RED HANDED

LOOK WHAT HAPPENED

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Mon, 27 Apr 2020 11:35:00 +0000

Hello! Been quite a while since I visited this page. It took a pandemic to make me write again. Briefly? Highly possible! As I sit in front of this laptop accompanied by a chocolate cake, which I baked, I am worried because there is a lot that happened since I last wrote here.

This chocolate cake deserves better. Barely tasting of chocolate and more like mortar, because of a number of reasons, starting from the batter not being whisked enough, usage of olive oil instead of butter, whole wheat flour instead of all purpose, one egg instead of two and brown sugar instead of white. In the process of seeking gluten free perfection, I almost mistreated it.

Now I don’t want you to think that tragedy has touched me! What I want you to know is that I am going through something that I have never ever dreamt of. I am experiencing something that I have neither worked towards nor craved for. So it’s natural that I fail some days. Fine, most days.

Basically, I am now a mother of a little girl. She is 18 months.

I can say that she is 1.5 years old but 18 months makes it sounds like I have been counting every day and logging every inch of her growth. To be honest, I have been doing that! She is bloody awesome!!!

See, I didn’t plan this. Having a child was never in the list of natural progression of things in life for me. It was going to me, my guy, my career, his career, a grey hound, good food, cholesterol and a gym membership. A kid didn’t fit in. But stuff happens! Notice how I didn’t use the word shit? Because honestly it isn’t a shit situation (diaper changing and butt wiping excluded). I remember the exact moment I found out I was pregnant. Fear in its purest form! My throat instantly went dry, my limbs were non-existent, the hair at the back of my neck stood up and I couldn’t breathe. After an unexplainable amount of time I came out of the washroom and told my partner in bow-chicka-wow-wow, my husband, the situation we were at. I could see his pupils dilate and he seemed to have instantly lost weight. But we knew what we wanted to do. Not instantly but we knew. Fast forward, we have a daughter! She is the cutest button there is. Her first proper word was ‘Star’ and she is the brightest one of that!

To summarize, I have produced a human being and now I resemble a cupboard made of oakwood. I am trying to be a good parent and that’s no joke! Its hard work guys! But tomorrow I will be better! I am also sure that the next time I bake this chocolate cake, it will taste just like it is supposed to taste! Pure delight!!

P.S- Why did I not mention about my husband trying hard to be a good parent? Because this is my blog. But he is depressingly great at it!!!!!!!!

Image Courtesy- cheltenhamdailyphoto

EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED SO FAR

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Sat, 09 Sep 2017 08:38:00 +0000

I don’t think I need to give an explanation, but then again, I think this blog deserves to know why I went missing. My posts if you scroll down, would give you a highlight of the kind of person I am and if you were to notice, most of the posts had something to do with marriage and how I was constantly trying to evade it. I am not a huge supporter of the institution of marriage.

I started this blog when I entered a relationship and I kept this blog alive to kind of pen down what my reality is. I wanted this blog to in some way remind me of what my principles are and what I should stay as. I have always been a middle class kind of soul- middle class thoughts, middle class beliefs and middle class expectations. As a teen, I somewhat had a road-map all set in my mind about my life. I will grow up, get into an average college, get average marks, get an average job and marry the first man my parents point me to. But as I wrote the shoddy things that this blog is plastered with, I realized that I crave for better things and to be honest, I wasn’t aware of these things until I wrote it out.

So I entered a relationship at the same time this blog started and I had no notions of taking the relationship or this blog till the very end. Basically, I wasn’t serious with either of those and I kept both of them a secret from almost everyone I knew. I gave up on my relationship quite a lot of times because I knew that the average living was secure and socially acceptable. I also frequently left blogging because I didn’t want to write like someone else and live like someone just the opposite. But I allowed myself the luxury of going with the flow.

So one fine day, over 8 years into the relationship, my mother asked me why I wasn’t keen to marry. It took me two hours to finally tell my parents over the call that it wasn’t any medical condition or lesbianism that kept me from marrying, but was a Christian boy who has been on my mind since a long long time. They didn’t take things well as was honestly expected. I wasn’t a person who believed in eloping nor was I someone who was looking for a quick fix. I wasn’t dying to marry anyway. They gave me a year to revisit my decision, while a few astrologers were visited side by side. The astrologers didn’t like me and my Christian boy. So I broke up and patched again. Then I broke up five more times and patched again. But yes I kept wanting to get back again. The Christian boy just should there knowing I am too stubborn to let go of him.

I stopped blogging last year at the same time when everyone I knew found out that I was trying to make a decision that wasn’t least bit average. I don’t like my secrets disclosed. I like my privacy and when suddenly everyone started questioning, I did lose my ~~shit~~ mind. Things weren’t all nice and glossy, but you soon realize that your parents when given some time, start to understand you in ways that you never thought they could. Exactly a year later, my Christian boy was accepted into the family.

We planned our wedding, got married before the registrar of marriages under the Special marriage Act, had a reception in a nice hotel where we exchanged rings and smiled till the cameraman gave up. All this happened on July 5^th. Both of us don’t believe in the institution of marriage but both of us do like being together. I don’t exactly remember a past without him. Cliché eh?

I owe a lot to this blog. It has been a mirror to me. Never have I before given an in-depth analysis of my life in any of my posts, but every time I wrote anything here, it kind of instilled confidence.

I am not much of a writer and like I have always maintained, this is just a blog and I am just a blogger.

P.S- How have you guys been, that is, if you guys are still around.

P.P.S- Do you like the new blog header? A gorgeous illustrator Tasneem Amiruddin made it for me

Image Courtesy- tenor.com.

MRI Scan For Enlightenment.....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Wed, 16 Mar 2016 19:05:00 +0000

From within the confines of my office cubicle, I have dreamt of a secret escape. An escape to a place so edifying that it forces me to seek answers to the glorious mysteries of life. A place that makes me realize my deepest fears and understand my core beliefs. And then I entered a magnetic resonance imaging scanner.

A doctor recently recommended that I get an MRI scan of my spine done, so that he could point at a picture and declare that I have a slip disc. At the risk of sounding like a vegetable, I have to accept that I was excited. Something about experiencing something I never have, excited me. The doctor suggested that I change into a hospital robe. That excited me too because hospital robes are generally loose and airy, giving you the privilege of feeling thin and frail. I needed to feel so.

I removed every little metal that was on me, including the all-encompassing bra because the male nurse reminded me that the hooks might be of metal and metal isn’t treated well by the scanner. I could have told him that the hooks in mine were plastic but then decided to just go with his assumption. I was made to lie down on a motorized bed while the nurse gave me the necessary directions which included ‘Do not move for the next 15 minutes’, ‘Here, press this is you feel uneasy’ and ‘No, your eyes wont dissolve if you keep them open’. My ears were plugged and my legs were comfortably tucked inside a blanket. Then he left the scanning room.

Gently, the bed started to move into the cylindrical scanner, head first. I lay on the bed staring at the entrance of the scanning room that led to the world outside. There was a sense of calm and a privileged form of loneliness, the kind a baby might feel inside its mother’s womb, i.e, if the baby could feel and think at that time. And then the bed started moving again, taking me well inside the cylindrical dome.

All was well until the machine started to make a deafening noise. I froze inside, betting that what I was hearing was the emergency alarm, screaming that there was something insidiously wrong with the machine. By then I was fully inside the dome, with no light visible at the end of the tunnel. Just me, a remote in my hand and the machine screaming from all sides. My mind decided to make it even worse.

My Hippocampus started playing ‘Final Destination’ and all its sequels. The scene where two women die inside their tanning booths was particularly urging my bladder to burst. May be this is how Deadpool felt inside that glass box. May be I would wake up to be an Avatar. My heart begged me to press the big red button proudly sitting on the remote, but my intuition asked me to have a little faith.

Slowly my body adapted to the chaos around me and my mind started to tune it into a psychedelic trance track. My heart swayed with it and then right in between my artistic endeavour, a sudden realization hit me. I AM BLOODY ALONE IN THIS.

Life has been a little tumultuous of late, especially since I am expected to make decisions that are in the best interest of everybody who matter to me. Lying inside this plastic dome made me realize that through our struggles, we would be alone. No one can get an MRI scan for me. No one will suffer my decisions but me. People will love you, press their opinions on you and pray for you. But what they cannot do is live your life for you and suffer for you. So why take a life altering decision pressurized by the world when in the end, it would be you alone living through it all.

Who knew an MRI scan could be enlightening. May be there is a personal Buddha inside each one of us. Bodh Gaya might be too far, but an MRI scanner isn’t.

Book a scan now!

Image Courtesy- Somewhere in Pinterest.

MARRY FOR SECURITY....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Thu, 10 Mar 2016 16:09:00 +0000

Marry for security. The guy you love shouldn’t be the one you marry.

Be practical when it comes to marriage. Never gamble. Instead settle for a safe bet because love wanes off and there is so much more to marriage than just love. ‘The Notebook’ is just a stupid book and an even more stupid movie that forces you to believe that two people can just have a synchronized death on a single hospital bed because of some eternal love that mysteriously outlived Alzheimer's. Be realistic please! In life what really matters is security. Money is important. Social acceptance is even more important. And please, do not beat the drums declaring ‘‘He is the one!’’ because it makes you sound like an irrational fool.

