind set is in danger of becoming extinct and the world will move slowly towards peace but not boring peace. A peace hopefully filled with the right amount of discord and pain to enhance growth spurts.

In the end, perhaps love is neither about comfort nor constant upheaval, but about the willingness to be changed. To choose another person not because they mirror us perfectly, but because they expand us, sometimes gently, sometimes painfully. A relationship that demands nothing eventually offers nothing; one that challenges us, unsettles us, and yet holds us, is the one that leaves a lasting imprint.

To love across differences of culture, belief, or temperament is not the easier path, but it is often the more enriching one. It resists insularity, questions inherited boundaries, and keeps alive the possibility that human connection can evolve beyond what we have been taught to accept.

If there is to be peace, let it not be the quiet of sameness, but the vibrant, imperfect harmony of differences that have learned not just to coexist, but to grow together.

The Perfect Half-Boiled Egg

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Wed, 18 Mar 2026 12:24:39 +0530

For all my growing-up years, breakfast meant the same three things: bread, eggs, and milk. It was non-negotiable. An egg each morning was a ritual my father followed unfailingly, and continues to follow even now, nearing ninety.

I, however, never shared his enthusiasm. Poached eggs were far too gooey. Omelettes were worse, filled with offensively large chunks of onion. My mother, determined to get some protein into me, settled on the only remaining option: the boiled egg. I ate it with deep reluctance, so much so that if she was distracted, I would quietly slip it into the dustbin.

Years later, after raising two children and a husband (who comes from an egg-loving family) I have made my peace with eggs. Not entirely, but enough. Poached eggs remain a firm no. But scrambled eggs, cooked my way, vegetables chopped into near invisibility, fried until crisp, with a dash of soy, are something I genuinely enjoy. Omelettes are acceptable too, provided nothing inside them announces its presence. And boiled eggs? They are my fallback when I don’t feel like cooking.

My father, on the other hand, comes from a generation where men stayed out of the kitchen. Their culinary authority came not from experience, but from comparison, “My mother made it best.” But he always liked to think of himself as different. Naturally talkative, he gathered recipes and techniques from anyone willing to share, storing them carefully and building elaborate theories around them.

Over the years, he has explained to us (often in great detail) how easy it is to make rasgullas, how simple it is to make cottage cheese, how perfectly one can prepare sugar syrup. During his time in Malaysia, living with housemates after retirement, he even claimed to have made parathas from scratch. His repertoire is vast: roast chicken, baingan bharta, fish roasted over a campfire you’ve caught yourself. As children, we believed him unquestioningly. As adults, we began to understand that his knowledge is impeccable, but entirely theoretical. I realized that he is a theoretical physicist! The ingredients are right but following the method is dicey.

These days, life has slowed him down. A fractured leg, age, fading hearing; all have made him dependent in ways he never was before. He lives with my sister, who ensures he gets enough protein through the day. The highlight of his evening is still his egg.

But not just any egg.

For years, his breakfast egg was fried just so, the white crisp, the yolk soft and gelatinous. Hard-boiled eggs, therefore, are unacceptable. What he wants is a perfectly half-boiled egg.

Since he can no longer make it himself, he instructs the cook.

“The water must be boiling before you put the egg in.”

She nods, already thinking about how much milk she can spare for her tea.

“Boil it for exactly seven minutes.”

Another nod. Whether she owns a watch is doubtful, though she does have a mobile phone.

“Then take it out, put it in cold water, peel it, and bring it with salt and pepper.”

By now, she has left the room.

In the kitchen, she fills a pan with water, drops the egg in before it even warms up, and lets it boil for as long as it takes her to prepare her tea. The result is inevitable: a hard, grey, overcooked egg.

My father is disappointed. The yolk is no longer soft, it is solid, lifeless. He repeats his instructions the next day, and the day after that. Sometimes the cook changes, and the process begins again. But so far, the perfect half-boiled egg has remained elusive.

It must be frustrating that the person you are instructing lets all the sound bytes slip in and out of her ears without retaining even a miniscule amount of it. But the as we grow older and infirm we do get dependent on someone for something. It is less frustrating if we were to accept the imperfect world and its imperfect activities rather than whipping ourselves to try and reach a perfect destination

Perhaps the perfect egg is no longer the point.

Perhaps, in the end, it is about accepting the imperfect ones—the overboiled, unyielding eggs of an imperfect world—and learning, gently, to live with them.

Honemoon, Selfie and Everafter

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Sun, 8 Feb 2026 21:09:00 +0530

She stood on her tiptoes, turning her profile just so, lips pursed close to her new husband’s cheek. Her hair flowed freely in the soft zephyr over the calm ocean. A short, bright-yellow chiffon frock swirled around her well-proportioned figure. Her husband with ubiquitous knee-length shorts, tight T-shirt chosen clearly to show off his rippling muscles, stood a little stiffly until she prodded him to relax. Unobtrusively, she pulled his hand around her waist and lifted one leg in the universal pose of romance.

Are you wondering whether I have changed my genre from crime and ghosts to romance?

We were married thirty-six years ago, when public displays of affection were present but not common. I don’t think we had an official honeymoon either (though living alone in Mysore is a honeymoon in itself). We began taking “second honeymoons” only after our twenty-fifth anniversary and have continued for the last eleven years, as if to compensate for all those busy, non-celebratory anniversaries before.

As the years pass, I find myself shedding inhibitions like a strip-tease dancer. We make it a point to travel, and lately we’ve been indulging in cruises. My wardrobe has grown less stilted and far more energetic. (The knees may protest on long walks, but I insist on walking shoes that match my dress.)

The opening scene, however, was not us. It was a young couple we met on our most recent trip to Phuket via a cruise. We took a boat from the mainland to an island in the Straits of Malacca. It was a warm December day, and the boat held an eclectic mix: two honeymooning couples, two families of four, an elderly mother with a sulky youngish daughter, two athletic young men and us, the second (or rather, the twelfth!) honeymooners.

The journey took an hour and a half, filled with snacking, drinking, and indulging in every possible photo opportunity.

As is the wont of older people, I observed everyone and provided a running commentary to my long-suffering “lord and master” (who pretends to hate gossip). Being in a romantic frame of mind (it was our anniversary trip) I focused on the honeymooners and decided to write a mental thesis on them.

The first couple were openly, exuberantly in love. They tripped over each other trying to get the perfect pictures and enlisted every passenger at some point to help. We complied indulgently and happily. They were the very essence of newlyweds: gazing into each other’s eyes, holding hands, hugging whenever possible. The groom fetched cold drinks and snacks; the bride smiled, pouted, teased. Their affection was open and refreshing.

The second couple was different.

They too posed for photographs, but here it was the groom who took charge, perhaps too much so. He behaved like an excited boy, leaping at every beautiful sight, clicking away enthusiastically, though not at his wife. Instead, his lens focused on distant mountains, forests, and waterfalls.

The bride, like me, noticed the other couple. Unlike me, she was clearly put out. She tried repeatedly to divert her husband’s attention from the scenery toward herself. She succeeded briefly: he allowed a few posed photographs. But once the duty was done, he returned to the helm, DSLR in hand, absorbed in photographing the non-animate world.

I noticed this. So did she.

In her inexperience, she sulked and snapped at her bewildered new husband. She looked disgruntled, cast occasional glances at the other couple, and appeared ready to snap off her groom’s head as he obligingly photographed them.

We eventually reached the island, swam in the calm, unruffled sea, and frolicked like children let out of school.

The first couple splashed, cavorted, and romped in the shallow water against the golden beach, clearly having the time of their lives. The second bride sat at the water’s edge, letting gentle waves tickle her toes, while her untamed partner gambolled in the sea, camera held high above his head, still clicking away.

A couple of days later, we saw the second couple again, this time getting out of a cab. She wrestled with a large suitcase, yelling, “Come fast or we’ll miss the flight!” He paid no attention, peering instead through his DSLR at a hedge in bloom, clicking away happily.

I sometimes wonder which of these marriages will survive.

In these days of Instagram marriages and TikTok divorces, I’ve become cynical. The overtly romantic couple lived as though life were a movie—but would that film endure the long run? The impatient bride and her shutter-happy husband already seemed to have lost the first sheen of romance. Would he grow into her expectations? Would she learn to share his gaze?

Then again, why get married at all, if not for photo ops, petty tiffs, sulks—and the inevitable making up?

Dare to traverse!

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Sat, 11 Oct 2025 19:03:00 +0530

There I was again staring at a blank word document. A few months back I had my book published. It took me more than two years, a humongous amount of angst and doubt interspaced with self-introspection, misgiving and distrust and the final moment of uncertainty. I refused to touch the pen (metaphorically speaking!) for the next couple of months. I felt my vocabulary had withered and died or had got lost somewhere along the way.

The doctor in the family decided that she had to push me off the diving board otherwise I would forget how to swim. So I was tempted with some crazy platform where I had to draft a poem every day for twenty-one days. Other than the haikus that I write for my Instagram posts I haven’t authored a serious poem in the last twenty years so it was a challenge.

Starting something creative is thrilling, a spark of inspiration, a blank page, an idea that feels alive in your mind. But finishing it? That’s where the real art begins.

I went, switched on my computer, opened a word document, and looked at it blankly. Nothing came to my mind! I opened a folder of my old poems and went through them, searching for inspiration, nothing happened (they were so different that I wasn’t able to believe that I had written them!) I then just jabbered on the keyboard and the Eureka moment came upon me!

The fight that my mind, body and soul were having at that moment, turned into a constructive argument and my first poem was born “Arguments.” I celebrated the potent new animation that infused into me and I was excited! Could I do this? I wondered.

The next twenty-one days were a rollercoaster ride. There were the highs and lows of creativity. The words flowed in incessant chatter, their noise clamoring for space in my restless mind. “It was more of a fight between the mind and soul though body put its tentative touch hither and thither! The mind, arrogant and impetuous refused to bow before the sanity and calmness of the soul, hence the continual battles in this whole collection.

At its core, creativity is the ability to connect seemingly unrelated ideas and form something new. It’s not about “being original” all the time, but about remixing, rethinking, and reimagining what already exists. Think of creativity as a muscle, the more you use it, the stronger it gets.

Every creator faces moments of frustration, the dreaded “blank page” or “empty mind.” The key isn’t to wait for inspiration, but to start anyway.

Am I a creator? I think each one of us is. Creation is not limited to writing, painting, stitching, or sculpturing. I believe each of us at every moment of our lives are creating something. Whether this is meant for us personally or to be shared amongst friends or with the whole world is your personal choice.

