Life of the Bombay Iyengar

More Indian Than You Think

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 18:11:00 +0000

The best, and I repeat, the BEST experience of Indianness abroad, for me, was in Singapore. So, we were in Mustafa Centre, just shopping randomly as tourists always do (we just love disrupting the daily lives of people) and we reached the section of untensils. The sibling and I, knowing it wasn't our territory, went off in another direction only to be called back. Actually, squealed back, by a very excited Amma. You will not guess what we found. A coffee filter. In Singapore. Actually, a mini-coffee filter. Coffee filters are not available in Mumbai. Also, they are rarely found in South India (my parents checked). And we found it there.

http://www.worldmarket.com/product/ss-indian-coffee-cup-set-and-f.do

The product to the left is the coffee filter and we found it in a golden colour.

On a different note, while Indians are celebrating Valentine's Day, Women's Day, Sister's Day, Brother's Day, Father's Day, Mother's Day and every other just-one-day-to-celebrate-this-because-we-are-too-lazy-to-do-it-all-year Day, the West has more of the following dialogues-
"Why do you need a card for this? This is complete commercialization!"
"Children celebrating Valentine's Day? This is nuts! No! You need to study like those kids in India and China so you can make money out of these cards and not be a victim to it!"
It's funny how they are trying to ape us more and more! Proud to be an Indian moment, please!

While we here in India have mushrooming of gyms just about anywhere (Yes, "Gyms" or as I like to call them "Akhadas"- Hindi for gym, well, a makeshift gym) and the introduction of soul cycle and zumba and what not, the West is taking to the yoga pants and the yoga mats. We? We are just taking to the yoga pants to join the spinning class that just opened up near my place and costs a kidney to join. Yay!

While the West is taking to Jodhpuri chappal and Kolhapuri Chappal

Kolhapuri Chappal http://www.craftsvilla.com/kolhapuri-chappal-for-men-model-b010-1.html

Jodhpuri chappal http://handloomsofindia.com/orange-multicolored-jodhpuri-jutti.html

We here in India are opting for Pumps and Stilettos. All that while we are just one step away from getting the heel stuck in between the tiles laid out as a poor excuse for a sidewalk.

And do I even need to make a mention of the Indian headshake? Is it a yes, a no, a don't know? Foreigners are surprised, shocked and awed at the nod that we make and learn it to perfection. I have seen my friend learn it well and communicate effectively with just a nod. Does it get any better?

What can we do? We Indians are like this only. And we shall make you also like this only. Watch out, world! :)

shakti mills case (Mumbai) .. the circus that ensued

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 19 Aug 2014 13:32:00 +0000

That Hashtag Was My Colleague

Doubting doctors, corrupt cops, jeering lawyers and, of course, mercenary reporters. A middle class woman gang raped in the heart of Mumbai makes for a perfect storm of anxiety and righteousness. But what if the rape survivor is also a journalist? A year after the Shakti Mills gang rape, a colleague of the survivor writes of their reluctant ringside view of the circus of such cases, and the stark lesson that the system will not spare you even if you’re part of the system.
By Sonia Khan | Grist Media – Mon 18 Aug, 2014

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Are You Ready by Shazeen Samad via CC BY 2.0

That hashtag was my colleague.

As #MumbaiGangrape started trending on Twitter on the night of Thursday, August 22, 2013, we were living out a nightmare that we never thought would be ours.

Around 7.30pm, Sandhya*, an editor at the publication we work at, asks me to speak to our two photo interns, Deepak and Megha, who are shooting a photo-essay on the city’s abandoned spaces. They’ve already shot a vacant bungalow and deserted cars, and their next subject is the Shakti Mills compound by the Mahalaxmi Railway Station. The interns have just rung up Neha, their immediate senior. Sandhya doesn’t have any details, but can make out that one of them is hurt, because Neha is rushing with them to a hospital.

A little anxious, I try both their numbers but cannot get through. If she’s fractured a bone, it’s going to be so frustrating, I think. I ring Deepak the intern again. This time he answers, but before I can ask if everything is alright, he tells me he can’t speak and hands the phone to Abha, another colleague who ran into them on the way to the hospital. Abha cannot speak either, because she is sobbing.

My heart slows down. I just want to hear one of them saying Megha has broken a bone, but there’s only howling at the other end. I hear myself repeat, with a calm I’m not feeling: Stop crying and tell me what happened. We’ll deal with it. Is she ok?

No, she says eventually. Megha was raped.

* * *

Outside the railway station, the two young photojournalists are waiting at a signal. Why is she crying, a traffic policeman asks Deepak. She fell down while coming up the steps and hurt her knee, he answers.They take a taxi to Jaslok Hospital and pick up Neha on the way.Deepak sits in the front seat with his head in his hands. In the back, Megha is cowering in a corner, crying. On the way to the hospital, she narrates to Neha what will be forever etched in our memory.

They had wound up the assignment, and were leaving the mill compound. Near a busy exit that leads to Famous Studios, they were confronted by five men, two of whom had shown them the way in. They said they were railway officials and that the interns were trespassing on government property. They began to get aggressive, accusing Deepak of being the culprit in a recent murder at the mill, and told the two they’d have to meet their boss further inside the compound, who’d settle the matter.

Megha and Deepak protested their innocence, tried to reason with the men, and eventually, sensing that the situation was turning dangerous, offered them their expensive camera kits and phones to ransom their way out. One of the men pulled a broken beer bottle out of his pocket. They asked the interns to remove their belts, and used them to tie up Deepak. They forced him to the ground, and one of the men stood watch over him.

The other four pushed Megha further inside the mill, to a bare complex which looked in a state of either interrupted construction or partial dismantling: a wrecked ceiling and a rubble floor bridged by chipped pillars. Here, the five took turns to assault her.

Afterwards, they took photos of her with their phones, threatening to come after her if she told the police. They led her out to Deepak, untied him, and escorted them to the train, repeating their warnings. Then, they left in the opposite direction, towards Lower Parel station.

* * *

At work, after the conversation, I avoid eye contact with alarmed colleagues who’ve heard me on the phone. I say something vague about the interns being okay, that everyone should continue working and that I’ll be back in a couple of hours. No one believes me, but no one attempts to ask me any questions. Sandhya, the editor, and I are out of office within seconds. I can barely put one foot in front of the other, but she has the presence of mind to suggest that we draw some money before going to the hospital. Inside an ATM, I am shaking so much that I have trouble withdrawing my card. The taxi ride cannot have taken more than 20 minutes but it feels like the longest one of my life. My hair is standing on end. It’s August in Bombay but my teeth are chattering with cold.