You know that you are part of a society that looks at love as a game that should be played after marriage. You cannot just uproot yourself from that society and live life on your own terms with someone you think you are crazy about. You should marry somebody who the society accepts is right for you. Marry the money, the education and the religion of the man. Love might drop in later and even if it doesn’t, really its ok!

Marry for stability. You cannot wait for some man who begs you to believe in his dreams, the way he does and pleads for some time to prove that he can pay for your wardrobe. You are not a kid anymore and time is clicking.

So you settle for a stable, established man. Good job! Its ok to have days when you lie awake staring at this man’s face wondering why you never feel like nuzzling him while he sleeps. You used to feel it with someone from your past. But the past is dead and the past was filled with stupid dreams. So you sleep off. Some nights he gets on top of you and you have sex. You forget to make love.

In the morning while you clean the house and dust that expensive couch, you feel pleased at the secure life that you are in. Your husband brought such stability into your life. During breakfast you discuss the credit card limit, the pending bills and the carpentry work that needs to be done in the bedroom. Those deep philosophical talks, those stupid jokes and those random book reviews are all part of a past with someone else. You don’t expect that now. Now you are practical with no time to reflect.

Your parents like him and your temple allows him to enter. You are not sure if you like him but its ok, because one day you will get so used to him that you will think that this habit is love. You will be fine with it. Get a job and try to climb up the ladder. Helps you forget the vacuum in your heart.

Have a kid with him and then another kid. Your kids look beautiful they say and they are true. Start investing on lands, pay those insurance premiums and keep buying things. Make your house resemble a contemporary museum. Put your children in expensive schools and discuss the expense with your husband. Go for a movie and stare at the screen while your mind drifts into a secret chapter from your past. Eat that popcorn and then smile at your child. Watch your husband smile at them with the same distance in his eyes. Your life is secure.

Attend weddings and flaunt your family. Show everyone that you have made it. Keep giving importance to impressing the people around you because when you stop doing that, the pangs of regret hit you and you hate that. Soon you enter a midlife crisis.

You did a great job by not taking a risk and going for the man you love. It was a wise decision to not choose the person who made you happy in this short life that you live. You were right in running away instead of trying to work things out. You chose reality over some fantasy of yours.

After all, you knew that life is about everyday tasks and ignoring the mountain of regrets. You did well. You chose fear.

P.S- Hello Hello!!!!
P.P.S- Please don't leave a comment relying solely on the POST TOPIC. Read!

Image Courtesy-sodahead.com

It's a frown. It's an itch. It's a slap from hell. It's Summertime!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Tue, 26 May 2015 17:59:00 +0000

The fashion magazines are all pasted with the latest summer trends; models clad in bikini with prints that scream about the wild flowers of Africa. The cover photo has a promising picture of a cellulite repellent lady sipping Pinacolada on a beach that looks pristine, bohemian curls flirting with the summer wind, her skin kissed by a gentle tan. You stare at the magazine until a sweat develops on your scalp and lands noisily on it. So much for a dreamy summer in India.

That drop of sweat brings you back to reality. A reality that consists of your head that seems to have been licked by the holy Indian cow, the patches of makeup that managed to hold on to your face, the collar of your shirt as dirty as your thoughts and sweat glands that are working overtime like Santa’s little elves on the last day of Christmas. There is nothing I enjoy about summer, except mangoes. Yes Mangoes!

I have hated summer with a conviction as fervent and strong as a mother’s love. The only nostalgia attached to summer was fighting for a spot in front of the air cooler and later escaping the responsibility to quench the exhausted machine’s thirst with buckets of water; the prospect of carving out biceps lost in that process. Summer never brought to me crop tops and hot pants, my family was orthodox like that; my body was obese like that. What it did bring to me was frequent bouts of diarrhea, credit to the dirty ice lollies that Mahesh Thelawala sold and I gulped down like vitamin pills. It also brought out this other version of my mother, the one who was always ready with a bowl of milk with salt in it to rub on my face, every time I returned from an episode under the blazing sun. It removed the tan she said; never did I vouch! A regular sight during summer was my topless, hibernating grandfather stretched out on the diwan and my grandmother sprinkling cold water on him.

While the other kids took up a summer hobby and went to camps, I spent my holidays being a human fan. It was my eternal duty to stand on the kitchen counter and help bring down the temperature by fanning my mother using that day’s Hindustan times. When I was tired, dad took up the spot, lest we wanted to end up sleeping hungry. Bathing never made things better, thanks to the black overhead tank that only supplied boiling water. I have always wondered why people decide to get married during summer. A far off relative who I was particularly fond of, hates me because I once told her “Aapko malum hai ki aap kal apni shaadi mein kitni gandi dikhogi?”. She had chosen the month of May to get married. The bride’s sindoor running down the forehead as she smiles at her new man shaped tote bag who seems to have lost a couple of kilos inside his safari suit, wasn’t exactly a grand way to kick start a lifetime of togetherness. Her wedding video could easily be mistaken as a clip from the movie Shutter Island. In a climate that makes cuddling the last thing in the mind, no wonder they choose Switzerland to initiate honeymoon consummation.

Henry James once said “Summer afternoon- Summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.” This makes me want to cry while I attempt to wring myself dry.

P.S- Almost 2mths of not blogging. I am alive and there to stay!

Image Courtesy- myindiapictures.com

THE SECRET ROMANCE...

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Wed, 01 Apr 2015 03:33:00 +0000

Back when I was a little girl, my favourite game was called ‘Mr. & Mrs.’ While the Mr. was a magazine cut out of an actor stapled to the face of my one eyed teddy bear, the Mrs. was a blushing me. My relationship with my paper husband could be labelled as romantic, since I spoke to him only in dialogues straight out of the Bollywood movies that I watched when my mother wasn’t around. But something that the little me noticed was that this romance that existed between me and my inanimate husband wasn’t present between my Dad and Mom.

Many nights were spent wondering whether my parents were together only because of the common burden that they shared; the burden being me. But then they made my brother, thereby challenging my hypothesis. But how could a relationship continue with no romance in it? There were no cute glances across the hall and though I knew I would barf if they ever said ‘I love you’ to each other in my presence, I sometimes wondered if they ever said anything that did not involve their problematic children, the grocery list, the different kind of bills, their work or their general loathing towards majority of our relatives. The closest to romance that they got was when they dyed each other’s hair or when they took their weekend afternoon naps, with synchronized snores setting up the mood. After a certain point of time I simply gave up and declared to myself that my parents were suffering a boring marriage.

My mother for some reason was always very protective of her bedroom almirah. A rusty old Godrej almirah, that she kept locked at all times. It was the only place in the entire house that I wasn’t allowed to raid and this fact used to haunt me like dry cough. Paulo Coelho rightfully wrote, “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” It was this very want in my part that made my mother forget to lock the cupboard one fine day before leaving for work. I opened the cupboard half expecting Narnia at the back of it, but instead got hold of what seemed like a stack of greeting cards and a few old photographs. The photographs seemed to have been taken soon after my parents wedding, one showing both of them sitting in a garden, my mother laughing maybe at a joke my dad managed to crack. The next picture showcased my parents in goggles, both staring at opposite directions with a serious look on their face. They looked like idiots; idiots in love. The cards were all gifted during wedding anniversaries and it seemed like my mother hadn’t got one in the past few years. Even though I was a child, I knew I was trespassing into her personal space, but there was a certain joy that I derived by knowing that there was romance present in their relationship at least in those initial few years of marriage.

Last year they celebrated their 25^th anniversary. Dad bought mom a few sarees using the bonus he earned by working extra, mom didn’t bother to do anything and I ordered a mocha cake to celebrate the occasion and ate most of it. There was no grand celebration and no one gave a speech or popped a bottle of champagne. Frankly it was amusing how boring they were together as a couple.

But then I saw it, their silent and secretive romance. The romance when dad backs mom up when we raise our tone against her, the romance and comfort in those synchronised snores, the romance in dying each other’s hair using old toothbrushes and the romance in cooking a meal together. The romance when dad irons her saree and she polishes his shoes. The romance when dad cleans the ceiling fan and mom holds the stool. The romance even in those farts. The romance that made their children and the romance that made them raise us together. It wasn’t a boring marriage but a successful one.

Anniversary cards with their printed words cannot express relationships like these. Their years together did that for them. I and my brother did that for them. Their hidden romance did that for them.

If you ask me, I prefer a secret romance. A relationship as carelessly strong as theirs.

P.S- Yes, I MUST BLOG REGULARLY.

P.P.S- Still getting used to Bangalore. New place, new job and new people. I take time.

Image Courtesy- onesmedia.com

TO THE MAN WHO BOUGHT A PAD...

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Sun, 08 Mar 2015 08:55:00 +0000

There is nothing interesting that you will read in my blog today. There is nothing funny in here, nor anything thought provoking, just like all the other times. This is simply a gratitude post. A gratitude post to a minor section of men.

It seems like my grandfather did not know that he was married to a woman. Actually, I think my grandmother thought it was her duty of never letting him find out about it. She also made sure that he did not know that there was a daughter among the three kids that they had together. Funny, but true! Ok, let me come clear and tell you that my grandfather lived in a house where the women pretended to never have periods.

It was fun to watch you know. My mother sneaking in sanitary napkins into the house as if it was a stash of cocaine, just because my grandfather was reading newspaper in the veranda. How one second I would be holding my stomach, whining to my grandmother about the first day of absolute pain (the kind of pain you get when your uterus squeezes out blood) and the next second I would be sweeping the house clean because grandfather spotted some dirt on the window sill. We made sure that he never knew about the monthly issue that came our way. We PMSed in private.