It could be as mundane as planning how to spring clean or could be a deep creative urge to make a vase, it could be the simple task like arranging flowers or making a decision of what to wear. Each of us have our own unique way of exhibiting our artistry. It is when and how we indulge in it that is important.

We often celebrate beginnings, the fresh energy of a new project. Yet, completion demands something quieter but equally powerful: discipline, patience, and the courage to decide it’s done.

Creativity isn’t a straight line. It’s a loop of doubt and discovery. Halfway through, we second-guess everything, the colours feel off, the story drags, the song doesn’t sound how it did in our heads. That’s normal. Every artist hits that wall where excitement fades and persistence takes over.

To complete something creative is to practice trust, trust in your vision, in the process, and in your ability to bring something imperfect but real into the world. Perfection is the enemy of completion. Art lives when it’s shared, not when it’s endlessly tweaked.

Creativity is not a rare talent; it’s a human instinct. Whether you’re designing, cooking, writing, or simply finding new ways to solve old problems, you are creating. The world doesn’t need more perfection; it needs more imagination.

So finish it. Write the last line. Add the final brushstroke. Export the track. The act of completion is itself a creative victory, a declaration that you’ve made something new exist.

It is no longer avant-garde to float around on unfinished stories leaving enticing tendrils of knowledge for the reader to act on, now is the time to be decisive and firm.

“I am a creator, look at me, learn from me, and appreciate the beauty of my creation!

Because the world doesn’t need more ideas trapped in notebooks; it needs creators who finish.

Because the world doesn’t need more unfinished dreams, it needs creators who dare to complete.

When the world exhales

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Thu, 9 Oct 2025 12:28:00 +0530

There is that time between midnight and three in the morning when the world exhales. The wind hushes. The moon holds its breath. And if you listen closely enough, you might hear it, the whisper of something ancient, something forbidden. The shadows become darker and bigger and your imagination takes you for a ride.

The tiny forays into the dark portal of the anti-god beckons you with muted sounds and curling tendrils of mist. I have been in this dimension many a times in my life. In my earlier write ups I have categorically stated that I believe in Ghosts. They do exist for I have had many an encounter with them.

I believe that Ghosts are always in the state of limbo, neither here nor there and they (most of them) are not wicked. I have yet to meet an evil one like the ones we see in movies. The ones who try to destroy you. Most of them have been forgotten souls who are lost in the abyss of chaos and do not have the energy to pull themselves out of it.

They say every spell begins with a whisper, a sound too soft to be heard, but too heavy to be ignored. It seeps through candle smoke, slips between shadows, and coils around the listener’s heart like a serpent waiting to strike. Those who hear it never forget. This is the voice of black magic.

I have heard about black magic for years; I have heard the aunts whisper about it and shut up the moment I come into the room. I feel I have felt it too but other than the typical signs of suddenly finding various artifacts related to black magic, I cannot honestly say that I have any proof of it.

Every culture has its version: the witch in the forest, the priest who defies heaven, the scholar who reads one page too far. Each of them, in their own way, becomes a keeper of dangerous knowledge.

I have toyed with my desire to explore this dark world, not exactly for power but rather how to mitigate this force. But there are no temples for black magic, no holy texts to recite. It hides where light falters, in the cracks of forgotten libraries, in the corners of dreams that end too suddenly. It calls not to the pious or the pure, but to the curious, the desperate, and the broken.

Those who answer the call never mean to. It begins innocently, a question whispered to the dark, a candle lit for comfort. But the dark always answers, and never for free.

Black magic is not chaos for its own sake. It is hunger given form. It promises not peace, but power, the power to unmake what fate has written.

I have heard so many stories about this taboo subject, about mothers who control their sons, about wives who wield power over their husbands, about men who worship in the graveyards for monetary gains, about politicians who touch the feet of sadhus who practice this and so on. But like the veil, the actual deed or the actual fulfilment is undulating, misty and flimsy.

But each society has means to fight the curse. That unexplained illness, a spate of bad luck (appliances breaking down; favourite dress being burnt; just twisting of an ankle on a flat road!) all these cannot be just explained away by logic and science. Thus we have the black eye removal ritual (it differs from place to place). But when our puny and tentative efforts cease to help us what do we do? Then the mind searches for ways and means to fight. We start believing in different pujas (very ironical for puja is positive, how can it fight the negative?)

Every tale of black magic ends the same way, with a price paid in silence. Some lose their minds, others their names. A few simply vanish, their absence explained away as madness or myth. Because power, once tasted, refuses to be forgotten. It lingers in the air like smoke from a candle long extinguished. And sometimes, on the coldest nights, that smoke curls back through the cracks of the world, searching for a new breath to claim.

They say light is truth, but that is a lie. Light blinds. It burns away the subtle shades where meaning hides. Only in the dark do we see things as they are, raw, unguarded, alive.

The irony of black magic is that it reflects us, perfectly. Its rituals, whether imagined or real, are mirrors for our most human urges: fear, curiosity, vengeance, love. The flame may burn black, but its light shows us our truest selves.

So when we speak of black magic, perhaps we are not speaking of darkness at all but of depth. Of how far we are willing to go to find meaning in the unknown.

Black magic is not evil. It is simply honest. It whispers what the world tries to silence. But honesty, when spoken in the language of shadows, can tear the soul apart.

Black magic is not an invitation to summon what sleeps beneath. It’s a story about power, mystery, and the price of seeking too much. The wise only listen at the door; the foolish try to open it.

Which one are you?

So when you hear the whisper, the one that sounds almost like your own voice, remember this:
Every door can be opened.
But not every door should be.

Closet Confessions

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Mon, 6 Oct 2025 18:55:00 +0530

Its that time of the year folks! When it is time to rummage through your collection of clothes and decide what to keep and what to throw. To pick out the five sensible dresses that can be worn to function coming up!

Twenty years ago it wasn’t much of a problem. I always ran out of clothes specially during the post August time of the year. All the functions (parties and festivals) came after that. They were followed by innumerable weddings (both friends and family). We were busy till the end of March, after that the summer heat took over and before we could take a breath of relief of the monsoon, one was back again buying sorting matching jewelry and clothes!

I have officially gone into the old age league (not in my mind but according to my passport!). I have stopped wearing uncomfortable clothes (this means sarees, tight blouses, fitting dresses, jeans, and anything similar) I waft about the house in short frocks (loose and comfortable); blaming the rains I continue to indulge in frocks and shorts (so very pleasant!) when I go shopping or visiting. I ignore the looks given by the younger generations at my attire (I have reached the pinnacle of “don’t care” attitude.)

Once upon a time (not a fairy tale!) I used to be fastidious about what I wore at home or to parties or any social gathering. I had different stack of clothes, stay-at-home, stay-at-home-but-could-be- going-out, full-day-out-excursion, relative-visiting, peer-group- meeting, older-friend’s-hangouts and so on and so forth.

At present, the largest pile is stay at home! A small one for shopping, an even smaller one for visiting, a miniscule one for entertaining visitors and one or two for festivals.

I was always an introvert. I never shone socially. The parties in my twenties, thirties, and forties, which I indulged in because we had to be hosts, were busy seeing that everyone else was enjoying and everything was going smoothly. So food, music, and pushing people onto the dance floor was my duty. My part of entertaining myself were the drinks and starters (I still do indulge in these, even when I am alone!)

Now I am at an age when the children of our friends are getting married so wedding invitations are piling up. We need to decide which to attend and which not to.

What is the problem then? You may well ask. I have enough clothes (sarees) and jewelry to last several lives. well, first thing is, I am out of date with what the people at weddings are wearing. I am assuming the safest bet is wearing sarees (not exactly the most fashionable) I made up my mind some time ago not to buy any more sarees (they were really going over board with the prices!) jewelry is fine (You can at least resell them)

Most people in our “now friends” list have not seen me in sarees, so that’s a blessing! The quandary is, I know my sarees! I am trying a new thing now. The fashion for blouses have changed, there I am on a spree of making chic blouses for my old sarees and hope to get away with them.

The greatest obstacle is to choose five sarees out of a hundred (at least!) that are appropriate to the occasion. The trend of having an almost a week of celebration for a wedding has not died down. There is a poker night, a cocktail night, the Haldi day, a mehendi, a reception by the girl’s side, a reception by the boy’s side, the wedding itself and I am sure you can add some more out of your own experience.

The poser continues as one has to choose accessories. The jewelry, the handbag, the sandals et al.

The most fatal of all conundrums is whether I should stick to a saree or go western (just to shock) or maybe wear a sexy lehenga or the newfangled Shararas and Ghararas.

The riddle remains. I have a month and a half to sort all this out and may God help me!

My days of parties may be over but once in a while life throws me a poser which is difficult to handle and I hope the multiple choice that I am faced with has an option of ‘none of the above’!

Blasting the walls of truth

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Sat, 4 Oct 2025 12:09:00 +0530

“Cover your head when you enter the temple!’” or “Go touch your grandmother’s feet!” or “Don’t slouch!” the list is endless. It really was irksome as a teenager. The list of dos were as long as the list of don’ts! Unfortunately, I belonged to a generation of non-rebellious teenagers (there were exceptions!) so I normally did try to tick of the list of dos, though honestly I did not tick off many items on the don’ts list.

I am sure (Though I was unaware) My children went through that phase and were heavily irritated with me. I don’t know what it is that makes young adults (especially young adults who are new parents!) think that they are here to rule the world. Both the young and the old must listen to their views and tirades.

I distinctly remember thinking that children must obey parents (forgetting that I was once that disgruntled child!) I also recall chiding my mother for mispronouncing words or making it a point to correct my father about some item in the news or his perspective about a certain subject.

It began sometime when I turned twenty and this state of affairs continued all through my thirties and early forties. Then suddenly something clicked in my psyche, and I became an adult adult!

Doubts started creeping in as to the veracity of my perceptions. Is truth the most important thing? Is a lie not another aspect of truth? Where does the gray world triumph? Is black and white the absolute authenticity? Are the lines drawn by society the only way to survive?