In a vacant way, I wonder if Megha and Deepak will look like the assault victims from Law & Order, with broken bones, bloody faces, and black eyes. I don’t know then that this is a gang-rape but I know it is all going to blow up. I want to shriek, but I am unable to.

How are we ever going recover from something like this? You can cope, other things may occupy your brain, but can you ever go back to zero? I hear nothing except static in my head. Later, I realize that I have been mumbling over and over again: This changes everything.

Inside the casualty ward I look for our colleagues, and wonder why everyone looks so unperturbed. I push aside the bedside curtains of two other patients before I find Megha – looking more fragile than ever – lying on a bed, an intravenous drip threaded to her arm. Although she is quietly crying, I am relieved just to see her. I can’t find one useful thing to say to her, so I kneel beside the bed, grip her free hand, and pat her hair. The silence in our cubicle is filled up by a loud monologue from the next one: the patient’s wife is complaining about her husband’s prolonged hernia problem.

The last time I was in a hospital was to see a friend who had just delivered a baby. Now, I am trying to sift through the confusion and remember what we are supposed to do next. What if the hospital refuses to treat her? Do we have to inform the police or is that the hospital’s responsibility? Can we inform them without consulting her family? After what seems like hours, a woman doctor flicks aside the curtain and asks me who I am. (Weeks later, Megha will tell me that this doctor asked her whether she’d given the five men her consent, while also conducting a conversation on the phone.) A nurse comes in with a medico-legal case form, and gently begins asking us clueless questions and wants us to tell her what has happened. Megha asks her several times to be cleaned up; the nurse tells her to calm down but is stuttering with nervousness herself.

Megha’s terrified mother arrives, and I desperately compose and dispose of ways to tell her what’s happened. There’s no privacy inside the ward so I clutch her hand, and along with Faiza, another senior colleague, lead her out into the hospital compound. (Instinctively, I scan the area for cameras and busybodies: a nervous tic that will stand our team in good stead over the next few days.) Her mother only wants someone to say the words, and deny what she thinks she knows. I hold her arms to steady her – or to steady myself – and say, You need to be brave. Then I tell her.

* * *

Inside a doctor’s office, Deepak sits immobile on a cushioned bench, his eyes unfocused. Except for large red welts on his arms where the men had bound him, he looks unhurt physically. My colleagues Neha, Sandhya, and Abha surround him, showing their concern by asking if he’s hungry, if he needs water or coffee. The cops will be here soon and Manish, the head of the publication, asks Deepak to recount the sequence of events. It is not even 9pm, but he’s already been over this many, many times in the hospital.

Through the glass doors that will become our stakeout point for the next couple of hours, we watch a posse of policemen walk in. They’ve clearly been informed about the nature of the assault, but there isn’t a single woman officer in the team. Everyone is ordered out of the doctor’s office, and Deepak is soon spirited off to the scene of the crime to help the cops gather evidence.

Megha’s initial medical examination is completed, and I’m back inside the private ward, where our lives are getting rearranged. Her statement is being recorded and mercifully, a woman officer is now present, even if two male officers are the ones taking notes and asking questions in soft tones. Behind me and within earshot of everyone, another officer with a kind face engages in intermittent chatter with the nurses. Ye bahut bura hua par wahan jaane ki zarurat kya thi? Wo bhi akele? Ladkiyon ko lagta hai wo kahin bhi ja sakti hain? (What happened was awful, but why did they have to go there? And all alone? Do girls think they can go just about anywhere?)

I hold my breath for about half an hour, before I hiss at them to shut up.

Around this time, I begin to get calls and texts from identified and unidentified numbers. Friends who had heard about the rape want to ensure that I wasn’t the one hurt. Former colleagues offer help liaising with the police. Some journalists I’ve met in the field ask if I’ll speak to their channel/ publication’s crime reporters. That’s when we know that DNA’s website has an initial report of the incident, and even though they’ve left out the name of our publication, they’ve described it in such specific terms that it’s narrowed down the pool to one.

I receive a one-line SMS from a friend, advising me to delete Deepak and Megha’s pictures from their social media profiles. In the most absurd moment of that night, I have to interrupt Megha’s statement to get her Facebook and Twitter passwords. It annoys the officers, but I can already see tomorrow’s reports. A survivor of a sexual crime is protected under Section 228A of the Indian Penal Code, which makes any disclosure of her identity a criminal offence. But who knows what editor might decide to run her picture with a pixelated face or a black band over her eyes?

Megha’s statement has finally been written. It has been read back to her. Her clothes have been gathered and sealed as evidence. I walk out into the waiting area at midnight, where other colleagues are also deflecting calls, while keeping count of the VIPs who are beginning to visit Megha. Someone pats my head, and for the first time that night I truly unravel. Don’t cry here, says someone else, the cameras can see you through the glass doors. In the darkness, the flash of nearly three dozen video and still cameras twinkle like fairy lights.

It is 4am by the time I am back in my flat. I take everything I am wearing – clothes, flip-flops, jewellery – and throw it all into the dustbin. I take off clean utensils from the rack and wash them all over again. Then, afraid to sleep, I sit in a catatonic state on the floor until morning – when I can call my family, who live in another city, and confirm that it wasn’t me.

* * *

Around the same time, the police take Deepak from the crime scene, which is teeming with cameras, to the NM Joshi police station. It isn’t much better outside the station, but at least there’s an inside, and there’s an exit at the back that journalists haven’t discovered yet. Deepak is going through stacks of photo albums of history-sheeters from the Dhobi Talao, Lower Parel, and Mahalaxmi slum settlement areas.

Early morning on Friday August 23, Deepak is back at the crime scene with the officers, who now cordon off the area to keep journalists from trampling all over potential evidence. Around 9am, Deepak exits the mill with Akhil, our colleague from another department, to wait for the cops at the police van parked in the lane. This is the first time they’ve ever interacted. He asks Akhil for a cigarette and the two light up. Within moments, two men with raised cameras are loping in their direction, followed by a swarm of 30 others. There’s barely time to leap into the van before the photographers descend, stuffing their lenses through the vehicle’s window and door grills. Deepak, sitting on a raised bench, buries his head in his hands. Under different circumstances, he’d probably have been outside the van with his peers, who are now taking low-angle shots of him. Akhil is powerless to stop them. Finally, he puts a towel over Deepak’s head, as they do when accused criminals are led out of a courtroom. For the next 10 minutes, they can only hear the camera shutters going off. One photographer yells to a colleague,Woh dekh, cigarette le, cigarette le! (Look at that! Take a picture of the cigarette).