My brother too was kept in the dark. Every time he innocently pointed at the Whisper advertisement and asked what it was for, my mother and I became the most creative people on the face of earth. We just could not muster enough courage to tell him about womanhood. It’s like we were ashamed of what made us, us.

And then something magical happened. I heard my mother on the phone asking my father to buy pads on his way back from office. I looked at her and she simply said to me “He is not like your grandfather.” And mind you, my father did get sanitary napkins on his way back, that too the right kind.

Last week I went to the medical shop to buy Crocin. Now, it was around 6 pm and the shop was crowded. I was waiting to be attended when a man standing nearby said “Bhaiyya, ek packet Stayfree deejiye”. It was amusing how every other man in the shop stared at him as if he had broken some code of masculinity. It was even more amusing to note that this man wasn’t a tad bit uncomfortable with the attention he was garnering. He spent a while choosing the correct sanitary napkin, paid for it and left the scene. I looked at the men around me, all smiling slyly. I wonder if they felt this uncomfortable while buying condoms.

I think I now know what my mother meant when she said that my father wasn’t like my grandfather. I also think I know how difficult it must be for a man to be different from the rest; to be someone who understands women. It’s embarrassing to be someone who acknowledges the strength that is required to be a woman. But yet, these few men continue to be different from the rest because they know their women matter much more.

Women are to be blamed. We keep menstruation a secret, as if it’s a sin instead of an inevitable biological process. Imagine discussing periods with your father or any male member in your life. Trust me, they would prefer you menstruating than being pregnant and not doing so. So why do we hush it up? Why not give them the opportunity to accept our reality?

So today I want to thank the men who are not like my grandfather. We need more men like you. We need more men like the guy I saw in the medical shop and lesser like the rest who were mocking him silently. Thank you for being real.

Dear men, this women’s day gift the women in your life, a better you.

P.S- Dear women, let us promise ourselves one thing today. That we would stop outsourcing our life. We must start making our own decisions instead of letting someone else do it for us. Promise yourself that you would never outsource your life.

I CELEBRATE BIRTHDAYS TOO !!

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Mon, 16 Feb 2015 04:30:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P.S- Please appreciate the Photoshop!

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

IN PURSUIT OF A GOOD BLOUSE TAILOR

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 13:00:00 +0000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blame it on Muliebrity!

P.S- I am not dead. :)

THE RED HANDED "GIA BATH AND BODY WORKS" GIVEAWAY !!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 26 Dec 2014 05:51:00 +0000

So, I love chocolates and anything or anyone who smells like one. A few months back a friend of mine gave me a box and told me that inside it were some bars of soap. Now this made me furious. Why would anyone give someone soap unless they think that the person cannot afford to buy one from the local supermarket because of which his/her personal hygiene has been compromised. But then I opened the tiny box it came in and was immediately compelled to dig my teeth into a divine bar of soap. It was the ‘Chocolate Crème Silk’ soap by ‘Gia Bath And Body Works’. Ladies and Gentlemen, GAYATRI BROWN made me eat soap!!

Gayatri Brown is professionally a makeup artist, celebrity stylist, cosmetic formulator and a gourmet artisan soap maker. Fancy eh?! She is personally an amazing person and a mother of an equally amazing little girl named Georgia, who was the inspiration behind the brand name ‘GIA BATH AND BODY WORKS’.

Disturbed by the amount of chemicals that the skin care products in the market contained, Gayatri decided to launch her brand of skin care products that were untouched by any harmful chemicals. Handcrafted with love, her products contain no SLS, SLES, hardeners or preservatives, but are instead packed with liquid silk, fresh cream, sweet almond, cocoa, jojoba, avocado, shea butter, virgin olive oil and other such delicious ingredients.

Since Gayatri specializes in Gourmet Artisan bath and body products, where her soaps resemble a pastry, a cake slice or even a cupcake, I won’t blame you if you actually lick it or eat it. They smell irresistibly good, feel good, ~~taste good~~ and are suitable for all kinds of skin type. She also makes shower gels, body butter, perfumes, body mist and body polishing scrubs, all of which are made in a smoke free, pet free and a germ free environment that is her home kitchen. How cool is that?!

Now I have a problem. If I really like something, I keep recommending it to others till they actually try it out and eventually fall in love with it. Since I am addicted to this particular brand, I have been off late recommending it to almost everyone who I believe takes a bath. Gayatri stepped in and decided to help me by generously agreeing for a Giveaway.

You have got to participate and support!

WHAT IS UP FOR GRABS???

1^st PRIZE- Gia Bath and Body Works gift hamper worth Rs.1500/-

2^nd PRIZE- Gia Bath and Body Works gift hamper worth Rs 1000/-

2 winners, 2 humble prizes

Now participate in the giveaway already! For Indian residents only, but if you have an Indian address where we can possibly ship these goodies, hop in!

You can ENTER THE GIVEAWAY THROUGH THE RAFFLECOPTER WIDGET BELOW.

GIVEAWAY STARTS TODAY, 26^th December, 2014 and ends on 6^th January, 2015. Support!!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

An Ode To The Indian Toilet...

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 11:27:00 +0000

Dear Indian Toilet,

Nothing screamed of your slow demise more than the Harpic advertisement, where you were heartlessly replaced by your western counterpart. Renovation after renovation, you were destroyed, only to survive in areas that were yet to be touched by westernization and joint problems. In a world where everyone and everything pretends to be urban and red carpet, you have become a symbol of rural living. But I shall miss you.

You my friend taught me my first and only known yoga pose, Malasana. You made me squat before squatting became mainstream. You would be surprised to read this but you also taught me the art of meditation. You see, with you I only had the option of staring at the opposite wall or the ant steadfastly walking on the handle of the red bucket. Sometimes I would work on my predilection for peeling the paint off the opposite wall by counting the numerous bindis my mother had left on the washbasin mirror, permanently stuck because she found them too unhygienic to be used again. Our romance was always interrupted by the numbness creeping into my feet, forcing me to leave you temporarily. But you knew, I would always come back.

I still remember the day those men came to my house. We already had an English version of you on the first floor of our place, rarely used because we all loved you. But my grandfather was 78 and you knew that he couldn’t garner enough flexibility to use you. He needed a seat, which the western toilet with its ceramic throne kindly provided. Your demise was inevitable but let me tell you something; you served us well my friend.

You are well aware that innovations make life easy and I know that you would scream “traitor!!”, but I have to tell you that it did not take time for me to fall in love with your western avatar. On the day following a strenuous workout at the gym, I didn’t have to scream out a cuss word or two every time I had to attend the nature’s call because unlike you, the western toilet understood my limitations. But as much as there are pros to something, there are cons. The western toilet has sprouted my yearning for extra entertainment like replying to important mails through phone, watching viral YouTube videos or stalking the ex, which wasn’t possible with you because all available energy was utilized by me towards keeping myself from falling into you.

You might be thinking, why a letter now? Well, I was forced to squat yesterday while fitting accessories on the lowest branch of my Christmas tree and guess what, I fell backwards. Wouldn’t have happened, had I stayed loyal to you.

Until we meet again (courtesy-Indian railways).

Love,

Your once devoted user.

P.S- I know that blogging works on a give and take basis. I also know that I haven't stalked other blogs for long, owing to being a junior lawyers who gets excited at the mere mention of the word 'sleep'. I humbly apologize. I shall stalk you soon!

I am a winner.I don't even lose weight.

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Tue, 02 Dec 2014 05:53:00 +0000

I need to lose weight. The mirror in my bedroom seems to have a concave surface every time I look at it. This reader’s digest with its every damn issue wants me to lose weight. I am so desperate!

Ok, enough, I will start today. I will start my day with a glass of warm lemon water in the morning with a drop of honey in it. Priyanka told me that this chick from college who resembled a vermicelli strand, used to drink boiling hot water after every meal. Helps with the digestion she said. I will also drink boiling hot water. I have heard that lemon water also helps you pass the stool easier. Stool! What a funny word. A stool also means a small bench and it also means faeces. Faeces, even that is a funny word. Reminds me of the cosmetic brand Faces. Boiling water after every meal it is!

I will start working out in the morning. 30 minutes on the elliptical, 15 minutes on the treadmill and some floor exercises, that would be enough to chisel my body to perfection. Actually, I have heard that Jillian Michaels has this video online called the ‘30 Day Shred’ which is an exercise video of 20 minutes but it is said to kick ass. Last time I saw her video, she claimed that giving her 20 minutes is equivalent to ‘spending hours of phonying at the gym’. I will give her my 20 minutes. She is so hot! Lesbians are hot, except those who pretend to be men, like the ones they show in ‘Orange is the new black’. 20 minutes I will give her, every morning. But I have to be at work 9 am and this is when I don’t have a case to attend. Stupid law! Why did I become a lawyer? Ok, I will wake up at 5 am and workout or maybe I will work out after work because then I won’t have that morning ugly face which needs time to fix. Also, because of the food I ate since morning, I would be having high energy levels. Evening workout it is!