Truth is important, for it exists and lie is a creative outlet of our desires maybe another facet of truth. But is it every human being’s responsibility to reinforce their ideals? Is it really necessary to hurt someone while trying to do so (believe me you are doing that when you try and correct someone’s perception!) does it matter how we pronounce ‘potato’? (…. a rose by any other name…)

If you look at nature broadly there are no black or white, there is colour everywhere and even the shadows are gray. Love and hate are there but so is like, admiration, intolerance and mild detest. We do tend to forget the mild emotion which are there like undercurrents in a deep river and focus on the eddies of love and hate which are only on the surface. They are short lived and transient; weak and ineffective; slow and ineffectual. I realized then that the passion that drove me to rectify the world was actually a zealous desire to shout out “Hey! I am right and the rest of you are wrong! It is best that you accept this, or I will ride rough shod over you and crush you and your ideas to a pulp!”

When civilization was born, it was obviously an effort by mankind to separate us from animals. Rules were made, lines were drawn, and we congratulated ourselves that we were superior beings and thus must live under control. Our mind must be the master and bodies, and emotion must be subservient. Passions and desire must be muzzled and leashed and only what looked right must be allowed to surface and every other aspect must be thrust deep into the pit of inequity and kept there for eternity.

Yet, the more I think about it, the more I realize that civilization did not erase our instincts; it merely taught us how to disguise them. We continue to be driven by pride, envy, love, and fear, but now they are clothed in etiquette, in ritual, in the language of “ought to” and “should.” What once was a raw growl has become a polite disagreement, but the energy behind it is the same. Perhaps that is why we spend so much of our lives policing one another with lists of dos and don’ts, because it reassures us that we are “civilized,” that we are in control, when in truth we are only arranging the furniture on a restless sea.

And yet, there is beauty in this struggle. Rules, rituals, and corrections are not only burdens; they are also bridges. “Touch your grandmother’s feet” is more than a command, it is an invitation to connect with the generations before us. “Don’t slouch” may sound like criticism, but it is also a reminder that the body reflects the mind, that presence matters. Even my own exasperating need to correct my parents was, in its own way, a clumsy attempt at connection, I wanted to be heard, to matter, to prove I had a place in the world.

Now, when I watch my children bristle at my advice—or when I catch myself biting back the urge to lecture, I smile. I know the cycle continues. Each generation learns the hard way that truth is less about winning arguments and more about living with kindness in the grey spaces. Black and white make for neat lines, but it is in the shades between that relationships survive, that love softens pride, and that wisdom grows.

Maybe that is what it means to finally become an “adult adult”, to stop seeking victory in every exchange and to begin seeking harmony. To recognize that sometimes the greatest truth is not in speaking, but in listening.

“Dinner? Again? We Just Ate Yesterday!”

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Tue, 30 Sep 2025 18:53:00 +0530

Have I ever talked about one more bete noir of mine before? I have a feeling that I have hidden this aspect of my life in shrouds and I do not like to unearth this side of my psyche unless forced to!

I have been told that the best way to treat delusional trauma is to speak about it with your psychoanalyst. And since I live in India, where going to a psychiatrist is considered more scandalous than coming out of the cupboard, I’m appointing you all, yes, the whole world as my psychoanalyst. Consider this my therapy session.

For the last thirty-five years I wake up planning the days menu. That is three full meals and snacks as and when required. There have been breaks (I have to confess!) when we have been on holidays (though I still have to decide what to eat) when I have been ill and when we go out on our frequent meal hunting episodes during the week, but mostly it’s been me, my kitchen, and the menu.

The most difficult part is the menu of course specially when the children were young. If one wanted rice the other would like roti, if one wanted Italian the other would want Spanish and so on and so forth. Now we are just the two of us. You would think that life is a cake walk in the paradise of eating, unfortunately our inner desires which had been strictly under check through our growing up years has broken through all the locks, all barriers have been broken down and we do not hesitate to speak aloud our thoughts!

I have no problems with breakfast; I have a varied menu to choose from; I am an expert at the dishes that we both like; I do not even have to plan for it. I can whip up a mouthwatering breakfast any day.

Lunch is the tricky part. For thirty years I have had to fend for myself for lunch. The brats had tiffin, lord and master also had tiffin or ate at work café. So I either fasted (If I was trying to lose weight!) or made myself a sandwich. Now with Work from home I need to plan an elaborate meal (means other that rice and dal at least three different items). I do cheat a lot – when I am in a cooking frenzy I cook more than required and spread it over the week or rehash old stuff to look like new!

Dinner of course is something I would love to obliterate from the world! I always run out of ideas here (Unless we are going out) I would be quite happy to settle for soup and pasta or a baked casserole. Unfortunately, I have a hungry partner who wants a full four course meal even after a seven-course lunch and there again I am at the grind stone!

Some people find cooking therapeutic, the slow chopping of onions, the simmering of masalas, the gentle bubbling of something wholesome on the stove. Me? I find it exhausting.

Before you even touch a pan, you need to decide what to eat. That alone can feel like a full-time job. Scrolling through recipes, trying to balance nutrition, budget, and what’s actually in the fridge, it’s draining.

Thirty minutes to prep, forty minutes to cook, ten minutes to clean up. That’s nearly an hour and a half for something I’ll eat in 12 minutes. Is it worth it? I could be doing something better (scrolling reels, playing games, or gossiping on WhatsApp!)

One pot turns into three. There’s chopping boards, knives, plates, and somehow, a mysterious sticky patch on the counter that wasn’t there before. This part of cooking is something I do like so I am not complaining!

I think I was born a sous-chef: happy to hover, clean, and assist, but allergic to being the one in charge. Once in a while the partner (now a days anyone you cohabit with is a called a partner not husband, boyfriend or lord and master!) loves to cook. He has almost given up on me trying to cook mutton the way he likes it, so he cooks it (takes about three hours and the kitchen turns into a battlefield, I am not complaining!) I enjoy it a lot.

Somebody presented me with a fridge magnet as shown in the picture. My Niece who was a little girl that time looked at it with interest and then read it out and spoke aloud, “This means you never cook!”

There’s so much guilt attached to not wanting to cook, like it makes you lazy, irresponsible, or less “adult.” But here’s the truth: food is about nourishment, not performance. If you hate cooking, that doesn’t mean you’re failing at life. It just means you value your time and energy differently.

Some people garden. Some people knit. Some people make pasta from scratch. I don’t. And that’s okay.

Shifting Horizons: The Generational Dilemma

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 19:21:00 +0530

Growing up in the seventies and eighties in India felt remarkably similar no matter which state you came from or which language you spoke. Middle-class children across the country were raised with a shared set of values: discipline, respect for elders, and a firm belief in the power of education. Childhood meant simple pleasure, playing in the streets with friends, sharing meals with neighbours, and celebrating festivals with unrestrained joy.

Summer holidays were sacred pilgrimages to our grandparents’ homes. Mornings began with a glass of milk and a dose of advice: “Read the newspaper every day; it will improve your language and thought process,” our grandfathers would say. (I agree with them now, but back then I only wanted to rush off to play or sneak in a comic book—which, incidentally, was frowned upon.) Grandmothers would try to teach us cooking by explaining our favourite recipes, perhaps hoping we’d absorb their culinary wisdom.

Looking back, the gender bias is obvious. Girls were asked to speak softly, sit properly, and argue less. Not having a brother made me louder and more assertive in school, as if I had to defend myself. Yet, in the company of elders, I became the picture of obedience, eyes downcast, mind wandering into my stories.

Our news came from newspapers and the grapevine of telephone calls and tea parties. We were passive recipients, overhearing scandals and successes rather than actively scrolling for them.

Today, I marvel at how much has changed. Millennials, Gen Z, and now Gen Alpha live in an entirely different ecosystem. Letter writing is nearly extinct. Phone calls are rare. Newspaper reading? Almost gone. Communication now thrives through apps, messaging, shopping, gaming, meetings, each transforming language itself. “You” becomes “U,” “you’re” becoming “u’r.” As the younger generations say, “Not a big deal.” Perhaps they’re right.

News too has transformed. People get updates from apps or from irresistible reels crafted by professionals or simply by anyone with a smartphone. The fourth estate is no longer a single institution but millions of citizen journalists, each with their own lens. Yet this democratization is also dangerous, fake images, AI-generated videos, and political propaganda swirl together, convincing enough to deceive the untrained eye. Truth feels negotiable, and democracy can slip into the tyranny of a single narrative.

the truth is being twisted to suit the news. The fourth Estate has by and large been so corrupted that we have to stop believing our eyes and ears.

And yet, even in this fragmented digital landscape, we find comfort. In a world of remote work, fewer neighbours, and fading festivals, reels and short videos tell warm stories of resilience, mental health, and shared struggles. Strangers online can feel like kindred spirits.

The world—technical, economic, and social—is vastly different from what it was forty years ago. But human creativity persists. We adapt, innovate, and find meaning. So here’s a cheer for Gen Z and beyond. If I’m reborn as part of Gen F, I hope to witness an even more stupendous and brave new world.

A Letter of Romance

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Thu, 25 Sep 2025 12:38:00 +0530

Dearest Darling,

It has been a tough week without you! I have so wanted to run and gather you in my arms that both my heart and stomach hurts. The golden-brown crispiness that you personify is like the sirens of the Greek mythology, I cannot but drift and be embroiled in your coils.

The soft opening and closing of the doors, the surreptitious glances and the tenterhooks of deep desire, the ecstatic joy and the final fulfilment. I really miss them.

How long can I keep up this yearning under wraps? How much longer need I catfoot around the obvious? How may I skirt the main issue of being faithful?

I know you are there waiting for me. All I need to do is unveil the truth of my heart. But I am a coward in both aspects of my double life. “To be or not to be” is the question, that hammers in my skull exactly at eleven a.m. and four p.m.

I need you. I am desperate. I will give myself a couple of days more then it has to be either here or there.

Will I give you up or continue to be in a clandestine relationship is what the next forty-eight hours will unveil to my psyche. I will be brave enough to take the bull by the horns and follow my destiny. Only You can help me ….

Yours forever

Whatever Happens.

I have written similar letters in my mind many times. Have I ever sent them anywhere? No I haven’t! Not because I am a prude (as my family calls me!) but the recipient is uneducated, illiterate and has no brains whatsoever. How would the receiver then understand the poignancy of the yearning and desire that besets me?

It’s not that you’re grand or glamorous. You’re small, quick, secretive, a crust here, a lick there, a bite of cheese while “just checking” if it’s still good. You thrive in the shadows between real meals, and somehow you convince me you’re invisible. “We don’t count,” you whisper, like a guilty crush. And I believe you.

When I’m waiting for the microwave to ding, you’re there. When I’m staring blankly into the fridge, hoping for answers to life’s problems, you’re there. You’re my little stolen moments, my snack confessions, my delicious denials. You’re not an indulgence, you’re research.