Meanwhile, the rest of us come in to work in a haze of incomprehension. On my desk, a cup of coffee from last evening sits next to an uncapped pen – as if I’d left to take a stroll around the office; as if the last 14 hours hadn’t happened. We gather around the TV, waiting for the press conference that the police commissioner is due to address. There are grave faces all around; occasionally, someone will break down. But those of us who were at the hospital are too exhausted to cry. We hear that an India TV reporter reached the security gates at the office, but was thrown out when our co-worker recognized him. Every few minutes, someone’s phone buzzes with a call, or a text message appended with a sheepish, “When is a good time to call?” Never, I say to myself. But we can’t afford to miss a call from the cops, so everyone installs the TrueCaller app on their phones.

Neha, the photographer, is fending off calls in her gentle but firm way from a senior editor at DNA, whom she knows from before. Now he calls her to say that he couldn’t sleep all night because he has a daughter the same age as our hurt colleagues. Then, he casually attempts to get some details about them. Two days from now, the pretence will drop: his probing will take on a slightly threatening edge when he hints at his proximity to a local right-wing MLA, insinuates that Neha was responsible for endangering the interns’ safety, and finally, ominously regrets over SMS that, “Sumtimes pals cause more damage unwittingly”. “Friends” and former colleagues in different news organizations will subject all of us to similar tactics.

There’s a spot of comfort by noon – Deepak has identified the first suspect out of a line-up, and is looking a little chipper. But by late afternoon, the first of what we’ve been fearing hits us. Deepak’s uncle and aunt are calling him frantically. Lemon News has just flashed his face.

* * *

Saturday, I wake up to an email from a friend and former colleague, who sends us love and strength. I write back: “When there are no more convicts to be rounded up, no more hospital formalities, the bruises go away, the papers begin talking about other things, and there’s nothing left to do with our hands, we’ll only have ourselves to be with. What will we do then?” I should have opened the papers before sending that email. When I eventually do, I know I won’t have to worry about having nothing to do for a long time.

I can barely believe what the Times of India has done. Their coverage of the incident includes medical details – the extent of injuries to Megha’s private parts – attributed to a “hospital source”. Their reporters have turned up at her building and asked questions of her unaware neighbors and the building’s guards. They’ve even quoted a religious leader from her community.

I go to work. At the office, one colleague is making pre-emptive calls to all news channels on his radar, requesting them to cover the incident with caution. Another is frantically trying to reach the editors of Afternoon Despatch & Courier and Free Press Journal, tabloids that identified our publication in their reports. The latter even named our Editor. In print, the damage is done; the least that they can do is to remove the details from their website.

In the afternoon, we congregate at Faiza’s home, where we learn thatMiD-Day’s 15-page coverage of the assault includes an easily recognizable, full-body picture of Deepak from the mill the day before. It accompanies a tacky article and a caption pointing out the irony of the “message of peace” on his T-shirt. It’s clear that MiD-Day’s Editor hasn’t paused to think that the pictures might endanger our colleague or reveal his identity. People on Twitter are pointing this out. The Editor’s defence: “We have blurred his face completely. The message on the tee is telling. Also, friends know, no? They were all there at Jaslok?” This wasn’t even true. His family and friends wouldn’t find out until much later. It takes several emails from journalists in other publications before the pictures are pulled offMiD-Day’s website.

At the hospital, the security staff is now alert, and there is a secret entry and three checks on the way to Megha’s room on the 16th floor. Despite that, the head nurse catches four people trying to go up. They tell the nurse that they are “PhD medical students”. Hospital security forces them to open their bags: all four are carrying cameras.

Soon afterward, a DNA reporter slips inside the hospital on the pretext of using the restroom. The ground-floor women’s restroom is next to the staircase: The elevators are all heavily guarded, but the staircase is unsupervised. The reporter climbs 16 flights and reaches the intern’s room. Eight policepersons are stationed at the door. She tells them she is Megha’s friend. When they probe further, she says, “I am her cousin and we are from the same field. I just want to know how she is doing.” The cops pass her on to hospital security. The CCTV cameras have recorded her and another journalist lurking around the hospital premises all day, talking to other patients. They had finally snuck in pretending to accompany another patient’s family.

Waiting for permission to meet Megha, Faiza and I take a walk down Marine Drive. She tells me about the 2005 Marine Drive case, when a teenager was raped by a police constable. Faiza, who has lived all her life in Mumbai, speaks about the shock that everyone around her had then felt, treating it like an assault on the city, and not on the body and psyche of one person. Now, we both confront the reality that people around us are discussing our case with the same pity and horror.

As we are talking, an SMS from an editor at a national news magazine lands in Faiza’s phone: is Megha in a position to write a “first-person account” for her magazine? It’s only been 46 hours since the incident, and this is her second request. This time, Faiza asks her if she is serious. The editor launches into a simultaneously confused, berating and pious explanation about how her “organization’s resources would be rolled out” for our hurt colleague. We decide there’s no point reasoning with her, but it doesn’t take away the question – what do they want to know?

* * *

The cops are working non-stop. There’s too much media attention, and too much heat to nab the assaulters – not just because the assault was brutal, or because it took place in daylight in India’s most cosmopolitan city, but because the survivor was an upper-class young woman. By Sunday, August 25, four of the five accused have been arrested.

Mumbai Mirror has printed front-page pictures of the accused, dealing a blow to the case on two counts. First, it violates the first principle of criminal procedure, that a suspect is innocent until proven guilty, and interferes with due process of the law. Second, the Press Council of India’s Norms of Journalistic Conduct (2010) suggest that suspects’ “pictures should not be shown” to avoid a bias during identification parades, and thereby compromise the prosecution of the accused.

The same day, MiD-Day carries a report with pictures of the main accused and three of his family members. The accompanying report, ironically, blames the cops for callousness. The Press Council also advises against identifying the family members of convicts to “eschew suggestive guilt.” Mumbai Mirror and The Indian Express are the only newspapers that refrain from naming the juvenile accused in the case. Express goes a step further and withholds the name of his grandmother, who has been quoted and pictured everywhere else, sometimes with the address of the shanty in which she lives.

By Monday, August 26, all five of the accused are in custody. In the following days, the calls and text messages begin to abate.Newspapers that have already violated Megha’s privacy print an appeal from her family to respect her privacy. She leaves the hospital. Every evening after work, we alternate between visiting her and Deepak. We distract ourselves with a little bit of fake cheer, with talk of future assignments, with an occasional game of Taboo. Now that there is time to breathe, our grief slowly starts becoming real.