Or maybe, I should just diet. I will start with some cornflakes in the morning. Deepika Padukone feels special after having cornflakes. So, what if I don’t drink milk? I will just have cornflakes dry, pretending that it is Bhel Puri. I will not eat the snacks that the cycle chai wala gets us at work. Also, two chappatis in the afternoon for lunch and two cups of green tea throughout the day. I hate green tea! Ok, I will let it cool down completely and gulp it down in one go. I even read somewhere that cold green tea has more anti-oxidants than hot green tea. My problem is solved. I eat so much at night. I will skip dinner. Actually, I won’t eat anything after 6 pm. In that book ‘Lose weight and not your mind’ the author said that your stomach gets sleepy and that it’s at its best between 7 am -10 am. Oh! The book's name was ‘Don’t lose your mind, Lose your weight.’ Maybe I will follow the reverse diet! Have heavy breakfast, comparatively less heavy lunch and little dinner. May be I will just have fruits at night. There is an apple lying in the fridge.

Fridge. There is ice-cream in the fridge.

P.S- I am in the ‘last line’ stage. Everyday

P.P.S- I missed blogging. Lawyering is keeping me on my toes. So many blogs to read!

Just another woman's take on 'Kiss of Love'...

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Tue, 11 Nov 2014 17:55:00 +0000

So suddenly out of nowhere, kissing in public makes you a rebel, an activist against moral policing. It makes you the flag bearer of justice and a soldier of free living. The youth of India want to kiss.

It all started when a clueless political party decided to vandalize an uptown café in Calicut, because a news report proclaimed that immoral activities in the form of kissing and hugging was happening inside. Angered by the depravity that the political party was indulging in, a group of young bloods decided to launch a drive against such moral policing. Thus, ‘KISS OF LOVE’ was born and now everyone wants to kiss their way to a massive social reform.

Now would I kiss in public? Ok, let me rephrase this. Would I as a woman, have the audacity to smooch the one I like, before the lovely audience that the citizens of my country make? Would I ??? NO, and it is not because I hate kissing (don’t be obtuse) or because I have truckloads of respect for our sanskaar and sabhyata. It is just that I don’t think that our country is mentally developed enough to accept public display of affection.

Let us for a minute imagine a scene. You and the one you ~~currently~~ love just got out after enjoying a lovely meal at the restaurant that you frequent. Everything has been perfect and the day is beautiful. The gentle whirling of the wind suddenly sounds like a John Mayer track and you two are having that moment which just has to be made better with a kiss. And Kiss you do. Kiss you do, a little afraid that your relatives might be around somewhere . Kiss you do, as aunties and uncles of your colony pass by. Kiss you do, as a lone auto driver stares on and kiss you do, as a biker records a video of you smooching, for his own private enjoyment later that night. Now, tell me, was the risk worth it?

I was not aware of the ‘Kiss of Love’ event until one of my colleagues told me about it. “Hey, guess what? People are going to gather at Marine drive on 2^nd November and kiss. They are saying that it is some kind of a protest against moral policing” she said, showing me the Facebook page of the event, which had by then crossed 60000 likes, with around 7000 declaring that they will be a part of this drive. We laughed about it, imagining Emraan Hashmi style kissing happening outside the TV box, in our own Marine drive. In a country that has redefined porn to include MMS of a woman sleeping in a public transport bus, unaware that her saree is innocently displaying her navel, much to the pleasure of the onlookers; we were planning a kiss protest, which can easily be mistaken for a Guinness book of world record attempt.

The problem does not lie in a few politicians who have taken up moral policing as their latest political propaganda. The problem lies in all of us. We perceive a kiss as the initiation of foreplay, a sexual stimulation and not as a way of displaying love or affection. A kiss according to us, has more to do with the fire in the loins than the spark in the heart. We are structured to think that way, thanks to the years of declaring everything including love, a taboo. We as a country, need to change.

They share images of the sculptures in Khajuraho, validating that India is the land of Kamasutra and that kiss is part of our sexy culture. They say that we live in a society where hatred in displayed publicly and crimes happen in broad daylight. They say that if hate is publicly allowed, why not love? They even seriously point out that kissing is their fundamental right, part of their liberty. It is all very true, but we should also remind ourselves that we have bigger problems to counter than the denial of street kissing.

The kiss of love drive that happened in a quaint little town in Kerala, has taken over the country by storm. Every college is suddenly flexing a muscle and hosting a kissing party. All in the name of social reform. But the true intention behind it is lost. Moral policing has taken a back seat. It has become more of a comical outburst than a fight. The ‘Kiss of Love’ event that happened in my city, saw only a handful of protesters, but a tsunami of men who had come to watch the live lip-lock ceremony.

So, do I want to kiss before an audience like that? I don’t. Do you?

P.S- Not every city in our country is metropolitan .Not everyone is modern.

P.P.S- Let me ask you something?Would the protest against moral policing have received such publicity, had it been a candle march instead of a kiss drive?

KARUTTAPPA.....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 04:05:00 +0000

http://sketchindia.files.wordpress.com/

Rumour has it that his wife saw him applying soot on their baby’s beautiful white face.

Karuttappa did not believe his mother. His father would never do such an unimaginable thing. Why would a father colour his 1 year old baby girl’s face with dirt? No, it was certainly a lie formulated by his hallucinating mother. The rumour spread like wildfire across the village but Karuttappa never believed his mother. She never truly loved her husband.

Karuttappa was as dark as the moonless night in which he was born. By the time he could walk, he was obese and certified his legitimacy by looking exactly like his dark skinned father. He was a good child, kind, intelligent and ever so humble, just like his father. His mother was everything he was not. Fair, arrogant and aware of the impact her beauty left on anyone who crossed her way. She kept telling him that he and his father had skin the colour of processed tea that was made in the factory which his family ran. Karuttappa knew that his father would have never got such a catch had it not been an alliance brought by his rich aunt. Money bought everything, even women, the kid learnt early in life. He was eight when he was gifted a baby sister, as fair as his mother. Exactly a year later, his father became the hot topic as the man who coloured his fair skinned daughter, black.

Karuttappa always craved to be his mother’s first preference, who cooed over his sister. He was his father’s pet but that was mostly because his father was too embarrassed to be seen in public with the newly born. He always wondered why but never enquired much due to the fear of losing importance even in his father’s eyes. He and his father were dark. His mother made sure they both knew about it.

By the time he was 27, Karuttappa hated his own skin. His mother found a clueless fair skinned village girl and they were married in a fortnight. No courtship and no stolen kisses, but he did not have time to brood, for he was happy that he had married a beautiful girl. He loved her and she loved him back with the same fervid conviction. While his mother visited him every month with fresh contempt for his dark skin and her constant fear that his children would resemble him, his wife loved him and his colour. Among these conflicting views by the two most important women in his life, he chose the one that he was used to.

Two years down the marriage lane, his wife declared that she was pregnant. Karuttappa rejoiced and the entire family was quick to come down with gifts for his carrying wife. While his father hugged him with teary eyes, his mother filled his ears with ways to make his child enter this world as a fair skinned baby. Make your wife drink Saffron milk every day, she said. He believed every word she uttered.

His disinterested wife obliged to his antics. She gulped down saffron milk twice a day, since her husband did not want to take a chance by limiting it to one. She sat through the poojas that he conducted in their house, tolerating the Brahmins who did not comprehend a single mantra that came out of their trained mouth. She loved her husband and cursed her mother-in-law for making a beautiful man hate himself. She also believed that their baby must have been too tired of being subjected to so many complicated rituals that she decided to enter the world a month before schedule. A premature yet healthy, fair skinned daughter was born. Karuttappa wept as he kissed his newly born baby girl. The Gods had listened to him. His progeny would be spared of the embarrassment that his colour has brought upon him. His wife kept silent, amused by the display of emotions by her handsome husband.

The news of Karuttappa fathering a fair little girl became a topic that garnered much interest among the villagers. While the prudent section believed that the baby might have acquired the colour of her mother, the rest vouched that Karuttappa’s wife must have shared her bed with another fair skinned man which resulted in the birth of this beautiful little girl. The possible debauchery of his wife became a subject of heated discussion even in the Toddy shops and one night when Karuttappa decided to grab a few drinks, the drunkards decided to debate about the legitimacy of his daughter right in front of him. A brawl followed but died when Karuttappa fell on the ground and wailed. They were quick to leave the weeping man alone.

The next day, a fresh topic of debate was delivered to the villagers.

Rumour has it that his wife saw him applying soot on their baby’s beautiful white face.

P.S- I am back to Kochi after a much needed Diwali break. Went home for a week after almost a year and boy do I feel happy. :)

P.P.S- Please read before you comment. I would be glad.

A MAN & HIS HAIRSTYLE.....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 10 Oct 2014 12:52:00 +0000

“The worse the haircut, the better the man.”― John Green

Men have been taking John Green quite seriously. At any given point of the day, if I look around, I can find men with hairstyles that can make a poet forget everything about poetry and force an atheist to pick up a cross. May be I know nothing about style.

Back when I was a child, I remember judging boys based on their hairstyles. Long hair meant drummer/guitarist/ kidnapper/ don’t take the Parle G biscuit he offered you/ Tamil movie villain’s side kick; while an Anil Kapoor style haircut meant decent/ God fearing/ accept the Parle G biscuit that is offered/ saint who will one day crack the IIT exams/hero who will save the girl from the Tamil movie villain’s long haired side kick. Life was simple back then. But as I grew up, barbers around the world began to commit serious scissor mistakes, paving way to some questionable styles. It was all approved in the name of Fashion. When Beckham got himself a Mohawk, the Indian male population went berserk and ran a trimmer on the sides of their heads leaving a row of hair on the middle which was then styled with some Parachute coconut oil.