By now you would have guessed the ‘lover’ in my hidden life.

Oh, Half a Cookie, you’re so selfless. You break in two just so I can convince myself I’ve only eaten “part” of you. Sweet Broken Chips at the bottom of the bag, you don’t count because you’re “basically seasoning”

You’ve been my co-conspirator, my secret ally, my tiny rebellions against portion control. I know the scale knows about you. I know my jeans know about you. But still, when the clock hits 11 a.m. and I’m standing in front of the snack cupboard like it’s an oracle, you’re there — a crumb, a bite, a spoonful of comfort.

Will I then be able to fight the inevitable and squash this desire into shapeless crumbs? The forty-eight hours will soon pass and as I stand against the tide, the sea salt in my crisp will awash my determination and the sands beneath my feet will give way to your dominant personality and I shall be Scarlette to your Rhett. All my resilience and strength will be “Gone with the wind”.

So here’s to you, my invisible indulgence. We both know you count. We just won’t say it out loud. “And so, until tomorrow, my beloved crumbs, I remain yours — secretly but irrevocably.”

A new battle!

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Wed, 24 Sep 2025 16:35:00 +0530

Those who follow my blogs will know that one of my bete noires is the Pigeon! I will not go into the distant history of my various battles which began when I was a teenager but has begun in the last four years.

In our new apartment, we have sizable balcony (I believe they call it ‘the deck’ nowadays). A lover of plants, I have filled the perimeter with potted plants. In the monsoon they grow so well that it looks as if you are sitting in a mini forest. Not satisfied with this I have added lights and fountains and small Knick knacks which according to me enhances the whole atmosphere.

We spend our mornings and evenings and sometimes late night in this august space. We live on the thirty sixth floor which faces cloud and mist clad mountains so you can understand our obsession. In fact the children have named it “The Rapunzel Tower”. If I can help it, I do not leave it for days on end. I am self-sufficient! (though my hair is neither as beautiful or long or strong as Rapunzel!)

So the snake in my ‘Garden of Eden’ (I know I am mixing metaphors!) is the Pigeon. When we first moved in, we left our French windows wide open. The pigeons took this as an invitation to move in but lacked the IQ to figure out how to leave. Cue pandemonium: fluttering wings, frantic cooing, me switching off ceiling fans in terror of accidental pigeon homicide.

After multiple concussions (theirs, not mine), I was reduced to calling the guards to remove stunned intruders while they laughed at my cowardice. Eventually, I thought the Pigeon News Press (PNP) had published a warning about our flat being a trap, because the invasions ceased.

I exhaled too soon.

We had been gifted a lovely, large, faux stone, waterfall which was a little too large for the main living room so with my brilliant mind I put it on ‘the deck’. The rains had stopped and the sun was now burning down shamelessly, the little stream that passed by our apartment was becoming dry.

Then started the “Return of the grey force” … they came in twos, sat on the balcony rail strutted around, did a lot of cooing and fluttering. I ignored them, they were after all outside, I reasoned to myself. So I let my guard slip and the next moment one of them hopped on to the back of the sofa I had been sitting on and then another step on to the waterfall bowl and drinking away to glory. He was followed by his partner and there ensued a battle royale and my lovely clean space was filled with poop and feathers!

Thus began third world war and has lasted for the last three years and I have a feeling it will be called ‘the hundred years war’ (If I survive that is!)

First, we moved the waterfall to another location, did not work. Then we placed the head of a pharaoh with head gear and snake on the top most bowl, it did work for a couple of days but one of the young fearless ones flew and toppled it! End of episode two. Then we camouflaged it with real live plants, did not work. Draped it with artificial leaves, did not work. Put lights over it, did not work.

The only deterrent was to put off the waterfall during the day, but then that was not conducive to peace and harmony, so back to shooing and making noise whenever they dared to cross ‘The Laxman Rekha.’

We of course were given a lot of advice- “put those pokey things around the waterfall,” “keep a recording of loud noise”, “put a scarecrow figure”- believe me we tried everything. I remember scouring Amazon for anti-pigeon machines and even tried some sonic repellent. Then the ultimate advise “just take it off from the balcony, all your problems are solved.”

But this is like throwing down my arms and waving the white flag of surrender! Could I be so cowardly as that? How dare these birds even dream of defeating me? So I vowed to continue my war. There is ‘win some lose some battles’ but I will let these birds drink the dirty water from my waterfall over my dead body! It is now a ‘do or die’ and a continual MOP (Military Operational Plan) is being created second by second.

The last ammunition is a string of flashing lights fitted onto a revolving wall mounted side fan falling over the waterfall continuously and has lasted for four days!

There are of course the couple who come over to do a recon once in a while but no bird has come into my arena! God willing this battle is mine!

Minimalistic aspirations!

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Tue, 23 Sep 2025 16:50:00 +0530

I have shifted homes more than a dozen times during my very long tenure on planet Earth. Of course I have no recollection of my earlier lives or my existence on other planets. Anyway half of the shifting I did before I got married and the other half continues to this day.

When I was a child and we moved. There were no ‘Movers n Packers’ so my father and I packed up each of our possessions (My mother stuck to her personal belongings and kitchen, and my sister was somehow not there when we were moving!). The possessions I recall, included the tube lights and bulbs, air conditioners and air coolers, books and magazines, showpieces and photographs, in short everything. I was in charge of the packing of small things (Not Furniture) and it was my responsibility to see that each packed item (we used old newspapers, towels and dresses and saris to be thrown) was carefully fitted into the wooden crates lined with hay and straw. It would be inspected by Dad and then nailed shut.

My mother was a hoarder. She loved buying stuff that were new in the market and then used maybe once and stored (Ovens, juicers, grills, barbecues, biryani makers, rice cookers, induction heaters et al) during each of these shifting there was the eternal arguments of what should be kept and what should be thrown. Every time my mother agreed that somethings needed to be left out but when we unpacked in the new place they would all be there!

When I started my adult life I did the other half of my moving. We did have packers by then so neither I nor the rest of my family needed to pack anything but we did need to sort things out. I too, like my mother, am a hoarder but not exactly like her. I began by hoarding used gift-wrapping papers (sometimes I did use them), I also kept shoe boxes (to store some unwanted things u know!), then there were magazines, letters, visiting cards (of plumbers and electricians!) and before the arrival of the cell phone I hoarded telephone books with their numerous cuts and numbers! Pens which did not work, pencils which were blunt, paints which were almost dry and I am sure you can add a lot of things that you do and I might respond with “I did that too”.

But this was the time when I did weed out my wardrobe. I did this so that I could, without guilt, refurbish it in the new place. This did not include the heavy saris which were my wedding trousseau, they were well packed (having never been opened after they came from dry cleaning after they were worn once!) so it was not a great deal of trouble. I of course used my judgement to weed out the kid’s wardrobe. I failed in this aspect of my ‘lord n master’ wardrobe as he had his own ideas about what should be thrown off!

When we last shifted to the current abode, I had been ruthless in throwing away clothes, papers, books, utensils and even things like ribbons and artificial jewellery. At first settling down in the new house was heavenly. Every storage space was meticulously planned out and only things that had any usefulness in them were kept and I even made a kind of excel sheet to catalogue my belongings (though it tapered off after sometime!)

Then one by one the crisis happened. We needed old towels for random cleaning and so were the requirements of old bedsheets. The tool box filled with feviquick had been unfortunately thrown off. Those extra wood planks had been inadvertently left behind! Those mismatched tea cups had been thrown off (so useful when you have the whole house filled with painters and electricians and plumbers needing cups of tea at regular intervals!). The old paint brushes though too hard to paint were great for cleaning the sliding window channels. The list is endless….

So started my various Amazon deliveries to fill in the holes of unnecessary items. My ‘minimalistic’ ideas went out of the window.

Now after four years I have come a full circle and every other day is filled with “to keep or not to” as I wade into cupboard after cupboard listing, cutting, throwing and rehashing stereotypes.

I look longingly at new dinner sets, cooking sets, furniture, curtains and thingamabobs, for I cannot buy a new one if I have four sets languishing for use in the unlabelled cupboards.

Now I need to get away from the house into someplace there is nothing to buy, every once in a while. Do you think this malady is curable after all it is a genetic disability and it is NOT MY FAULT!

Balcony reflections!

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Fri, 19 Sep 2025 19:20:00 +0530

“Woof, woof!” followed by short growls and enhanced by loud barks…

I had just made my cup of tea. It was six o’clock in the evening as I strolled out onto the balcony. It was a lovely sunny yet chilly day in Birmingham. It really was a pleasure looking at the greenery and the quiet canal that passed by my daughter’s apartment where I was spending a couple of weeks.

The Condominium was normally a very quiet place during the day and even the evenings were occasionally spotted with short bursts of conversation that punctuated the stillness of the starry skies.

So, this extremely raucous sound made me nosey and find out what was happening. What I saw was hilarious! Two brown Pomeranian were having the time of their lives! They rolled on the lawn, on top of each other, bit each other, barked, growled, and went round and round like a pair of tornadoes!

While they indulged themselves in this game play they tangled up their leads held by their owners. The laughter and happiness that ensued from the untangling was filled with joy and I smiled involuntarily.

Before I go any further in my musings let me tell you that I am not a dog lover. I don’t mind them, but I would not like to spend my life or time with them. In fact, the brat of the family (who loves them by the way) has been after us to keep a dog at home to fill in the empty nest but till date I have stood firm.

In England , I have noticed that most families have some kind of pet, could be a dog, a cat, or a feathered friend. In fact, I realize that most young people even in India are going into this form of indulgence (and the not so young too!) but as I have mentioned earlier I have no feelings on this relationship status!

So, to continue with my narrative the two owners (I shall call them dog fathers) both looked as if they were in their early thirties were chatting and enjoying the dramatics as the two dogs went in and out and tangled them as well as themselves. In fact, I wondered how they did not fall! I was now watching their antics unashamedly.

After about half an hour of this the group was joined by the doggy mummies. Both of them paid no attention to the drama but stood around talking to each other while the daddies did the untangling and poop cleaning. The sun was still high in the sky (It being British summer time) and after sometime they dispersed.

Years ago, when my children were very young. We mothers used to take them to the park to play. While the children played, we gossiped and spent the time of the day without paying attention to what mischief the children were up to. The fathers were busy at work, so they were not around.