I am taking the train to work on Monday, September 2, when a colleague sends me Times of India columnist Bachi Karkaria’s defence of the paper’s“saturation coverage” of the assault. The editorial, headlined “Don’t make her lose her face”, says the survivor must reveal her identity “and help cast aside the veil of misplaced disgrace.” Karkaria concedes that TOI might have revealed her identity to “an inner circle” but says that, “The purdah of anonymity is the accessory of disgrace.” It’s also the law. I am less upset with Karkaria’s go-girl posturing than with the realization that she is only articulating the same brief that’s been given to TOI reporters, and those from other publications. In print and television newsrooms, journalists are required not just to report personal tragedies, but to hunt for exclusives, and look for "human angles" by hounding relatives and friends of those affected. Crossing the line is not only encouraged, it is mandatory.

* * *

On Thursday, September 3, Neha and I are called in to the police station for questioning. The officers – almost always deferential, but chatty – tell us that earlier in the day, a 19-year-old girl had approached them, claiming that she had been assaulted by the same men in the Shakti Mills compound, less than a month before Megha was assaulted. The details of both the cases are distressingly similar: the male companion of the young woman was tied and beaten up while the accused assaulted her. The young woman, who we are told worked as a telephone operator, now sits with a bowed head outside the questioning room, looking lost and even more vulnerable than our young colleagues, accompanied only by her mother and brother. There are no cameras surrounding her, no one is asking her to write first-person accounts. We do not know it then, but her destiny is closely linked with that of Megha.

The following day, on Friday, September 4, both Megha and Deepak are called in for a Test Identification Parade (TIP), where they have to pick out the accused from a line-up of similar-looking men. They are both nervous, but putting on a brave face. The police make Megha wear a burqa to avoid the cameras outside, but inside the room where the suspects will be called in by turn, she is required to take it off. A tehsildar and two more personnel bear witness to the process.

Here is the routine of the identification parade that Megha is told to follow. There are separate line-ups of seven men, and the survivor has to pick the accused by touching him on the arm. She then has to go to a corner of the room, and announce loudly what the suspect did to her.

And this is what Megha does on September 4, in a room full of men that include her attackers, without any women officers present to aid her. She touches the men on the arm to identify them, and then says,Isne mera balatkaar kiya (He sexually assaulted me). She repeats this four times over.

In the following days, Neha, Deepak and I visit the police station several times over to testify, or help iron out small details. In the days prior, we’ve befriended a tiny cat that prefers to snooze in a nook on the tyre of a stationary police van, and a puppy that lives inside it. The officers tell us that the chargesheet will be filed soon; the trial will be in a fast-track court, just like the December 16 Delhi gang-rape. On Friday, September 13, as if on cue, the verdict for the Delhi case is the death penalty for the four surviving adult convicts. Six days after that, the 600-page chargesheet in our case is filed.

I learn about the chargesheet when Faiza calls: she has found out that the police is handing out the document to anyone from the media, without redacting Megha’s identity and personal details. Every neurotic precaution we have taken over the past weeks seems to turn to dust.

Still, there’s some relief. It’s only been a month since the incident, but Megha and Deepak are back at work, looking just like their cheery, bobblehead selves again. My struggles, and those of my colleagues, however, remain private. I cope with insomnia. When I do manage to get some sleep, I wake up every time with the feeling that someone is at my window. To counter the sleeplessness and to mute my thoughts, I try to tire myself out. I go for a run with my headphones plugged in, the way I have for a few months, but now I spend as much time looking over my shoulder as looking in front. I shut out all my friends. At work, my colleagues and I know that none of us will ever be whole again, but we pretend we are – for some part, we believe it too.

It is afternoon, three days later, when my phone lights up with a news alert. I am in the middle of an interview, so I am about to mute it but the hashtag catches my eye. It is a tweet by DNA, announcing that one of the accused, Siraj-ur-Rehman, has escaped from the Thane jail where he was in custody. Within seconds, NDTV sends out the same alert. Sitting in a coffee-shop several kilometers away from work, I blanch, apologise to the interviewee, and run out into the sun. I feel the terror of August 22 wash over me again. Frantic, I call colleagues to find out where Megha is, and beg them not to let her go home. Plans are made and unmade at work. Forty-five minutes later, we learn that there was a clerical error, and that the accused was in the jail the whole time. The media had not bothered to verify these details. My legs give way and I sit on the pavement and exhale.

* * *

The trial begins in the middle of October. I am at work when I receive court summons to appear on the morning of Tuesday the 15th, the same day as Megha’s mother and Neha. I am glad that things are moving, but I am on edge all of the previous day. The accused will be in the courtroom, and I have no idea how we will react. By the time I make my way up the creaky wooden steps of Esplanade Court, I have a terrible, sluggish sense of foreboding. The static in my brain has returned.

At the entrance to the courtroom, two officers in civvies try to temporarily board up a part of the door’s glass pane with an old file that will not hold. I have no idea what an in-camera trial looks like. Since the whole point is privacy I presume it will be inside the judge’s chamber with maybe four other people. I am shocked when I see the size of the room, the four defence lawyers, and the number of clerks and admin staff inside. A few reporters are lounging about too, trying to make eye contact and smiling our way until they’re asked to leave.

The accused are brought in: barefoot and cuffed, which prevents them from keeping their hands folded in supplication to the judge. All but one look petrified, and I try not to stare. I clutch the wooden bench I am sitting on and ask myself if I am feeling anger, pity, or frustration. But I can only make out a sense of bereavement. The shock of how this happened to us, or how it happened at all, refuses to wear off.

The intern’s mother will be questioned first and Neha and I will appear only after lunch. I spend the morning in the courtroom’s small covered balcony, squinting out at the cricket games going on in Azad Maidan through the tiny dust-lined windows.

When it is our turn, we go in aware that the defence lawyers will lob questions designed to embarrass and throw us, but we are not ready for the lies and mocking assertions: Your colleagues were having an affair and had gone to the mill for privacy. What sort of an editor allows a male and a female intern to go to an abandoned area? You only want to implicate innocent men for the loss of her honor. She was not assaulted.

We are not prepared for how little this life-altering event will mean to other people. The defence lawyers banter among themselves. One of the accused, now relaxed, yawns; the others look like it’s all happening to someone else. At one point, one of the lawyers badgers Neha about whether she noticed semen stains on Megha’s underclothes, hoping that because she is a woman, talk of semen will embarrass her. He stops when the judge objects, but he laughs with the other lawyers. Two of the accused also laugh.