But nothing hit the Indian hair scene as much as the word ‘Spikes’ did. Mani, our gardener from Trichy was the first one to get spikes. Actually no, I remember how back when I had a boy cut, every morning meant staring at the hair strands standing up at odd places and putting them back in place with the help of tap water or my saliva, whichever was nearer. Spikes make my tongue sweat.

My brother recently got himself a ‘Honey Singh’ haircut, where the top portion is kept long and the sides barely there. To state the fact, my brother looks like an Indian version of Frankenstein. Since he is a teenager living in an age where the newspapers are filled with reports on children committing suicide over simple reasons like getting scolded, my parents have accepted his personal preference towards mad kick hairstyles.

I want to blame our cute oriental neighbours for this. They look grand in everything they sport. Straight hair, front bangs, messy hair-dos, random rainbow hair colour, spikes and punk influenced haircuts; it looks like they are custom made for every single thing. But that is not our case. No Sir, we certainly not that blessed. Sport a messy hairdo and they mistake you for a street urchin. Get an Emo haircut and your mother will check the yellow pages to contact the local Tantrik. Use excessive gel to style your hair and your grandmother would innocently ask if you were licked on the head by a cow. We my brown friend are definitely not that lucky.

My point is that I miss simple men. Men who are not obsessed with the shape of their eyebrows, the hairlessness of their chest or the smoothness of their jaw line. I want men who respect their two day stubble and indulge in mathematics that is not limited to counting the packs on their abs. I want men with hair styles that make them look terrestrial.

I also miss seeing my brother with a haircut that affirms that he indeed has a human skull underneath all that hair.

Somewhere, Anil Kapoor smiles.

P.S- RIP my favourite Mr.R.K.Narayan. Malgudi days will always be read, whatever stage of life I am in.

P.P.S- I wonder why I chose litigation. No time at all. I had to somehow update this blog. :(

A BRANDED AFFAIR.....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 19 Sep 2014 05:30:00 +0000

It wasn't until college that I began to notice a man’s butt. Actually, it would be fair to say that I began noticing men, in whole and in parts, only after I embarked on the ‘self realization’ journey called college. I was a convent school product, a girl who based her entire judgment on Men-kind, solely on the specimen that her dad was. My Dad is a banker, usually seen wearing a simple shirt and black trousers, both bought from a certain shop called ‘A to Z fashionzz’ at New Market, Bhopal. Malls did not exist and our family owed it to the pot bellied man at A to Z fashionzz (fashion made better with a double z) for filling up our wardrobes with clothes which he believed where ‘In the Season’. We never cared or knew much about the word called ‘BRANDED’. Except for the VIP and Groversons undergarment, our clothes were well, just clothes.

What do you do when you are this socially awkward person, one who has never stepped out of her home solo in the past 17 years of her life and is suddenly states away from her family, attending her first day of college? What you do is, you make friends and ignite the fire of friendship that would not stand the test of time. The first time I visited a coffee shop was in my 1^st year of college, unless ‘Amer Bakery Hut’ and ‘Bajrang Sweets &Namkeen’ from Bhopal, qualify as one too. Me and my two newly made friends would sit at Barista, play truth and dare over shots of strong Espresso and just pretend to not look at the men passing by. It was in this very Barista that I found out about this brand called Levi Strauss. The leader of our group was this beautifully bold girl from Delhi, one who included a man in her ‘Cute hai’ list based on two points- a) Looks b) the red tag on the piece of jeans enveloping his right ass cheek, screaming Levi’s. She was the siren and I was the nerd, pretending to be a siren and badly losing the game. She was a simple girl, a goddess at heart but we were all just teenagers trying to fit in.

During the subsistence of this challenging friendship, I learnt a few things. An underwear with a waistband that screamed ‘Jockey’ was much more important that a man’s IQ, unless he is wearing a ‘Playboy’, in which case his IQ level does not even matter. I learnt the art of checking out a man’s butt before I notice his face. For someone who only used ‘Cuticura Deo’, I learnt about perfumes by Chanel, Nina Ricci, Dior, Davidoff and a certain celebrity called Christina Aquilera. Even though I never owned a Louis Vuitton bag, I corrected everyone who pronounced it the wrong way. I was trying to do college right.

It was in college that I found out about people who aren’t exactly swimming in the rich category, but will go to any length just to portray that they are. The first man I dated had a second hand Mercedes, with doors that threatened to leave the car the moment the speedometer hit 60. This guy had no personality, no intelligence, nor a face to make up for all the deficiencies. What he did have was a Levi’s jeans, a Pepe tshirt, imported Puma shoes and a Hidesign wallet. Inside the wallet he had 70 rupees, enough to buy him a cup of Green tea from one of the posh coffee shops in Cochin, The Cocoa Tree. I drank sparkling water, which thankfully was free. Of course, I dumped him after 2 months over a phone call, while stuffing my mouth with French fries. I was 19.

From the scholarship money that the bank gave me at the end of 2^nd year of college, I bought my first Levi’s jeans worth Rs 2,400/-. Slim fit and bold curve, with the red tag perfectly placed over my right ass cheek. I worked out at the gym so that it was possible for me to wear tops short enough to not cover up the red tag. I literally lived in that pair of jeans until my mother bought me a new pair from ‘A to Z Fashionzz’, belonging to a brand called ‘ZOLA’. This particular jeans was 600 Rupees and as much as I hate to admit, was a dream to get into. How could I portray my love for it in a world where brands dominated your status? I even thought of cutting out the tag from the Levi’s jeans and stitching it on the Zola one, but did not do so for the lack of needle skills. I decided to give up on brands.

A person is not the brand he wears. My father still shops at A to Z fashionzz and is the best person alive on this planet. The closest he has got to brands, is Peter England and Wills Lifestyle office wear. My brother hoards on everything branded, but secretly prefers to wear flip-flops bought from this Barkheda market at Bhopal for 150 rupees, over the Nike one that costed my father a whopping 1299. My mother happily owns an LV bag without knowing what LV stands for and carries her lunch box containing sambar rice in it to office. Her ignorance makes her adorable.

Coming to me, I have given up searching for that red tag on a man’s butt, except occasionally, because well……..some habits die hard.

P.S- I do prefer brands when it comes to cosmetics. Call me a hypocrite!

P.P.S- Don’t hate me for not replying to the comments on the previous post. I do not have an internet facility except at work. I blog when I find time. I cherish each and every comment. You know I do. J

The Essential Ingredients of a Fairness Advertisement....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 05 Sep 2014 15:25:00 +0000

I am shocked that no Indian author has written a book titled ‘Guide to Fairness Advertisements for Dummies’. In a country where beauty is skin fair and a whitening cream is a better invention than polio drops, there is a requirement for a precise guide to shooting a fairness advertisement. Since, I grew up in a household where my grandmother applied Vicco Turmeric cream while my beautifully dark grandfather swore by Fair & Lovely, I know a thing or two about fairness creams. Also, being a person who conscientiously took up the 7 day Emami fairness challenge, I have all the required qualifications to write this post. By this post, I mean ‘The Essential Ingredients of a Fairness Advertisement’.

So, the first essential ingredient of a fairness advertisement, besides the obvious Fairness Cream (which by the way should camouflage the names of harmful chemicals like Hydroquinone, Mercury, Clobetasol a.k.a steroids somewhere in between the long list of ingredients at the back of the tube) is an actor/actress. Depending on the budget, you may either choose a known but struggling one or a 100 crore club member. In fact, it doesn’t even matter as long as they pledge that your product which is yet to come in the market is the reason behind their success and popularity. Don’t worry, people will buy it because ‘naïve’ is much more than just a word.

The second essential ingredient is believing in the philosophy called ‘FUCK SCIENCE’. You need to come up with an explanation as to why dark people are dark and white people are, well white. Make sure you mention the word ‘MELANIN’ and show a pictographic representation of the layers in the skin. Refer to this already existing fairness brand called ‘FAIR LOOK’ which gives a perfect justification for the darkness of African people and fairness of the white clan. The actress Preeti Jhangiani, of the Mohabbatein fame (the first essential ingredient) says “Look at the Caucasians, they are fair because they live in cold regions where the sun shines less, making the melanin content low. Look at the Blacks, they are dark because they live in hot and humid regions where the sun shines more, making the melanin content high.”

The third essential ingredient is a fake Sadhu, who also holds a doctorate degree in Ayurveda. Sadhu’s are important because well, you are in India and sadhus rule. Make sure the chosen one talks in crude Hindi making statements like ‘CHAALIS ANMOL JADIBOOTIYAAN KA EK ANMOL MISHRAN’. Pure Hindi apparently makes people believe in your credibility.

The fourth and the most essential ingredient is the existence of a ‘Before & After’ story. For your perusal, I am mentioning a few stories that other brands have included in their advertisements.

This is the story of Ragini who was single at 28 because of her dark complexion. A magical whitening cream enters her life like a genie and grants her three wishes- White face, a groom who would divorce her the moment she gets tanned during their honeymoon at Pattaya and three, a totally different voice. Wonder how that happened....

The story of Priya who neither had the qualifications to be an air-hostess nor the required fairness. In came the whitening cream and now her face glows like a bulb's filament . She still does not have the qualifications to be an air-hostess, but atleast she is fair.

The final ingredient is Photoshop because how else will you come up with a photo showing the shade wise transformation of your actress from suicidal & soot faced to a jovial & slim snow woman in just 7 days.