But the equation is the same now. Now in the days of 'Work from home' the fathers are also around, and mothers too work from home. Even with all the gender equality being forced down our throats I still see the strict demarcation of chores based on genders. Not surprising that the ‘mummies’ want a break and do not take interest in the dogs while the ‘daddies’ have to shoulder the responsibilities of the ‘children’ in the outside world.

As I grow older, I see a serious shift in social norms. Couples prefer to have dogs rather than children. I suppose it is understandable. They give unconditional love, eat whatever they are given, do not have to go to school, there is no teenage angst and million other advantages.

There is no right or wrong in this trend, but it is a serious movement towards not wanting to be responsible (I am not stating that it is irresponsible) for another human life. What will this ultimately lead to?

I believe that most Japanese power couple take a conscious decision not to have children and have been doing so for more than a decade. The result of this is the average age of Japan is about 46 years, this in twenty years will lead to a population which will have very few young people to continue the world. Is this what we are looking at worldwide?

Is this where education is leading us? To a world full of autumnal people? Is there still time to rectify our errors? Why cannot the young people be parents both to their own children and the dogs? Is life all about having the “time of our lives”?

I believe that we are at the crossroads of evolution. Whether we walk through the unknown “deep dark woods” or “the golden utopia” is a major topic for discussion. I understand that it is good to have pets but to let them be replacement for children is a mistake which we will never understand now but will be apparent in thirty years .

I’m not condemning anyone. Pets bring solace, companionship and structure to lives lived in small apartments and busy cities. But as I sat on that balcony, watching two pampered Pomeranians whirl beneath me, I wondered whether we’re trading playgrounds for dog parks, children for pets and what that choice will mean thirty years from now.

Perhaps our balconies will always overlook green spaces. The question is who will be running across them: our grandchildren, or our dogs.

Haiko Orbituary

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Fri, 4 Jul 2025 19:14:00 +0530

In Loving Memory of Haiko Supermarket

Powai, Mumbai

It all began in 2014, when our family moved from Bandra to Powai. With the last child having flown the nest, there were no more school schedules to anchor us, and Powai with its cleaner air, more space, and promise of quieter living seemed like the right next chapter. Still, I missed Bandra deeply. The street shopping, my trusted beauty parlour, and the familiar chaos were hard to leave behind.

Then I stumbled upon Haiko.

Tucked away in Powai’s Hiranandani Gardens, Haiko wasn't flashy. Compared to the Big Bazaars and D’Mart of the world, it almost seemed unassuming. But slowly, steadily, it won me over. With its cleanly packed vegetables, hard-to-find international snacks, elegant cosmetic section, and fresh inventory, it became not just a supermarket, but a space of comfort, familiarity, and joy.

What began as a once-a-month trip turned into weekly pilgrimages. Sometimes, I’d make up shopping lists or pretend I’d forgotten an item just for another visit. My favourite time was late morning on weekdays; the aisles were quiet, the produce was being freshly stocked, and the sample counters generously offered little bites of discovery. I relished talking to the staff, who came to recognize my face and my preferences. Haiko was never just about groceries, it was about the experience.

Family debates about its prices compared to D’Mart were frequent (D’ Mart was closer to our house!). But I stood my ground, Haiko was about quality, not quantity. It became one of my most cherished routines throughout our years in Powai.

Even after we moved again, seeking more greenery, fewer crowds, and a slower pace, I was bribed through monthly visits to Powai. I’d return to my beautician, to Eden, and always, always, to Haiko. It remained my constant. A link to a chapter of life that I wasn’t quite ready to conclude.

Until, one day, it closed.

On a casual visit, with no shopping list or plan, I stood dazed in front of shuttered glass doors. Redevelopment, they said. It felt surreal. The place that had once echoed with the rustle of shopping bags and polite greetings had gone silent. The rest of the day passed in a haze of disbelief.

I know change is inevitable. I’ve embraced many shifts in life with quiet resilience, moving homes and cities with the grace of an urban gypsy. But this loss felt personal. Haiko had become a part of my identity.

Rest in peace, dear Haiko. You were more than just a supermarket. You were a sanctuary. May you be reborn somewhere near, so I can once again lose myself in your aisles.

Emergency Experience

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 17:19:00 +0530

“Doctor, I have left the cannula on his hands even though we were discharged yesterday,” said a very aggressive voice.

“Hmm”

“Actually both of us have spent more than a week in your hospital and we were discharged yesterday and our doctor told us that he has to get two antibiotic injection via IV today that is why I left the cannula. That will I hope reduce the cost?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” a very polite voice seemed to agree.

“Our doctor also told us that the only cost that we have to bear, is the drip set cost, no other charges will be expected of us,” the aggressive voice said in clipped tones.

“Sir I would request you to talk with reception regarding the cost before we start any procedure,” The Emergency Room Doctor suddenly had come alive.

“Could you not do that?” a very irritated voice asked.

“No sir,” the polite voice continued, “We just log in whatever has been done, we do not do the billing.”

I could not see the people who were having this conversation. I was locked inside a very narrow bed (I am not joking when I say locked! There were bars on two sides of the bed which could be let down by the nurse. I could not remove them myself!). Anyway I was attached to an Intra-venous drip on one hand with a weird something around my finger (supposedly to track my vitals) and on the other hand was a band on my upper arm to check my blood pressure. I was (as all of you must have realised in the Emergency room of a big hospital). There was a curtain all around me so I could not see anyone, but I could hear everything!

Being bored (I could not even use my phone) I listened to whatever was happening on the other side of the curtain.

There had been a pause in the conversation (presumably the aggressive gentleman had gone to the reception)

Some muttering started…

“Arre Dinkar could have given me this at home!” an older male voice said.

“Why Dinkar, even Aaryan can do it! The cannula is already there all he has to is fix the lead,” said the all-knowing aggressive gentleman.

“Sorry Sir, I just spoke to Dr._____ and he said he had not said that no charges would be taken as you mentioned. The ER charges will have to be taken along with the IV set and other things,” a soft feminine voice said firmly.

“You mean that I have to pay twice the bill if I need to come in the evening for the second dose?!,” the aggressiveness was back in full force.

“Yes sir,” said the apologetic feminine voice.

I really don’t know whether the pair of them left and had Dinkar/Aryan do the needful or they did take one dose in the next bed. For I seem to have fallen asleep for an hour or so while the medicine went drop by drop into my poor molested veins!

The loud machine beeps woke me up to see that the bottle was empty, and no one was coming to check on me! So I rang the loud call bell, and a wee little male nurse came running and did whatever was to be done to stop the beeping machine. But I was still a prisoner!

“Could you please unwire me?” I asked politely.

“No Ma’am you need to have your breakfast before I can do that,” said the tiny boy.

The break fast came (As inedible as you all must have experienced) Fortunately I had had a huge, delicious breakfast before, so I just pushed the food around, had a sip of the cold coffee and waited.

“Doctor, the pain starts at my hips and travels to my toes. That too only on my left side,” an insistent voice said.

“Do you feel any pain when I do this?” this was obviously a doctor speaking.

“No, not really”

There were lot of similar questions and at last I heard an “Ahhhh.” So the point of pain had been found! I felt like saying “hallelujah!”

“Actually Doctor, we just returned from the Kumbh mela yesterday. I was fine all the while I was there. I even walked to the taxi by myself from the airport. But at night the pain was unbearable, so I came to you.” Explained the insistent voice.

“Hmmm; should I call the specialist or the on call Orthopaedic?”

“Before you do that, I must tell you that I had a mild stroke in December due to a blood clot. I didn’t want to take chances, so I came here. Could this pain be due to another clot or because there is a slip disc or……....” the voice continued with options and treatments.

“The concerned doctor will be able to clarify your doubts, sir.” Said a very tired but clipped voice.

Meanwhile I got a glimpse of my nurse, and I called him to free me up as I had finished my breakfast. He came and with a flourish opened the curtain in front of me.

“Please wait I will call someone.”

Now I saw a very harassed looking lady carrying a lot of reports and x ray reports in a huge bag peeping at me. I smiled at her, and she smiled back sympathetically. Dressed in a salwar kameez which looked as if it had fought with the fifty-crore population of Kumbh Mela she had the stoic look of a long-suffering woman. So, I smiled back at her sympathetically.

The Orthopaedic had come in the next cubical!

I heard a lot of groans and ahaaas and then.

“I will send you for an x ray and then we shall decide on the course of treatment” a very firm medical voice said sweeping away all the information that the patient had to give him.

So I got a glimpse of ‘Mr. Kumbh Mela Returned’ on a wheelchair followed by his wife pass by my cubical.

Now a new male nurse came and took out the tube connected to my cannula. He searched for the armband around my other arm. I sheepishly told him that I had already removed it.

“What about my cannula?” I insisted.

“After your dues ma’am,” he said as he disappeared from my sight.

I was right in front of the Nurse’s Station. However hard I tried I could not catch the eyes of the nurse peering into a computer. Having spent quite a bit of my life in the North I knew how to be pushy.

“Hi Sister!” I hollered and she had to look up.

“Please could you remove the cannula?”

“As soon as your dues are done,” she mumbled.

I got distracted by ‘Kumbh Mela returned.’

“From your x-ray I can see that everything is ok. So it must be a muscular problem. We will keep you on Muscle relaxants for a couple of days and then take a call whether to go for MRI or CT scan’,” the firm voice said.

“They have not taken a Xray of my spine. Suppose some disc has slipped ….,”

“We can give you an IV painkiller here and then see what happens if you prefer that”?

“You are sure this medication you are prescribing will solve my problem?” KMR asked.

“Yes,” said the doctor firmly.

The sigh I heard across the curtain was unclear whether it was the patient or his wife.

Thankfully, my lord and master had paid the ‘dues’ and then another nurse came to release me from my cannula jail and I tottered back to the car and to home sweet home.

Poochi and the maid story

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Mon, 27 Jan 2025 11:36:00 +0530

Here I am again! Pouring out my tale of woe!

The thirtieth (or is it the thirty fifth?) maid bites the dust. Let’s not go into physics or math or the emotional quotient of whose fault was it. After thirty-five years of setting up and running various homes (the major part is employing maids!) I thought I was an expert. But we live and learn!

When we moved into our brand-new home which I really splurged on decorating to my taste (till now we had lived in company quarters or rented apartments), I thought I would find that elusive angel who will help maintain my little castle. Three and a half years of training, manipulating and overpaying have not got me anywhere near my ideal maid.