* * *

Three days later, it is time for Megha’s deposition. We’re afraid she’ll not only have to face the accused again, she will be asked by the clerk to give out her personal details in their presence: her address, where she works, her phone number, her mother’s phone number, how she gets to work, what time she leaves from work.

The first defence lawyer stretches the questioning for well over two hours, pressing her for details about her assaulters’ eyes, ears, and nose. Another tries to insinuate that she’s signed a fake statement, because it was obvious that she doesn’t know Hindi or Marathi. There is a yelling contest between the defence and the prosecution. They ask her to identify a pornography clip that the accused had shown her during the assault, at which point, she begins to feel faint and has to be escorted to a hospital. While this is happening, a photographer takes a picture of her, but is detained before he can slip away.

The lawyers press her on more irrelevant details the following day.Do you know the difference between the colours grey and pink? Why didn’t you volunteer to give the court your appointment letter? Do you know how to use the Internet? When did you last have your period? For how long did each of the accused assault you? One lawyer wants to bring in a doctor to find out if it is possible for the assault to have lasted as long as she says it did. The intern screams into the mike to say that she wasn’t clocking the minutes. The defence guys laugh again.

Their closing statements are: We put it to you that you were not assaulted. The blood on your clothes is because you were menstruating. You’re doing all this to become a famous photojournalist.

* * *

Despite the nightmare in court, we’re all in a steadier place a few days later. Megha visits me on a Sunday evening, and over tea, we go over the aftermath of the attack.

I tell her that in the past, I have seen reporters at AIIMS, Delhi, confront sexual assault victims, women who were from impoverished backgrounds, women who didn’t know their rights, women who were so afraid that they caved in to the demands that they tell journalists their stories.

That evening we wonder why we expected the media to behave with propriety with us, to accord us the luxury of time and distance when they’ve proceeded heedlessly with so many others?

I also tell her that even though it wasn’t my body that withstood the assault, it’s taking me so long to shake off the instinct to cover myself up. Before she turns to leave, she shrugs and says, I am not going to change the way I dress, or the way I am. It isn’t much, and we both know that there will be no straight path away from what happened. We will go back and forth. We will circle around.

But for the first time in weeks, I smile.

*All names have been changed to protect privacy.

Editor’s Note: On April 4, 2014, three adult offenders found guilty in both the cases at Shakti Mills were sentenced to death under Section 376E of the Criminal Law (Amendment) Act, the first conviction of its kind since the amendment. This report was written and published with the permission of the survivor.

18

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Spineless? More like brainless A-holes!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 16 Aug 2014 03:41:00 +0000

Here's the thing. This Punjabi friend of mine recently commented "South Indian men are spineless. They aren't men at all." I'm not a person to take offense to such regionalism. I am used to it. From her especially. I am used to the "South Indian people are so dark! If my kid were dark, I'd disown him", "My grandma used to ask me to keep a distance from dark kids lest I get their colour", "You south Indian people lack class", etc. I don't pay any attention to them because they are narrow minded views of a woman who has been brought up in certain ways and refuses to broaden her spectrum of thoughts. Most importantly, I don't pay any attention to such comments because I know that she is a good person and that all that is just talk. But, this comment of hers "South Indian men are spineless. They aren't men at all" remained in my head. Again, I didn't take offense, I brushed it aside as ignorance and let it go. Well, here we go.

Dear N,

1. My Appa helps Amma out in the kitchen to which your reaction was "Aww.. that is so sweet!" How do things go at you place? You and your mum are the only ones to cook. Hell! Your dad and brother NEVER get water for themselves, you get it for them. Even though they maybe only two steps away from the table.

2. Appa, the sibling and I help Amma set up the dining table and clean up after our meal. How are things at your place? YOU set up the table alone and then, actually REQUEST your Pappaji and your bhaiyaji (who are lounging in front of the T.V., on the couch) to please sit at the table for a meal. Request. Request. Every single day, every single meal.

3. When your Ma ain't home, you become the maid of the house. When my Amma ain't home, my Appa takes care of us and we help him out in any way we can.

4. Ever since you crossed the "marriageable age" limit, you are being treated as a maid at your house. Oh, not just a maid. Their driver, their butler, in short their "haan ji" doll. My Appa treats me like a person. An actual grown up person.

5. Your views are easily brushed aside. You have been taught that a woman's place is in the kitchen and taking care of the house. And you live by it. I have been taught to think independently, do things by myself and not to listen to anyone who is trying to limit me. As a result, I've turned out head strong. But, hell, I do whatever the fuck I want to and you are limited by their leash. And yes, whatever I do, my dad is proud of my actions even though some of them make him go "Oh My God! You did that!? HOW DID YOU DO IT!?"

6. You have been taught that before marriage you should always be dependent on your daddy for money. After marriage, be dependent on your husband for money. I have been taught to get a good job, earn for myself and KEEP MYSELF SECURE. Dependency has very little room. Till date, Amma doesn't take any money from Appa. And here you are thinking of not working at all once you get your degree. No judgement. But, allow me a little room for pity.

7. You mom actually told you "Your weight loss and skin care regime shouldn't suffer. I don't care what you do about your exam." For us, education is of UTMOST importance. To you people, it is beauty over brains. For us, it is brains over everything else. You told me that your mom said that because of your "marriageable age" (Ban that phrase please!) Guess what? It doesn't matter what age. For us, education always comes first. My mom, at the age of 40+ is learning German at a professional level. For fun. So, yes, education for fun is also encouraged. Your parents are just asking you to be a bimbo with no brains.

Good Lord, this post is bordering on being hateful toward her. My point is, you are living with a bunch of male chauvinist bastards who don't deserve you or your ma. And you put up with it. I am in turn living with this Pa who respects me, my actions, my thoughts, my choice AND my behaviour. Not just my Pa. Even my cousins (all male clan!) respect me. I deal with ZERO chauvinism in the house, in the family, in the extended family! Everybody is treated as an equal. I just feel really sorry for your pathetic little existence.

I'm irritated, frustated, annoyed and DONE!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 03 Aug 2014 19:31:00 +0000

It doesn't take much to get me irritated these days. That is, when I'm busy numbing my brain and you walk in and create a mess of it by making me think. 8th August is the doomsday. I'm trying NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT. And you do such random, irritating and frustrating acts that, I swear, I want to strangle you! For my own peace of mind, I am going to let all that hatred out. Right here; right now. Every little thing that annoys me comes out now and my head stays in peace. Hopefully. *I'm not the one to let go!*

When you burp and fart loudly, you make me feel disgusted. I want to do nothing more than gut you. Let me enjoy my Dominos pizza in peace.