I think I have covered it all. If not, kindly let me know by commenting below because I have been seriously considering writing the book I mentioned in the very first line of this post. It would undoubtedly be a best seller. You bet?

P.S- No blogging or blog reading for the next 5 days. I am celebrating Onam. Burp!
P.P.S- This one was posted from Mobile. So kindly forgive me for format errors if any.

The Curious Case of 'CAN DO BETTER'.....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 11:46:00 +0000

I have always been a ‘Can do better’ person. It is a person who innocently and implicitly makes fruitful promises but delivers only 80% or severely less. Right from my inception, I was looked upon as a promising entity that would grow up only to bring laurels to the family and possibly find the cure for cancer. I was the answer or so they thought. But as is universally applicable to all expectations, this too was only a premeditated resentment and I proved it so by scoring an 88.71% in my kindergarten. The reward was a report card that screamed ‘Very Good.Can do better.’ and that marked my tryst with this mighty phrase.

It is funny how parents vouch on the genius of the fruits of their loins. The belief that their child contains this distinct quality, this miraculous caliber that can surpass every hint of brilliance available till date. Maybe it is just infinite affection but the fact is, it irritates the hell out of me.

I was always an average student. More outside than inside the classroom, I never posed a threat to the crème de la crème of my class. I was the student who forged her father’s signature on her chemistry term paper because she scored a 9/20 and I was the one who faked a blackout because the maths pre-board exam was a little too out of syllabus for my interest. Basically, I was the kid who spent a night with Onions stuck under her armpits because some enlightened idiot told her that doing so would bring up a fever which would be the perfect escape from the physics viva scheduled to be held the next day. The fever never happened. The viva voce did. But through all my misdemeanors, I was always believed in, both by my family and my teachers. They would shake their heads in disappointment, look straight into my eyes and say ‘You can do better’. Their comical beliefs amused me but all I did was nod in affirmation.

Then I cleared an all India exam and entered one of the National Law Schools. To be frank, I was shocked and I still believe that the electronic device that checked the OMR sheet was infected by a bug. May be I was just plain lucky. Either way, it gave a positive reaffirmation to my family. It made them believe that I actually could do better. I continued my stint as an average student, was the opposite of Gandhi while writing papers but still the professors persistently told me how I could do better. It got so bad that I once just asked my dad as to why he believed so much in me. His answer was ‘Lord Hanuman forgot about his divine abilities because of a curse and had to be reminded of it. Once he realised his true potential, there was no looking back.’ My dad has a terrible sense of humour.

So I decided to actually do better. I joined a law firm and attempted to genuinely do the best I could. I tried hitting deadlines, drafted the sexiest writ petitions in the history of High Courts and researched on the most mundane subjects entrusted upon me. The highlight is the fact that I did do better. For the past one week I was neck deep in this case of a thermal power plant giant and drafted the finest petition that my dying grey cells could come up with and I was sure that there was no room for improvement. I was at my very best and this is exactly why I was confident that my boss would love my work. So as I sat before him carrying around myself an aura of expectation, he said “This is good. Very good. But, you can do better.” I felt like a punctured puffer fish.

It is then that I realized that ‘CAN DO BETTER’ is a phrase that is one step ahead of me. Pleasing someone with my infinite potential should never be my forte. I should be pleased with myself and right now, I am.

I wonder how Hanuman would have felt if after realizing his true potential, he went to Lanka, allowed the Asuras to light his tail and then burnt the entire empire with the fire on his back, only to come back to a Sri Ram who would mouth out the words ‘CAN DO BETTER’.

May be I should ask my dad.

P.S- September is my birthday month. Just saying. :D

BECAUSE YOUR VIRGINITY BELONGS TO THE SOCIETY....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Wed, 20 Aug 2014 05:55:00 +0000

The western lifestyle is a bad influence on our Indian civilization which is a beautiful rose. A beautiful rose which is a combination of many petals, where each petal is designed to stand for our supreme Indian culture, unique belief, traditional values, societal norms and declared taboos. Our lifestyle deserves to be called sacrosanct and anyone who transgresses our settled path is an evil black cat. We have an invisible wall around our nation, higher than the Great Wall of China that expels every western influence that attempts to trespass our moral lines. In case they succeed in entering our domain and affect our children, we continue to hold our guards up and declare our children as unworthy of our love. We are the greatest society in the world.

Our daughters are our own and their virginity belongs to us. It is her body, but it should be touched under our approval. She does not have the right to violate her body and violation it is because we as a society forbid sexual liberty. We have our moral codes, that may be archaic with no strong basis, but they are still our rules. Rigid and dominant rules.

So, she broke the rules by letting a man touch her and liking the fact that he did. Love which as hard it is to believe happens without giving any value to society, religion, status, money or such important factors. We abhor such depravity, such lewdness. Sex is sacrosanct, subject to a condition precedent known as the holy matrimony and any violation of this supreme law is blasphemy. Love is unnecessary. Marriage comes above sexual liberty and we do not believe in the freedom of a human body.

We do love our daughter’s, we really do. But it all comes with an added responsibility of letting them know that they are not anything like the boys. That their actions can bring shame, condemnation and disgrace. That they are like a piece of paper while the boys are needles. The paper will be the one to be torn, forever. But what if she wanted the man to touch her, well, that is just unacceptable. Her body belongs to her family, the society, the religion she blindly follows because we say so and God who is omnipresent only so that he can judge her for her sexual activities.

It is funny how much guilt a woman feels when she thinks dirty. Forget thinking dirty, it is funnier when you realize that you feel guilty even when you hold hands with someone you like. Holding his hand while walking on an empty road and suddenly letting go on seeing as much as a random tea stall. That is how it is and that is what we are shaped into.

All I am saying is raise your daughters in a way that makes them love their own body. Teach them that they hold the leash of their own destiny and that their decisions should always be there own. Let them know that their virginity belongs to them and if they want to save it till after marriage, it should be their own little divine choice. Tell her that her sexuality doesn’t belong to the society and that her body is her own.

But do ask her to make sure that her choices never make her regret. Now that you have done so, leave her alone.

P.S- Judge yourself not me for the thoughts you had about me after reading this little piece. J

WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIVE YEARS ??

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Mon, 11 Aug 2014 09:59:00 +0000

It is scientifically proven that you can physically live only in the present. You can chip your nails all you want trying to dig out the past or fry some serious grey cells stressing about the future, but your body shall continue playing hockey with the present. No other choice man.

So now that we have established that we are residents of the present, I find it bizarre when someone asks me “Where do you see yourself in the next five years?”. It is the most baseless, mundane and garbage of a question in the history of questions. You are supposed to have a six by six vision into the future and know exactly where your life is headed to. Anything less and you are a disgrace. I have battled this demonic question through school, college, job interviews and conversations with the enlightened gentry, being the friends of my father. My every answer rebutted the previous one and my conscious hid her face inside a used paper bag. This question truly needs to be eliminated.

I really don’t know where my life is headed to. I don’t know where I will be in the next five years. Maybe I would be soaring in this lawyer profession of mine, or maybe I would be married with a kid on its way, or maybe, I would be in a hospital undergoing a colonoscopy. I could be anywhere, doing anything and living anyway. My present is all I have to fret about right now. Yes, right now.

Now I have reasons to substantiate my aversion to that question. The validation is that not once have I lived the vision I saw of myself five years back. In school, when Shiny Miss asked me where I see myself in the next five years, I told her that I see myself studying to be a neurosurgeon. Of course I said that only to make an impact, because 11^th grade came and I opted for commerce. Then came law school where the same question was repeated and the answer this time was “I won’t be a litigation lawyer. I see myself working in a top tier corporate law firm”. Of course, I became a litigation lawyer. I can hear the universe trying to stifle a giggle.

There is nothing wrong in not knowing where your life is headed to. It is OK not to have a plan. You are allowed to let life take its own course. You are fine! I try treating my present well and I prepare for the immediate future which my myopic vision can see, i. e ‘What clothes should I wear for the upcoming wedding of the senior I hate.’ or ‘May be I should start a recurring deposit to save some money because I need to buy an iPhone next summer’. Sometimes, just sometimes I try to go a little further by exercising 4 times a week because I know that this body of mine needs to be healthy to pole vault over the insane hurdles that the future has charted out for me.

The past five years have changed me as a person. I do not hold the same interests, I do not carry with me the same mentality and I have very less in common with the person I was five years back. I have evolved and I have learnt. I have become an upgraded version of me, with many bugs removed. I did not foresee any of this. I did not plan. I am comfortable with myself.

I am not the Planning Commission of India to come out with a five year plan. Come to think of it, even their plans rarely work out.

Why kill a beautiful present?

DAISY VILLA

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 01 Aug 2014 05:23:00 +0000

The church bell tolled thrice on a lazy afternoon at Sarzora, surprising the lone crow perched upon the ornate Iron Gate. Ambrose sat outside the cemetery, leaning against the moss covered compound wall unaffected by the crowd in black pouring out of the entrance. He freed the cloth tied around his balding head and wiped off the sweat trickling down his neck, now staring at the woman wearing a large black veiled hat. He was amused by her act of lifting the veil to dab away the tears escaping her droopy eyes, making sure that her fake eyelashes do not come off in the process. Must be the wife of the man whose grave I dug, he thought.

“Have you no shame, staring at women like that? Ambrose, are you deaf?”