During one of the long absences of any help in the house, we decided to invest in a robot cleaner. I was thrilled with it. We had a washing machine to clean, a dryer to dry the clothes and a dishwasher to wash the dishes but floor cleaning did take up a lot of time and energy. So, our new robotic maid gladdened my heart.

I defiantly named it “Poochi” and referred to it as a ‘he’! (the ladies had so disappointed me!) He was so cute. I program it and he obeys me to a T. First, he maps the house, then he whirs about the house, cleaning the carpets and floor minutely. He mops whenever I put the mopping plate in and refuses to cross the barriers which I have put on the map. He also gives me updates… “Please untangle the left side brush” or “battery is low returning to charge” or “cleaning complete”. After finishing all work, it will locate the charger and shake itself and then climb on to the charger and charge itself.

Could you find a better maid? No arguments about “your house is too big you need to pay more” or “I am not coming tomorrow” or a sudden telephone call “Madam I am not feeling well won’t come for work today” etc. etc.

During this time, I continued trying human maids on and off (the dishes must be kept in their place; clothes must be folded and ironed; dusting must be done….) While a maid was employed, I gave Poochi a well-deserved break. I cleaned him up to his pristine white and handsome self, gave him some TLC and he was used as a decoration and as a conversation opener. I introduced him proudly to all our visitors and I have a feeling he preened himself!

But I Suspect that I have spoilt him and so have all the maids! He has used his AI (Artificial Intelligence)to educate himself on the wiles of the maids.

It started some six months ago. We had returned from a trip and of course there was no help. So Poochi was cleaned and recharged.

The first day he did half the house and complained “battery low returning to charge” and did exactly that. The second day it was “Unable to locate starting new cleaning cycle” (this meant he would map the whole house and clean and obviously half way through the battery would get low!)

Anyway, soon a new maid was installed and Poochi was returned to being a ‘Man of leisure’.

When the last maid fell. I went back to Poochi……

He started his dramatics! Every day the battery would turn low just before he came to clean our bedroom, and he would slink away to charge himself. Once I put him physically in our bedroom at the beginning of the cleaning cycle. The cheeky fellow just took a perfunctory look around the room and rushed off to the living room and went about thoroughly cleaning and again our bedroom had to be cleaned by me.

Just a couple of days back Poochi started his ‘cleaning cycle’ properly. I needed to go out for some minor work. He had completed around half an hour of work when I left. I had just reached the first shop when I got a message “brush tangled please untangle!”. I just ignored the message and returned home after two hours.

Poochi was snoozing on the fluffy bathroom mat! Nothing was tangled! The moment I pushed the start button he went merrily about doing his work. But as usual “low battery returning to charge” pinged on my phone when he had just entered our bedroom!

So Poochi’s brain has assimilated all the tricks of the trade from all my innumerable maid and is determined to never let me rest on my laurels. I have complained to the manufacturers, and they have promised to get back to me as soon as possible!

My Jetson’s dream is shattered at the moment…..

Nocturnal pub hopping

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Fri, 27 Sep 2024 12:44:00 +0530

“I never slept a wink last night!” or “I was thinking about nothing so much that before I realized it was time to get out of bed!”. How many times have I heard similar proclamations from my grandmothers, mother, and elderly aunts as I was growing up. As is the wont of the young, I never paid any attention to them. In fact, I used to envy them, for I slept the sleep of the ‘ innocente’ the moment my head touched the pillow! (What a waste of eight hours!)

After years of falling asleep whenever and wherever I wanted, I was infected with my ancestral DNA! The first time it happened (maybe five years back), I never woke up to the fact that I was contaminated, I watched TV (very low volume), played on my iPad, read a book, had some warm milk, and darkened the room as much as possible. But nothing happened! The clock was stuck at three am (the time when spirits float around!).

“Now what else could I do?”, I wondered.

I looked and appreciated the beautiful night sky; I even thought of singing but stopped myself (I am a very sensitive person, and I did not want to disturb the neighbours) Time did not seem to move! I wished I was a student once again when twenty-four hours were never enough!

For a year after this, this episode never recurred. I had almost forgotten about it. When it struck me as an epidemic! Almost every alternate day for a week I pub-hopped ( I had water, milk, buttermilk, and even wine! Along with peanuts, chips, cheese slices, and other snacky stuff). I stopped watching TV, playing, or reading two hours before bed, but to no avail.

Then it stopped as eerily as it had begun.

When the next strike came, I was prepared. I took my blanket quietly and moved into the spare bedroom (It had a harder mattress!) the light from outside fell on the clock face which laughed at me! the second hand moved and yet the hour and minute hands never did. I seriously thought of rising and checking the clock battery, but I knew it was just having fun at my expense. I then moved to the living room with its nice cuddly sofas (maybe I needed some hugs!). There was a soft breeze floating around from the balcony; the mists suspended in midair wrapped around the mountains outside, did not pat me to sleep, instead, they nudged my imagination, and I started planning the next chapter of my book trying to incorporate the scenery!

It was now time to confess! I lightly mentioned this to the lord and master (who has never had a day’s problem like this!), he was sympathetic, not empathetic; to the doctor in the family (Just a passing phase MA it will go) and to the baby of the family (Mama you have to reduce your screen time!)

I used to be a Science student, so I decided to analyze why this was happening. First, I tried to experiment with my dinner, then I looked at my lunar calendar (I had read somewhere that the moon plays havoc with women’s minds as they had more water content than men!). I almost thought of indulging in an excel sheet to record my nocturnal meanderings, then I rapped my own knuckles saying that the more I thought about it the more my mind would get excited so that was put on the back burner.

Now after five years of wallowing in this strange sleep pattern, I have come out in the open to everybody! Is it old age? Or is it a growing-up mind? Or is it just the DNA having its revenge? Whatever it is I have encompassed it as a part of me. These days I try to enjoy these nocturnal adventures and give them different names and to titivate them with imagination, music, and plans for my future lives!

I may have won the battle but the war rages on…. My arms of logic, reasoning, or thought have failed to get under my enemy’s skin. Maybe what I need to do is change my outlook and think this is not my enemy but a friend and maybe then I shall discover a loving pal or an affectionate spirit to enliven my pub-hopping days!

Delusional Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Mon, 11 Dec 2023 18:40:00 +0530

I suddenly realized that the year has almost ended, and I have done no creative writing whatsoever! It's not that I have not had topics, emotions, or tapestry to write on and about, but I just have not, so here goes …

Of course, I have grown older. The whole world including myself knows it, but I love to live in a delusional world where I am still in my twenties (I have grown in my fantasy world from sixteen to twenty-four now!) Hence the visit to the salon to colour my hair.

While I waited for the prerequisite forty-five minutes before my hair was washed and styled, I looked around. I could not wear my glasses as it would mess with my colour, and this led to the fact that I could not either play the games on my phone or read the books on my Kindle app, or do the incessant reeling that I am fond of! So to get back to the topic I looked at my fellow occupants of the very comfortable chairs that the salon provided their clients with.

I looked with envy at a young lady on my right. She was putting on artificial nails and getting them gel painted and showing the hair stylist pictures on her phone of her presumably last holiday.

“It was so cold”’ she said to the interested audience, “that we had to wear four layers of clothes and even then, I was shivering!”.

“OMG Ma’am”, breathed the hair stylist heavily.

“The skiing was lovely, of course”.

“Of course, Ma’am”, nodded the stylist knowledgeably.

“We had so much fun”, the eyebrows were raised expressively, “that I quite forgot to colour my hair”.

“I quite understand. But never mind I will look at it now.”, said the stylist running his finger through her thick dense black hair.

I wondered why she needed to colour her hair, it looked lovely and shiny and bouncy and black to me. “She must be twenty- four or twenty-five”, I said to myself, “she should not be colouring her hair, she will spoil them”.

Meanwhile, the stylist, along with his lackey was mixing the colour vigorously in the bowl. I continued to look into the mirror with interest. The stylist took the thin comb to part her hair and then to my horror, I saw at least an inch of white running through the parting! Poor thing! My envy was replaced with pity that this lady had to do what I had been doing for more than twenty years before me.

Oh well, it's the pollution, the lack of desi ghee, and maybe stress that has changed the age factor now.

Suddenly the grey-haired lady on my left raised her voice….

“What do you think I am!”, she extrapolated angrily, “First you make me wait for half an hour beyond my appointment time, then you say that my hair needs to be washed, and after all that….”

There was a pause as she was getting her breath back. She must have been around my age but looked older as she had not bothered to colour her hair! ( Now you know why I love my delusional world).

“Now this fellow wants me to wait for another half an hour because some client of his is waiting!” her voice was loud and clear, and everyone was now openly looking at her.

The Manager had come out and was trying to pacify her….

“Who is this VVIP”, she continued clearly, “ that cannot wait their turn?”.

The stylist was now shivering in his pants and saying, “Sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean it that way”.

“How dare you?”, she continued ranting, “What do you mean then?”,

“I need another stylist immediately”.

The argument went back and forth, the Manager was apologetic, the stylist even more so and the other stylist pretended to be busy as they did not want to do this particular client.

I felt pity for everyone involved. It was a lose-lose situation. The client was justifiably angry, but did the anger help her get what she wanted? The Stylist was in the wrong but who amongst his peers or even his manager would admit to that?

The ping-pong game went on till the client walked off without paying for her hair wash.

The hum of dissatisfaction rose to a crescendo after she walked out and then settled down. It was just another day. The haircuts. Pedicures, manicures, and treatments continued as usual.

Is this then the real world?

You are reasonably successful, you have enough money to waste in a salon and you have the inclination, yet there is someone who is supposedly more important than you, or more valuable than you, and the Social rule of “first come first served” does not apply.

I could feel the pain of the second client and the passivity of the first client. In a matter of one hour, I skidded through the seven emotions- happiness, surprise, contempt, sadness, fear, disgust, and anger.

So life goes on and I ask you whether my escapism into my virtual games or the world of novels is worse than facing all these emotions. I am not sure who is the winner in the war between realism versus delusion.

I have stopped watching the news because it throws the real world into my face. I hate violence, corruption, unfairness, and power. Yet aren’t these what the garden of reality exposes you to? I am at a stage in life where I can remove myself from the diorama of the cutout world, so I wallow in my delusional happiness. But can the new generation afford this? They must face this and work up to or create a better world so that they do not have to retreat into this world of illusion.

Reeling in the reels!