A white shirt goes well with blue denims. It's simple, yes, but looks elegant. Quit bugging me. You asked for my opinion, I gave it to you. You asked for it. BLOODY HELL, TAKE IT.

When you ramble on about the new procedures to be adopted for tax audit this season and my stomach is grumbling in response, it's two hours past my lunch time and I'm hungry. Just because I sit there in dignified silence doesn't mean I respect you. I respect the germs in the toes of my feet MORE. I just want my internship coursework papers signed this week and to be let go of FOR GOOD!

Just because I fuck you over, leave you in a mess for 15 days (on purpose) doesn't mean you can make me stay for however long you want. Fuck you, this is between the Institute and me, you are just the dummy signing authority.

When you make me wait two hours for lunch, don't let me go to Pizza Hut and fake smile me into eating the a sandwich (which is bloody soggy from keeping it as it is for an hour) and roadside potato chips, I hate you even more. You made me miss my grape sangria, cheese garlic bread and their pasta/pizza with lots of oregano in it. I. Hate. You.

When you look like one of those prostitutes depicted in the movie Jab We Met and you stand in front of the mirror for 25 minutes (no exaggeration; no kidding) and keep "grooming" yourself, I'm sorry, you still end up looking like you did before. NOT GOOD. I have this deep seated urge to yell "Oh! My eyes! My eyes!" after looking at you. And when you talk! Oh my God! That accent! That English! That.. That.. My 6 year old niece speaks better. And lose the accent, bitch!

People call you their "washroom buddy"/"bathroom buddy".. Seriously, get a life! Outside the washroom!

So, this TamBrahm guy was bullshitting (not a word!) and casually said that you (a TamBrahm girl) were called beautiful by his mom. He even told me that family talks were on for him and some other girl. When you start taking him seriously and say "I'll have a personal chat with him later to know whether what he told was true" I have an issue with it because we are close and you are making a fool of yourself. He wasn't indirectly proposing you and neither was his mom. You look beautiful and are the quintessential TamBrahm girl. THERE IS NO READING IN BETWEEN THE LINES. Get over it.

You are my soul-sister. I am super glad I met you. Something you should know about me. I am really freaked out right now. You keep buzzing me. I am not used to it.You made me meet your mom. HELLO! We've known each other 15 days! And your blog is depressing. I am practically at the door! Soul-sisters! Am I like that? Shit! You made me think. Argh!

You are loud, talk shit and you also said "Harry Potter sucks!". Save your breath for someone else, you are already in my ignore list. Oh! And I know it was you who wrote "You have an attitude problem" in the fish pond game.

Believe me when I say this, I don't have a problem that you smoke and drink. We have fun! I didn't know you had a girlfriend (then again, we'd known each other only two weeks). Nevertheless, we do have fun. Hope we can continue that. You are a good guy. Forget about the should-have-been part of life. Enjoy it now.

You! You have no control over what you speak. None whatsoever! "Kaccha" is NOT a word that you use in a Group Discussion. That's a strict no. And yet, I find you adorable. You are cute. :P

And you! Master bowler! You kept getting strikes while I kept getting the left gutter. Good guy, completely unpredictable. I had great fun with you. I keep having doubts whether I have a crush on you. But, I don't know. I really don't.

You are 22 years old! And you are getting married! Just because the guy wants to get married before he turns 30 next year! You are regretting it and you need to stop it! Please. Don't be stupid. YOU of all the people in this world!

Enough with the marriage and the jathagam and the Nakshatram talks. I'm sick of listening to it all the time. I am yet to turn 23 and people can't stop talking about marriage. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM IN LIFE?

You tell me one more time about 8th August and I will not be responsible for my actions.

You are a 40 year old woman. Sure I consider you a friend, but, you are not my mother. You are a friend who is practically double my age and may never be on the same wavelength as me. You are conservative and traditional in your approach. Do not advice me on how I should proceed with things WHEN I DIDN'T EVEN ASK FOR ANY! I hug my friends, even guy friends, SO WHAT? They don't take it otherwise, I don't and NEITHER SHOULD YOU. It's none of your business. Stay away.

Aye Aye Aye! I thought we could work things out. Ego is such a bitch, I tell you. I tried to not bring mine into the picture and you never tried to get yours away from the it. We're done even before we started. You are an asshole. Probably never lovers. It'll take time for you to realize that. Back to being best friends?

You give her a hard time, never make things easy for people and are intrusive. You know and I know what I want for you.

And I'm not done. But, done for now. Good night, people!

What should I blog about!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 29 Jul 2014 17:20:00 +0000

There is only one reason I wrote this. My IndiRank is down to 36/100. I don't care about it. No, I don't. I seriously don't! It made me realize how neglected my baby would be feeling. I mean, I started this blog about... uh, 1.5 years ago when I had absolutely nothing going in my life, all empty, all sad, all depressed. This was the one place I was always there. I took care of it, so well, and then CA Final happened. That bitch! And I've started neglecting my baby. Bad mommy, I am! Well, no more!

So, what's new?

1. I MET MY SOUL SISTER!
She's two years elder to me, she loves shoes, she's brutally honest, rude, offensive and vulgar. EXACTLY! MY SOUL-F-ING-SISTER!

2. I've started watching Grey's Anatomy! I want Cristina Yang. I also want Kate Moennig from The L-Word. Get them for me, will you? Especially Kate. <3 Oh! And Preston Burke from Grey's Anatomy. Y-U-M-M-Y.

3. I am surprisingly and shockingly good at public speaking! The last time I spoke in public was in 7th standard. I was in the Yellow house in school. The students were asked to participate in speeches so that the respective teachers could select the best out of them (for a school competition between the houses). We had to speak for two whole minutes. Appa prepared on the topic for me. "Information Technology". He even wrote me a beautiful speech. I think it was beautiful. Duh! I mean, Appa wrote it. It had to be. Anyway, I stood in front of the class, opened my mouth and froze, my legs were literally shaking and sweating. I FORGOT THE TOPIC OF MY SPEECH. I was rejected outright and never dared to go up on stage ever again.

Until, the ICAI made Communication skills class compulsory for budding Chartered Accountants and I had to attend public speaking lectures (where I met my soul sister; she's cool). Anyway, I've spoken to 51 strangers (IN PUBLIC!!!!!!!!) about my professional history (teehee), my mischievous childhood (just two instances), my likes and dislikes and my opinion on euthanasia. On the last topic, I was even told by the teacher that my pacing was great, speaking was wonderful, voice modulation superb and that she had goosebumps when she was listening to me. Beat that, school-me, who forgot the topic! Hahaha!