Startled by this unexpected interruption, Ambrose looked up at the man wearing a white clergy robe bending down upon him. Why, of course, it was the fat priest of the Church. “A man like me can only afford such entertainments. Why father? You don’t like looking at women? Oh I forgot, you are a proud celibate.” Ambrose replied, squinting to escape the violent sun rays toying with his eyes. The priest wasn’t new to his verbal diarrhea. Calming his rising anger by squeezing the rosary in his palm, he replied “Here is your two hundred rupees. Even a baboon has more decency than you. Now leave!”. Ambrose stood up, intimidated by the composed stance of the priest but hid it soon with a sneer. “I heard that Mr. Dias from the house near the village hospital is on ventilator. He will die, no father? I will be right here waiting.” Ambrose said pointing at the ground “Call no one else but me to dig his hole. Two hundred rupees yeah? ”. The priest could do nothing but shake his head as Ambrose snatched the money from between his fingers and walked away humming an old Goan tune.

Daisy Villa was a hut. A dwarf of a house with just one room and a veranda, the right side of which was transformed into a makeshift kitchen. But for Ambrose, this small dwelling was a villa and he made sure everyone called it so by hanging an old Aluminium plate reading ‘DAISY VILLA’ on the barbed fence. Daisy, his mother, sat near the kerosene stove and was clearly agitated by its uselessness. She jolted as Ambrose dropped a black smelly plastic bag beside her.

“Old woman, I bought some fine prawns. There is a coconut left, yeah? Make my favourite prawns cooked in coconut milk tonight, yeah?”.

Daisy cocked her head as she said “Prawns? You wasted all that money on prawns? What about some kerosene to light this bloody stove! Ambrose, you need a woman to set you straight. You are 41 without a wife.”

Oh, how Ambrose loved to see her eyes blazing. She was all he had and all he would ever need. He cupped her pale face between his palms and blew her a kiss.

“Mr.Dias is dying tonight. I will visit the village hospital tonight to know for sure. This means I will be digging his grave tomorrow. The priest would give me two hundred rupees and I will get your bloody kerosene, yeah? And no! I don’t want a wife. I like this life of you and me.” Ambrose smiles on seeing Daisy soften. “Now I will go and chop some wood so that you can cook these prawns for me. Ok, old woman?”.

Daisy let out a sigh and lowered her head as she said “Ambrose, only you can be so happy on hearing another man’s death. Tomorrow when I die, I want to see this very excitement while you dig up my grave.”

“God doesn’t love you mother. You are here to stay forever” screamed Ambrose as he struck the log with an axe, splitting it into two.

That night after finishing a portion of the coconut prawn curry, Ambrose locked up his old Daisy within the safe confines of his Daisy Villa and made his way towards the Village hospital. The hospital was never a first choice of the rich landlords of Sarzora, who always went to town for treating as much as a common cold. It was either imminent death or an emergency that brought the affluent to the village hospital. Mr.Dias was one such case. At 85 years of age, with 3 wives and 8 children, Mr.Dias was a piping hot subject among the villagers. For a twig of a man that he was, Ambrose wondered as to how he survived so long. Tonight, the hospital gallery was bustling with people wearing rich clothes and leather shoes. Ambrose caught hold of a yawning security guard and enquired “Is he dead yet?”

“Ambrose will you ever show some compassion?” the young guard replied.

“Oh please Louis. You and I know how this works. I come here and you tell me if someone will die or not. I go home and sleep, only to wake up for digging up another grave. These deaths are important to me.” Ambrose wasn’t new to such a reception from Louis.

Louis looked around and whispered “ Ok. I heard that they will remove him from the machine in half an hour. I think the man will die before midnight.”

“Thank God for another grave!” Ambrose exclaimed, “That daft bugger was anyway past his expiry date.” Poor Louis was left gaping at the retreating silhouette of his grave digger friend.

Morning came and Ambrose slept outside the cemetery compound while Mr Dias was being lowered into a freshly dug hole. The bell tolled thrice, yet again surprising the crow perched on the iron gate. “Hey Ambru! Here, take your two hundred rupees.” Ambrose grinned and raised his right arm, his eyes remaining shut. He opened his eyes on feeling the notes being pressed onto his palm and saw the priest walking away.

“Any more deaths that need my digging, eh father?”.

The priest stopped, looked up for a few seconds as if waiting for some divine intervention and continued walking.

‘I must buy some kerosene for the stove. No, I will get a shawl for my old Daisy. That would finish off my money. I wonder if anyone would die today. Matilda’s husband had pneumonia, no?’ with a mind chock-full of thoughts, Ambrose made his way towards the nearest cloth shop. It was only by late evening that Ambrose entered his villa, with a cream shawl hidden under his dirty shirt. The lamp wasn’t burning this evening, leaving Ambrose annoyed because this only meant that Daisy had gone to their neighbour Xavier’s house, to watch Television. Ambrose took a deep breath and decided to lie on the veranda waiting for his old woman to come back. God! He was hungry.

Ambrose woke up on hearing Louis call his name. How long did he sleep? “I searched for you everywhere! I came home by 5, but you weren’t here. Daisy is in the village hospital. Xavier found her unconscious near the stove and rushed her to the hospital. Come now!”

The hospital wasn’t packed tonight and there were no rich clothes or leather shoes filling up the gallery. “Is my Daisy ok, Louis?” Ambrose asked, scared to look him in the eye. Silence was his only reply. Louis signalled the village doctor who walked up to them and asked, “Is he the son?”. On receiving a nod, the doctor looked at Ambrose and without a tinge of sentiment declared “Your mother Daisy? Yeah so she died. Heart attack. Sorry for your loss”. He tapped his shoulders gently and walked away.

Everyone watched as Ambrose dug out a hole. The grave digger, digging his mother’s grave. It was a vision, of course. Sure to be a sensational topic for discussion. But Ambrose was oblivious to it all. He kept digging, unaware of the sweat mixing with his tears. “Ambrose, only you can be so happy on hearing another man’s death. Tomorrow when I die, I want to see this very excitement while you dig up my grave.” Her words kept ringing in his ears. He tried to mute down the voices in his head by digging faster. Frustrated, Ambrose wailed as he fell on his knees and lay curled up inside the newly dug grave.

The bell tolled thrice and Daisy slept peacefully. No one stopped Ambrose as he walked out of the cemetery. “Want Two hundred rupees?” the village lunatic mocked, holding out two dried Eucalyptus leafs as Ambrose walked past him. Louis never saw Ambrose again and neither did anyone else. The village wondered till his story decayed. The church found a new grave digger.

Like the wax left behind on the desk, reminding us of a candle that once burnt, all that was left behind was a hut. The dirty aluminium plate hanging on the fence screaming ‘DAISY VILLA’.

P.S- Some stories are simple. Yet you write them because they are stories nonetheless.

P.P.S- That beautiful house I saw in Varkala, was the inspiration. Also, for those who don't know, Sarzora is a village in South Goa. :)

THE INNOCENCE OF A CHILD...

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Fri, 25 Jul 2014 10:00:00 +0000

No I am not a mother. Neither am I Sridevi from English Vinglish walking down the streets of New York, talking in crude Hindi to a total French hotness about how children are anything but innocent. Actually the only experience I hold regarding children is the fact that I was once a child and also the added liability of living with an 8 year cousin who sees me as a fluffy punching bag. So I think I can talk about innocence.

Innocence is said to be a lack of guile or corruption and Lata Mangeshkar while singing ‘Bacche man ke sacche’ promoted this very thought of purity in a child. What a big dry joke. I don’t remember being innocent as a child. Maybe I was innocent as an infant or a toddler but that is basically because of the lack of any other option. You cannot cook up an evil master plan when you mother is feeding you Cerelac or when your skull is yet to develop fully. But once I was done with kindergarten, I knew exactly what is to be done to make things work my way. I was a child with evil intentions and this is precisely why my heart doesn’t melt easily when it comes to children.

In my continuing space sharing with my 8 yr old cousin, I have noticed how much she knows about her parent’s emotional quotient with regard to her. To escape tuition which was scheduled at 5 pm, she called up her mother at noon from school and told her how painfully she was battling a stomach ache. Her mother who was in another district, thus unable to drive to her rescue, asked her to rest in the sick room and take the mini-van back home after school. On reaching home at 2 pm, she took over the television and complained of chest pain to my grandmother who made her ailing granddaughter some soupy noodles. By 4 pm she had headache and once it was well past 5, she was attempting hula-hoop while watching Chotta Bheem. They say love makes you fall for every silly trick and this is exactly what was happening. How a kid was able to execute a plan so full of flaws and yet get away with it. Remember, she did not even use the lethal weapon, commonly known as the ‘Fake Crying’. She can articulate emotions even better than Nicholas Spark to escape a scolding. The art of deception is mastered by a child.

I remember the last time I went to a supermarket. I was buying some cereal and in came this cute looking child with his mother. While his mother was filling up her shopping cart, the kid ran to me and started punching my leg. I looked down at the 3 feat tall Mike Tyson who gifted me yet another punch. I yelped and caught hold of his closed fist in an attempt to stop him from landing another blow. He looked at me, grinned and then screamed at a note that would put any Opera singer to shame. I don’t remember what happened next, but let’s just say that the entire supermarket now thinks that I am a child abuser.