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Sat, 6 Aug 2022 11:36:00 +0530

They couldn't find the vein to insert the cannula! As the nurse squeezed and hit my hands and asked me to tighten my fist, I wove in and out of pain and irritation. At last, the deed was done, and I tried to fight the waves of headache that swathed my brain in a tight grip, the medicine took effect and I fell into a stupor. I was conscious of people going and coming, the swish of the curtains, and the beep of the monitors but then god sent sleep took over and I slept a dreamless sleep.

As my poor husband ran to and fro between the ER (Emergency Room) and the billing counter I remained in the bliss of sleep. It took eons (it seemed like that) before a room was allotted and I was formally admitted into the hospital. The four days that followed were a routine of waking up early in the morning with one injection, a prick to check the blood sugar, and a band to check the blood pressure. By then I was wide awake, no point going back to sleep…. The machinery of the hospital takes over….

Unpalatable tea, followed by a worse breakfast, followed by the doctor's rounds, and the worst, the dietician's visit. (I have never really understood the presence of a dietician in a hospital) the dietician is normally a pretty young lady who agrees to whatever you say, she then promises better food but, the lunch that follows, is equally bad and unpalatable.

Do I sound disgruntled and ungrateful? Well, you would be too, if you are tethered to the bed with a yard-long drip attached to a painful cannula that is attached to your body. Every time you need to go to the loo you need to call the nurse to detach you from the contraption. This could take any time from five to twenty minutes! So I devised a method- just unhooked the bottle from the stand, hung it on a convenient hook in the loo, and returned with it in the same way. No one was the wiser!

The antibiotics performed their magic, my cloudy mind cleared out, and boredom set in. The fever refused to go off completely, so like the sacrificial goat, I lay tethered on the very comfortable bed with a high metabolic brain pulsating and raring to do something. I had already gotten bored of all the games on my phone (Unfortunately, I had not got my I-pad with me). So the next browsing fields were the social apps.

I finished seeing all the posts, what now? Well, now I saw something called the 'reels'. I knew about them, of course, but never had the time to check them out. I opened one of them- some video on some movie star…. Then a video about some cooking, some crazy kid dancing (Very well, I must say), someone teaching how to wear a sari, a DIY of some cute decoration…… I was hooked for life!

It is a never-ending source of entertainment. I can choose what genre I would like to indulge in. They are so short that they never bore you. My monkey mind was in paradise! It jumped from one subject to the other in ecstasy. Other than, mindless entertainment and buffoonery, Reels also offered a glimpse of Ted talks, preaching, and new knowledge. If interested, you could go to the original on YouTube and see the whole show.

Here I am permanently tethered to 'Reels'. My escape from reality, boredom, and pain. I promised to try out all the yummy recipes I saw on them. The DIY reels game me new ideas for my art and craft indulgence. The Ted talks enriched my mind. The preaching gave many answers to my existential questions and was like a balm on my troubled soul.

I salute all the new innovations the new generation is bringing forward and bless the men who invented the internet. Now we are all connected beyond space, time, and distance.

Let the "reels" reel me in!

….For the love of a book

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Wed, 3 Aug 2022 11:52:00 +0530

It’s been a hectic month so far! Lots have been happening…. I had been sitting on my third book for the last (which I must say has been topsy turvy!) year. I don’t want to go into details but safe to say that I have not stayed at home for a month at a stretch. Either I have been traveling to other cities or the hospital!

Well, I decided enough is enough and proceeded with my publisher to publish the book. “Weave Some More” has literally woven webs of confusion, distractions, and plenty of new learnings.

I learned how important it was to advertise the book, I also learned that I need to join like-minded groups, and also to keep my ear to the ground to hear the rumblings about the book.

Though I have used Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and LinkedIn to let the world know about the birth of my books, I have not used it methodically (So my publisher says). So I put myself into their expert hands to do the serious work and continued my amateur bumbling on Social Media!

I was soon flooded with a lot of requests from many groups who wanted to follow me or talk about my book or my writing process. It was flattering, to say the least, but it was a lot of work, nevertheless. One more pleasant surprise was how many of them wrote their own interpretations of the book and posted them on different platforms. I am grateful.

Facebook was filled with congratulatory messages from many of my friends and relatives. But I wonder how many of them did read the book. The best compliment a writer ever gets is when he realizes that his book has been read and critiqued (even if it is a bad one!) I am extremely grateful to the handful who made it a point to message me with their thoughts or wrote reviews on various platforms.

I do realize that in this day of the internet and video world, very few have the interest or the inclination to actually read a three-hundred-page book. Being a book lover I do not understand this trend, but then each to his own.

A book is like a living creature. Every time you read it, it throws out new ideas, nuances, and visions. A couple of people argue that what do we need with them? After all the internet is teeming with ideas and entertainment; why go through the pain of reading, exploring, and using your “noodle” to wallow in the pleasure of reading, processing, and creating your own world?

I have no arguments for or against the above theories. Only a book lover can really ‘feel’ the pleasure that seeps through him when he uses a writer’s words to create and travel through a world. The underlined word is ‘create’. It is true that the writer has created a world with his words but your vision of it is your own creation and thus you own it.

Whoever has the time to read this, please do answer the question, “which other entertainment path allows you to create and find fulfillment and gives you ownership of your reactions and emotions?

Age No Bar

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Fri, 6 May 2022 13:15:00 +0530

My Estrogen levels are falling at the same rate as the petrol price is rising! So as the vehicles get leaner and meaner, I am getting comfortably plumper and irritable.

While growing up, anything connected with the reproductive cycle was not discussed. Even mothers did not encourage this topic to be put up on the podium. Don’t worry I am not going to either ( I belong to the older generation, as you might have guessed). The only reason why I am mentioning the unmentionable is the consequences of this titillating hormone!

All my old readers know that whatever my age might be, I always feel that I am twenty one! Though I forget, my body refuses to! It creaks and aches (most of the time I ignore it), sometimes I even moan unconsciously.

It so happens that I have these unnatural urges to go on a cleaning spree. I have no set rules for this. Sometimes I do Spring cleaning in Autumn, otherwise when the world is happy enough to snuggle under blankets, I love to sweat it out! (You guessed right, using my elbow grease). When I am not physically so occupied, my mind is busily whirring about the house searching for nooks and corners that might need me. If all else fails, I go round shifting furniture!

“So what,” you might say, “that’s no big deal!”

I can imagine the bored look on your face.

Well, these urges have a tendency to overwhelm me when I am alone. When the lord and master is on his trips, my cupboards are cleaned; the kitchen is scrubbed; all old papers are sorted through; the fans are cleaned; windows are scrubbed…. the list is endless. Notwithstanding its not a surprise that all my maids hate it when L&M goes on his trips, as half the scrubbing has to be done by them.

As I grow older these escapades are not limited to me being alone. Post COVID, with WFH becoming the norm, the trips have reduced, and my addiction has increased. When L&M is bound to the study this “mouse” has to play. In the beginning I got away with it, but after a couple of falls and strained backs, the L&M keeps an eagle eye on me (As advised by the Doc and other new adult in the family). In fact certain paparazzi has taken secret videos when I am indulging and the next couple of days are rather uncomfortable for me! (the mind not so much the body).

I am sure you will sympathize with me when I tell you that once I used to climb the high ladders, clean the fans, and light fittings with the maid being my helper, now I am demoted to the post of a helper. The Mighty Maid stands regally upon the said ladder like a surgeon at the operating table.

“Soap,” the maid asks, followed by, “Wet cloth” then, “Dry cloth.” Then I, like the Nurse, meekly hand over the things, looking up at royalty.

Once upon a time, I did not wait for anyone to do my mind’s bidding. Now I have to wait for a suitable day before I can take the itch of cleaning away from my soul. Added to this, I cannot climb on high stools, lift up heavy stuff or take off the cobwebs without being upbraided!

Just the other day, L&M went off on his trip. My maid had left for the day. I was not able to sleep. The big loft in the kitchen balcony (It had become a dumping ground for all unwanted stuff) beckoned! The Cat was away, who would stop me? I took the stool (I was careful) took out everything and cleaned up the whole area. Oh! What pleasure; what salve for my soul and the most important thing ‘peace’ that filled my very being. Sorting, cleaning, throwing, and arranging, I lost track of time. I was so proud of myself.

“I did it!” I congratulated myself.

The melodious tune of my phone woke me from my reverie, and I rushed to get it. That was the precise time when my back was wrenched, and I haven’t heard the last of it from the three voices whose religion is to catch me on the wrong foot!

“When will you learn?” , same words but different voices.

I think its all my mind’s fault who refuses to grow up!

Acceptance

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Thu, 28 Apr 2022 17:02:00 +0530

“Smile,” she said.

“Smile,” he responded with a grin.

Now emaciated and frail, he is hardly able to take two steps without help. At eighty five plus, I wonder what goes on in the cloudy brain of his.

I remember the first time I met him, almost thirty three years back. He had presumably come to meet his old classmate (my dad), but I knew that he had come to meet me, to see whether I would fit into their family as a daughter-in-law!

As a young adult I had no desire to get married. I wanted to study further, maybe make a mark in this world.

My nerves untangled and relaxed when I first met him. He spoke to me as if I were his daughter. It took me some time to break barriers and mind blocks and to agree to be a part of his family.

As the years passed and I saw him transition from being my “father-in-law” to being a grandpa to my children and still later I saw him play his role to the next daughter in law of the house and form a new relationship.

I knew that first and foremost to him I was a daughter. He confided in me, he asked advice and gave advice, and many a time stood up for me when I was being criticized. The best thing was when I was thirty five, he gave my age as twenty five to the travel agent to make tickets!

He is by nature a very quiet man who adores his wife and family. I had heard from the others, that as a young father he had been a terror about discipline. I never saw that side of him. He never forbade me about doing anything, nor did he reprimand me when I did certain things he disapproved of, but in his own inimitable way, he let it be communicated to me.

He was especially good with numbers. You could ask him any tabulation with vast numbers, he would always come off with the right answers.

He first noticed that he was having trouble walking with a steady gait when he was seventy two. After consulting with some of the country’s best neurologists, we came to the conclusion that he has slow nerve degeneration which cannot be treated aggressively. Some tablets, exercise and physiotherapy were the only way to delay the inevitable. I never took it seriously- a little unsteady or faltering steps did not handicap a person!

The change in him was slow too…. He was more careful while putting out his feet, he got up slowly and waited before moving (he already had a few falls!). The house was now lined with handlebars for his safety.