4. At the beginning of my study leave, I exercised diligently and put on weight. I stopped exercising about two months before my exam and lost weight. As on the date of re-joining office, I lost 4kgs. Take that. \m/
*I'm pretty sure I've lost more in the past 2-3 days. Read on*

5. So, I finally got drunk. Didn't take me much since I was drinking after almost a year and my body was just such a beautiful blank slate. It took two Long Island Iced Teas and a beer to get me sloshed, IN PUBLIC. I made a complete fool of myself in front of my friend (we met after a year and a half, great fun!) AND her school friend who bumped into us AND HIS FRIENDS whom neither me nor my friend knew. So, yeah. I think I'm being called "the chick who got drunk on 2 LITs and was practically speaking to the table" in the Bombay suburbs. I'm never setting foot inside that place again.

6. The above event resulted in me throwing up my insides and a severe bout of dysentery (don't ask; don't sympathize; don't even try to empathize with me). Nope, not the worst part. Thing is, we got sloshed in the mall. I had to sober up and head home. I threw up at the mall first. Sobered up a little. Went home and ran straight up to the bathroom. Showered, threw up, went to bed. Woke up at 2, threw up, went to bed. Woke up at 3 threw up and never went to bed and suffered from dry heaves all through the night.
Also, I had to attend this Communication skills lecture the next day AND participate in a Group Discussion with not a morsel of food in my body AND my head ready to explode AND entirely sleep deprived. Apparently I was very good at the GD. Who knew! I almost gave up alcohol. BUT, NO. I'm all okay now. When are we drinking next?

7. FUCK! I AM GOOD AT PUBLIC SPEAKING. HAHAHAHAHHA.

Good night, bitches! :) :) :) :)

I have seen the world change

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 29 Jun 2014 17:17:00 +0000

Yeah, right!

I’m back! Finally! After a 6 month break (read, study leave, hehehe) I am back to routine, monotony and utter and complete boredom. Yes, office is to blame. How much has the world changed, really, in these 6 months where I only stepped out to go to the library and nowhere else? Okay, to the sandwich and chaat wala too, but that’s not important.

1. The Mumbai metro began its operations exactly a week before I was due to join and I was asked to haul my ass to a client at Andheri. Bham! Mumbai Metro, zindabad! At a flat rate of Rs.10, hell, it was (still is) cheaper than rickshaw and in some cases, the BEST bus! It’s nice, really. Fully air conditioned, beautifully maintained, well run and crew that is ever on its toes and always available. But, there’s always a “but”. Everything in India comes with a con, right?

(i) Do you know what I love most about the Mumbai metro? The lingering paan smell. Oh! Also, the fuck awesome body odour emanating from men and women travelling alongside me who not so surprisingly, considering the Rs.10 fare, smell of sweat and stink of raw fish. (I’m vegetarian. I hate the smell of fish, cooked or raw. I don’t care; go ahead and judge me, oh! You just called me a bitch. I agree.)

(ii) Do you know what’s slightly worse? How people are unable to use the token barricade. They long jump over the barricade and run. Damn! I shouldn't have stopped my long jump practice in school. And, more fun? Since people can’t use the token barricade properly, their entry into and exit from the metro station is delayed, by not just a few, but several seconds, nay, minutes! And? Yep! You guessed it right! There’s a huge, huge crowd behind them, trying to get out! Oh? I am an idiot, right? I should have just shoved and pushed past people like these other people and broken my own code of discipline, manners and courtesy. Hmm.

(iii) So, who are these other people? The tourist crowd and other *ahem* crowd who are taking joy rides on the metro since “aga! meytro madhe fakta daha rupyat amala AC milel!! Tsal zauyah!” (Arre! On the metro, for Rs.10 we are getting an AC ride!! Let’s go!!) Here’s some not-so-common sense to you jackholes. Go ahead, take your joy rides! I’m not the one to stop you. I don’t have the authority (I wish I did!) You know what you can do? DON’T TAKE YOUR JOY RIDE DURING PEAK OFFICE HOURS! OR IS THAT SO DIFFICULT TO BLOODY UNDERSTAND? You are giving the MMOPL revenue, great! You are getting an AC ride for Rs.10, awesome! Please, as a consideration to us mere mortals who earn our living, take your rides between 12 and 4. Let. Us. Please. For. The. Love. Of. God. Travel. In. Peace.

(iv) Also, if any of you women, ask me ever again whether there is a ladies’ coach, I swear, I will NOT keep a straight face and respond and will give such a scathing response to you that I will feel bad about it for the rest of my life. We don’t have separate coaches for men and women. It is all the same. The metro is not a nau/bara/pandra dabba local train. It’s the metro. Fuck! It gets you from Ghatkopar to Andheri in 15 min. Can you PLEASE not ask me about ladies’ coach ever again? Thank you!

(v) A sincere and heartfelt request to MMRDA, Veolia Transport and Reliance Infra, please, please, please just increase the fares already. At least half the crowd will get filtered out in a matter of days. Trust me when I say this. Just do it already.

2. Mumbai local train- Ah, it’s been a year since I last travelled by train. Yes, because about 2 months before I was due to go on leave, I was sent to the office near my home for tax audit filing. So, a year since local train travel. The first day, I travelled by a Thane local, to Ghatkopar and felt like a death sentence would have been much easier. the crowd is MUCH more rowdy, uncivilized and just pure yuck! My mistake, the first day I travelled by ticket. Second day, I stood in line and got myself a first class pass. Doesn’t make the travel A LOT better anyway since the ticketless crowd prefers travelling by first class, since they are ticketless anyway! So, there you go!

Yeah, so, these two were the two main aspects of “seeing the world change”. LOL. I feel like I’m 100 years old! “I’ve seen the world change” heeeheeheee. I’ve missed the blog, AND my regular readers (Do I really have any?) muah!!