Where was I? Yes, the innocence of a child. It is funny how we see ignorance as innocence. Children are ignorant. Ignorant of politics, religion, sex, social taboos and such man made factors. Ignorant of stress, competition and practicality. It is precisely this ignorance that is mistaken as innocence. Why else do you have to teach a child not to hit another person, steal, lie or create a ruckus? Innocence is taught, not gifted.

Now don’t tell me that the examples I mentioned were of exceptionally talented evil kids, because they are not. Ok, may be the supermarket boxer was, but that is not the point. The point is to point out one child who doesn't manipulate his/her family.

Actually, if you think about it, parents are innocent.

P.S- I love kids. I really do. Sacchi!

How To Have The Perfect Matrimonial Profile- FOR MEN....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 06:54:00 +0000

Are you a 30 year old guy with no luck in the girlfriend department? Are you the father of a son who is an IIT product, earns a few lakhs per month and is eligible for marriage at 26? Are you a 29 year old man who has banged a dozen chicks, is currently dating 3 girls in a single slot but still wants to marry a virgin girl your mother chooses? Or are you an 18 year old boy who is looking for true love in a way that is approved by the Indian society? Whoever you are, matrimonial website is your answer.

Making a profile on a matrimonial website is an art. As someone who has adequate experience in this field, I know what it takes to be noticed. Women have it easy since all they require is a good display picture and a bio that reads “Traditional but with a modern approach”. A little assistance from the family photographer who swiftly clicks a picture of her with a tilted head and hands resting on a fake midget pillar stone, she is ready to conquer the matrimonial website. But for you my dear men, it is not that easy. You need to flash your goodness and awesomeness shamelessly to lure the citizens of the kingdom of muliebrity. You need a profile that makes a woman skip a heartbeat when she receives the Interest request sent by you. You need to be the lion, standing out from a pack of unshaven babies.

A matrimonial profile can be divided into two parts- Personal information and Partner preference. Personal Information is that worm on the hook which will help you catch a good looking fish. You need to brazenly parade your goodness and masculinity like the birds of paradise. Being a girl who has been enlisted in one of the premium matrimonial sites by her beautiful parents, I do receive a few interest requests every now and then. Some of them indeed caught my interest and I am pasting a few screen shots of their ‘Personal Information’ for your perusal.

Next, you need to provide details regarding your partner preference. Imagine yourself as a clueless prince in any Disney movie, who is riding his horse aimlessly through forests, searching for his one true love. What would you want your perfect partner to be like? Yet again for your benefit I am pasting a few screenshots of some of the gorgeous proposals that I received. Follow their suit.

It kills me that I couldn’t match up to their partner preference. It kills me that I am not perfect enough. It kills me that my horoscope matches only 50% with theirs. We could have worked it out but the Kundli came in the way. Sigh! May be the next hero will be my Knight in cream lungi.

So my gorgeous men, I hope this helped you. I hope that after reading this you go and register yourself on the matrimonial website that your community believes in. Throw in a few bucks to get your profile highlighted in blue because trust me no one wants to miss a catch like you.

Ok enough of this tomfoolery. In all frankness, being a part of matrimonial websites is crushing down my pride. Self love is diminishing and I am questioning my worth. When you receive such genius proposals, you begin to doubt if you deserve any better. Relatives call it high expectations and the society keeps reminding you how you are a rotting mango at 24. Frankly, I pity my parents. Being part of a society that casts a moral and strict duty on the parents to find a soul mate for their kids is something that I find weird on a personal basis. Being a malayalee is even worse. The moment I hit puberty, my father started investing on gold while my mother kept her Provident Fund untouched for her daughter’s marriage that will happen in a future that isn’t anywhere close.

Dear Mom and Dad, it is not your duty to get me married. It was your duty to raise me and you did it really well. Retire, take your PF and go on a world tour or buy a summer house in Malibu. You truly deserve it. Now, let us talk about the gold that you have collected to gold plate me on my wedding. Well, you can still give it to me. I am not rude to say no to such generosity. Why make marriage a condition prerequisite? Just saying.

P.S- I am not against matrimonial websites. Many found love through it. I am just talking for myself here. :)

SUITCASE LOVE....

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Thu, 10 Jul 2014 09:57:00 +0000

There are certain bonds that secretly exist. A relationship that surpasses all human understanding. One such bonding is between an Indian man and his suitcase. A suitcase must be an inanimate object, worth a few hundreds, but this lifeless entity is seen as a treasure chest by his Indian owner, only empty.

Like many fellow Indians, we have more suitcases than people in our house. Hard suitcase, trolley suitcase, duffel bags, a smaller hard suitcase and an even smaller one for hand luggage, we have it all. We also have a few airbags, of all available and possible sizes. We keep them neatly covered in old lungis and dupattas, to be unveiled only prior to a scheduled journey. My father is very particular about such stately treatment of the suitcases. We don’t understand, he mocks.

Airline travel is not the preferred means of transport for us. More than the reason that for a family which decides to go on a vacation quite instantly, air charges are a bit off budget, it’s the fact that we cannot carry luggage beyond a certain limit that prevents us from choosing flights over trains. You cannot expect a Malayalee settled in Bhopal to visit his Kerala without a few cartons of Atta and a suitcase filled with 20 kilos of apples. That is just not us. So train it mostly is and this is where you can see my father’s boundless love for his mute suitcases. Even before his family can occupy the vacant seats that he booked on Tatkal, he brings out old newspapers and places them below each lower berth. Once this paper protection has been provided, the suitcases are gently placed on top of them, care taken that not even the handle touches the filthy place that is the Indian railway coach. Once they are all tucked in, every piece of luggage is tied to the next one with the help of metal chains so thick that no thief would ever consider stealing the treasure of petticoat and assorted pickles that is inside.

Our place is still abode to a grey suitcase that is as old as me. Bruised with time and covered in an army print suitcase cover, it sits above one of our wardrobes, watching as new additions are made to the family in the form of new suitcases. A glossy black American Tourister is our newest member . My father's love for suitcases goes so deep that he once bought two bottles of Johnnie Walker from the duty free shop at the Dubai airport only for the medium sized trolley suitcase that they were providing for free with it. There should be a soap opera on this subject.

So why am I writing about all this? Well, let’s just say that last week, during a short rail journey to a nearby city, I inadvertently started placing newspapers below the seat to place my humble VIP suitcase.

Turns out, suitcase love is a hereditary disease passed on to me. Thank you Dad. Thank you.

P.S- I missed regular blogging. Also, did you guys participate in the giveaway? It ends this 20th. CLICK HERE TO PARTICIPATE.

THE RED HANDED GIVEAWAY !

noreply@blogger.com (Red Handed) — Wed, 02 Jul 2014 09:41:00 +0000

Finally the giveaway! Hosted by me but starring three amazing women and their unique brands. Frankly speaking, I am not a big fan of giveaways, mainly because I never win them. Actually I do win, but rarely do I get the prize. Last time I won a giveaway, the sponsors asked me to show them an ID proving the fact that my real name was ‘RED HANDED’. Yes, such people exist.

Anyway, revenge is not the agenda behind this giveaway. The only agenda is trying out something different. Writing about women who strive to be different and giving you an opportunity to own a masterpiece made by them. Not because you cannot afford them, but because it’s a gift.

This giveaway stars three brands by three young women, women who became entrepreneurs in their early twenties.

THE THREE WOMEN & THEIR BRANDS ARE-

TARINI NIRULA - who has showcased her bags in Wills India Fashion week and has featured in leading magazines like Vogue, Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan and many others. her designs were covered on NDTV Good Times in their popular show ‘I am too sexy for my shoes’. Her exclusive minaudière's are available at ‘Pernia’s Pop Up Shop’ which is curated by India’s leading stylist, Pernia Qureshi from Aisha fame.

MADHURI MAMGAIN- who is the accessory designer in Anurag Kashyap’s next movie, set to release on 28^thof November 2014. She has even designed the accessory wardrobe forAnushka Sharma, Karan Johar, Ranbir Kapoor, Anita Kanwal, Shahnaz Husain and Feng Shui expert,Gita Kapoor.

SOLE ART by KHUSHBOO REHANI- Just 21 and has a brand of her own. She treats every boring shoe like a canvas and turns it into a brilliant masterpiece. She brings funk to your feet. Just started a sub brand that goes by the name ‘SOLE CRAFTS’. This young lady is brilliant!

WHAT IS UP FOR GRABS ???

‘Fly High’ printed satchel bag is adorned with pretty sparrows and vibrant colours which makes it perfect for a fun day or an evening out with the girls! It comes with an optional silver chain and is priced at Rs 1500/-

The ‘Golden Pearls’ have a delicate pearl and crystal flower sitting pretty on top and have ankle straps to make it even better! It is priced at Rs 1999/-

‘FIND YOUR SOLE MATE’ consists of a pair of canvas shoes for the guy and a pair of ballerina shoes for the girl. TWO PAIRS of hand painted BATMAN themed shoes, one for you and one for the one you love. It is priced at Rs 3000/-

3 winners, 3 humble gifts.

Now just participate in the giveaway already!! For Indian residents only, but if you have an Indian address where we can possibly ship these goodies, hop in!

Giveaway was supposed to start tomorrow, but I am impatient. :D

DONT BASH ME UP. I DO NOT CHOOSE THE WINNERS.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

****NOTE- How to find the POST/SHARE LINK to put in the widget????
You would notice the time showing below your post on facebook or twitter eg-JUSTNOW / 1minute back. Click on it. Now you know! :D :D *****