We celebrated his seventy fifth in Alexandria, Egypt. A quaint city on the Mediterranean sea where we were posted then. He improved dramatically, he went for walks by the sea, the Lord and Master (his elder son) took him to the hookah parlour, and he did the usual touristy stuff without a murmur. We thought the tide had turned!

Was it insecurity? Was it the little cobwebs that grew around his neurons? Or was it just fate? He grew into a different person. He formed attachments which we could not understand. He criticized many people. There was always some kind of fear at the back of his eyes.

We all noticed these changes, but as it is with all nuclear families, we were busy with our own challenges and did not notice the cliff looming ahead of us.

We never noticed that his conversation with us was getting limited to “Good,” “OK” and “God bless you.” We did not want to acknowledge that the pair of eyes had an eternal faraway look, as if he was not with us but in some other realm. We went on thinking that he would get out of this stupor and say, “lets go out for dinner.” Maybe it was all for the best, we lived on in hope and did not suffer the angst of losing his essence.

Now, ten years later, his recognition of most people has disappeared. Though he still recognizes his own family. Some of his past memories are crystal clear, yet he forgets to say hello. His handshake is still firm and the smile when he crosses the veil sometimes, is genuine. Even now, if you asked him what is 747 multiplied by 29, the answer would come pat with 21663! I would still be trying to open the calculator app.

Soon he needed help with everything. A series of attendants came and went. He formed attachments and broke them with each passing relationship. There were some who took exceptional care, who made an effort to talk to him to refresh is memory , try and brush away the cobwebs with the conversation duster and then there were some who only did their duty and disappeared.

I met him after a gap of one year. A year that took away my mother and dragged me in and out of hospitals. I did not expect that he would remember me.

“Who is this?” his wife asked

“Binny,” he said without meeting my eyes.

“Who is Binny?” she asked.

“My daughter,” he looked at me shyly and smiled.

Maid Files

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Sat, 26 Mar 2022 21:44:00 +0530

“ I need four Sundays off and maybe another four days if I need them,” the large red Bindi looked at me aggressively. “Before you say anything, I shall mop the floor every alternate day and for lunch I need at least one veg dish and dal along with roti,” the rasping voice continued its monologue. My feeble attempts to interrupt were swept aside with a flick of the hand…

The lift man who had deigned to bring in the house help nodded approvingly at both of us, as if all had been settled!

“ My salary will be twenty thousand along with double salary on Diwali,” she continued.

“Why do you need so many holidays?” I asked meekly (my mistake!)

“I need time to visit my children and grandchildren, my brothers and sisters and I have a social life too!” she grinned at me wolfishly.

I was terrified.

“Will let you know,” I mumbled while ushering them out of the door.

“Jaldi bolna (tell me soon),” she barked, “I have many people wanting my services.”

I closed the door, leaned on it (I thought she would push back in!) and took a deep breath and looked out at the beautiful view from my balcony.

“Hope you are not planning on keeping her!” Lord and Master stated.

Having had an angel for a house help for the last eight years in our last home, I had not considered that finding another one would be a challenge. I had hoped that she would move along with us, but it was too far away from her family and friends to come here. With a heavy heart I had decided I would need a new person and with that to train them in my ideocratic methods of housekeeping!

COVID had made another change in my life I had a house husband to cope with now! After thirty years I need not ask , “When are you coming home today?” or “Will your trip be extended?” or “why didn’t you tell me you are not there for dinner!”. It was fun – didn’t have to get up early in the morning, didn’t have to worry about dinner (though I did have to plan lunch!), could go out whenever I wanted (COVID permitting) and didn’t have to wait for weekends to go shopping. L&M (Lord and master) helped a lot around the house- cooked, made tea, even micromanaged the maid (who did not miss grumbling about him to me). He also filled the sink with interminable dishes, complained about the maid and shut the study for hours (Work from home!)

So here he was, in our new home already stepping into the forbidden territory of hiring the house help. Though irritated at first, I realised he would spend equal time with her around the house so the “chemistry" should be good there.

The house was still being done up, so I could afford to ignore the frantic calls from “Red Bindi” and the lift man. I hoped that once I shifted in, I would conduct all the interviews and find my “angel of mercy.”

Having braced myself for confrontation, I informed the liftman that I would not be employing his friend. I was harangued by the great Madam for at least three days with lot of negotiating factors ( wont take so many leaves, can have rice instead of roti, will mop the floor daily etc.). I realised I had burnt my bridges as far as the liftman was concerned.

The next person contacted was the housekeeping in charge of the apartment. He sent a house help immediately.

I had been doing all the housework for the last week, so I just took this one in.

“I like my tea with only milk,” “After lunch I need to rest” and “why do you need to sleep after lunch?” were all taken in my stride. The first couple of days went by with lots of protests regarding my housekeeping methods from the “I -hoped-to- be-the- angle!"

The entire day was punctuated with “Madam come here, this is not working!” or “Madam how does one open the tap?” To say I was harried and hassled would be an understatement! After lunch she took to sitting on MY easy chair in the balcony and looking blankly at the rain falling. Thankfully, she did not turn up one day and said that she was ill and did not come for the next five days (Ganesh puja days!) and I had the perfect reason to sack her.

Back to scrubbing and cleaning (thank God for the dish washer and the washing machine!) ( L&M was a great emotional and physical help too). Sending out feelers for the third time…….

Nicely draped in a smart sari with dangling earrings, the dusky beauty came in spewing honey and sweetness. I did not hesitate, told her to come right away. In two days flat she had got the hang of what I wanted; listening to her sob story of how her husband had lost his job of fifteen years due to COVID, how this was the first time she had come out of the house to work, she had three children to clothe and feed, I did not quibble when she wanted a couple of my dresses (“Its so difficult to work in a sari!”). I threw in a set of bangles, some purses, and nighties too.

I was supposed to go on a long trip leaving L&M at home so I felt he would be well looked after in my absence. I was at the airport when I got the message that “Our lady” had not turned up. On the phone , “ My son was unwell, I will definitely go tomorrow.”

For the next three months the excuses varied from, “Madam! I am not well” to “Madam I have to go for the vaccine” to “Madam I need to go for the parent teacher meeting,” (though her husband was without a job and sitting at home!) to “Madam I need a break.” I was gullible enough to be taken in. but then there is that ‘ last straw that breaks the camel’s back’, and I had to, albeit reluctantly, let her go.

I was again travelling when L&M started taking interviews and updating me on them. One was very good, but she could come only at twelve. The other one worked in three houses so could come at seven in the morning or at one in the afternoon and so on. All of them energetic and young but each had their own baggage, and I was coming home to another maid less existence. The latest one has survived for the last three weeks… lets hope the chemistry between us is good and she lasts longer than the others. (touch wood)

I keep repeating “I miss Manisha!” ( my last angle), “She spoilt me so, that I cannot find anyone to replace her”. ( forgetting that it took me two whole years to train her!)

So its back to the grindstone, polishing the rough edges, pampering and being strict alternately (For AC is better than DC!) I don’t know whether we Indians will ever be self sufficient enough to survive without these angles of mercy, but I do know how important they are to my peace of mind!

God Save the House helps!

Crystal Clear

noreply@blogger.com (Benita Patnaik) — Fri, 11 Mar 2022 12:28:00 +0530

The crystal cabinet had been beckoning me for the last six months! it had become so dusty that I refrained from putting on the display light, lest its accusative eyes turned in my direction!

My grandmother boasted of a crockery cabinet which housed a dinner set , tea set and other cutlery which were I believe used during the British Raj. They were used only when the British boss of my grandfather came for dinner! (Snobs!). Well, I had never seen them being used during my time spent with Granny; but I did hear a lot of stories associated with them. How Mrs. Rogers loved to have tea with her pinkie up as she picked up the teacup, or how the cake display tiered plates were loaded with special cakes with icing and the children were not allowed to touch them till after the guests had left! The crystal wine glasses, and the tiny liqueur shot glasses sparkled and caught my eye whenever they were washed and lovingly put back. Sometimes I did wonder why this was done with religious regularity when they were never used!

As my grandmother and I both got older, the cabinet was forgotten and relegated in the backroom with old books and many curios. It was too difficult to keep them dust free outside! Anyway there were no visitors who appreciated them so why go to all that effort. I didn’t miss them much either, my only interest were books and there were plenty of them outside.

I grew up and began setting up my own house. Whenever I got the little bit of extra money, I would buy crystal show pieces to put around the house. While I lived in Alexandria for a couple of years, I was never able to resist a visit to the crystal factory and went on adding to my collection. When the travel bug bit me and I travelled to many countries, my only indulgence there were fridge magnets and crystal show pieces.

Soon the fridge did not have any space for the magnets, so I stuck them on any metal board (read the electricity board!) I found. My crystals of course got a new house and they sparkled and glinted under the spotlights. Each of them have a story associated with them as do the fridge magnets. Though my crystal glasses and crockery still lay in cabinets without being displayed, but unlike my granny, I use them whenever I have a chance.

Never did I ever let the maids or anyone else touch my artifacts. Once in two months I would take each piece out carefully and clean and wipe them while I reminiscence on the place where I got them from. If anyone was around (read my children) I would insist on telling them about it; sometimes forgetting that I might have already told them before!

Here I was all alone- the children leading their respective lives and the lord and master on a work trip. The sun had set, and I reluctantly left the balcony and came in to watch something on TV. I swear my back was to the crystal cabinet.

“Hey! Hello Madam!”

I looked all around the room and muted the TV. Walked out and peeped into the neighbour’s balcony- it was pitch dark and not a sound was peeping through. Thinking I must have imagined it I unmuted the TV and continued browsing through what I would like to see.

“Don’t you think you have run out of excuses?” the anger and irritation in the words were palpable.

A ghost in my new house? Or was it someone playing a prank?

There are four apartments on the floor and the only one occupied was ours. It could be someone from downstairs; but what excuses were they talking about?

I opened the front door and peeped outside the safety door. Nobody there! Shutting the door I turned back, and I saw the dust filled crystal cabinet lit up and looking at me with exasperation.

All the excuses- ill health, no time, travelling, more important things to do…. the list was endless, but I had actually run out of them!

I put on the apron and began the ritual. As I cleaned each piece to its glittering glory the memories tumbled over each other and filled me with happiness. True there was no one to share my recollections but I pottered about happily, filling my metal minds ( read the ‘Mist born’ series to understand!) with happiness, which I hope I can retrieve and use when the world is bleak.

Now the fridge looks at me accusatively as it remains unadorned in its new position in the new house….

I do wonder who put the spotlights on!