Knowledge is great, literally!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 11 Feb 2014 08:51:00 +0000

Being thoroughly bored with my Chartered Accountancy coursework and keeping well in mind that I will be required to show some amount of volunteer work on my resume to apply for B-schools, I applied to a charitable organization in Mumbai to start volunteering there. While work took up my weekdays, going to the NGO was going to be my every Saturday goal. On the first day, I was asked to reach their office in Mumbai where four other volunteers and I were given maximum possible details regarding the organization and work done by it; at the end, we were asked to provide the nearest possible location that we could volunteer at, accordingly, I was assigned a BMC (BrihanMumbai Municipal Corporation) school. The school, located in Parel, was a government run school where Marathi was the main medium of coaching. However, the NGO had co-ordinated with the school to provide additional teachers and extra volunteers (like yours truly) to provide English medium coaching. On my first day, being completely clueless as to what needed to be done, I reached the school and was assigned two very mischievous children to whom I had to impart the basics of English and Math. May I add Class II English and Math, something us adults take for granted, I had to actually teach the nuances of.

Only two words can possibly describe my experience, exhausted and exhilarated. The enthusiasm with which the kids started doing Math was sincerely shocking for me. It made me think about how lightly I had taken school just because my parents could afford to send me to one of the best schools in the state. At the end of day, I spoke one on one with the principal of the school and to my shock, heard myself say “I’d rather have back-end work, like managing the library or something.” After giving much thought to my words, I realized that taking the future of a couple of kids in my own hands is some responsibility I would not at all be comfortable with! What if the kid can’t understand these basics and fails in advanced Math, what if the kid doesn’t understand the grammar and vocabulary I am teaching and fails in English in an English medium school! The next Saturday, I was given the task of arranging books in the library and that has now become my Saturday chore at the school. I love the work. I love books, I like order, I like things being organized, I love the fact that at least someone is benefiting from my work.

Only recently it hit me with full force that my CA course is about to come to an end and all the future decisions that I had put off, will have to be made soon. I enjoy the work at the school so much, that I know for a fact that I wish to work toward education, toward betterment of society through literacy. While I was earlier focussed on joining an MNC post my qualification and drowning deeper into the work I no longer genuinely had fun with and obtaining an M.B.A. to worsen my life, I now want something I enjoy, even with a lower pay but with satisfaction at the end of the day. After thorough research day-in and day-out, my ultimate goal now is to join the AFID- Accounting for International Development and provide volunteer accounting work as frequently possible, what better way to utilize the knowledge I learnt? This organization does volunteer accounting across the world and helps various charitable organizations in improving their financial management with a thorough assessment and consultation.

But, only armed with an accounting degree and no knowledge or background in social services, I researched various universities across the world offering a degree in Social work. While a Master of Arts is out of question for want of a Bachelor of Arts degree, a Master of Science in a related social service major is my goal. I particularly like the MSc in Social Work offered by the University of Portsmouth, England. The coursework includes an introduction, basics of social work, practices thereof, scope for improvement, practice placements, policy analysis and need for change therein, and social work on a local, national and international basis. This course, spread over two years is, in my opinion, one of the stepping stones for me to get my wish. There can be no greater satisfaction to me than to see my qualifications being put to use by charitable organizations primarily aiming toward improving education worldwide. Knowledge is great, literally!!

Exams are important: Concentrate! (I think not)

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 19 Jan 2014 15:36:00 +0000

I feel like my head is going to burst! Argh! I have so many thoughts, all of them useless or of no importance when compared to my CA Final exams that more than half the time I catch myself day dreaming. Seriously! What is wrong with me! Okay, I thought I'd write everything down, clean the slate and start "understanding" Advanced Auditing and Professional Ethics again. I wish I could just ponder and ponder and ponder all over again about all those unnecessary topics.

1. I am absolutely hooked to all the chic lit books that are on offer for free in epub or pdf format. Literally hooked. Why? Because chic lit books DO NOT require any use of the head. It is just plain read between the lines, skip a couple of pages, two hours later, bham! You are done with a 305 page book. Seriously, I'm reading Meg Cabot, Lucy Diamond, unknown authors! Oh, the Shopoholic series! I have The Godfather Returns with me, I've read some 15 pages of it and kept it aside. I do not wish to read anything heavy, as if my textbooks weren't heavy enough!

2. I can't stop thinking about travelling solo. I recently chanced upon this awesome WorkAway website (yes, good morning to me) where host families provide free accommodation and food. In turn, you need to work some 4 hours a day, 5 days a week; work as in help them out in whatever way they have listed on their profiles. It's amazing! My first solo trip IS going to be a workaway. Let me be honest, I do have a good amount of savings from my measly stipend, but all that is tucked away for other endeavours. My first solo trip sometime in September/October 2015! (Yeah, my 2014 trip has already been planned with my family, there's no turning back on that! All you lucky dogs, I'll be down South :P)

3. I have this HUGE, MAJOR and LUSTING crush on Jeff Lieberman. Jeff Lieberman? The guy who hosts Time Warp on Discovery Science? How can you not want that? I mean, him. And just how can someone who holds two B.S. degrees, two M.S. degrees and is currently pursuing a PhD and is also a cool science show host be Oh-So-Hot! And the show if fuck awesome!

4. I am exercising diligently. I cannot say that I am able to control what I stuff myself with. But, yes, I do exercise regularly, even if I am bored. Twice a day for a total of 2 hours. Happy. Happy. Happy. :) And obsessing over my figure. :(

5. I am thoroughly enjoying reruns of F.R.I.E.N.D.S on my computer. It is such a great show. So good. I don't think any show can ever beat it. Not even The Big Bang Theory or Suits or Two and a Half Men, especially since Charlie's been dead. Nope. And Chandler Bing, I love that guy :D Hooked!

6. I read this book "Me Before You" that deals Dignitas. Well, deal as in, it's a chic lit book wherein Dignitas has been weaved into the story. Suffice to say, I read the first 70-80 pages, found it immensely depressing since I could confidently guess the ending, so, I read the last 3 pages. This got me thinking about suicide. No. No. Not what you think. As in, why people commit suicide. I'm not referring to Dignitas here. If you are physically or mentally ill, there is no chance of recovery and it is terminal, by all means, you have should have the right to put an end to your own suffering. Others have no say in it. I'm talking about people committing suicide for awful reasons like bad score, getting dumped, getting fired, having fights, not having anyone to lean on. What shit? I'm not saying you don't have a problem, you do, but deal with it instead of taking an easy way out. Come on, life ain't that bad. You have bad times now, you've had better times earlier, you've had great times too! At the end of the day, just hope that your parting words are "Life is beautiful" much like The Godfather. (Really, read that book. The movie is crap, in my opinion)

7. I am addicted to the TV and ShowBiz section of http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/index.html. I don't know, it's just a nice soothing feeling to watch celebs go about their daily lives. Come on. i read the TOI for real news. Not that there's much.

Okay, I'm done. I'll be enjoying point 7 for a few minutes and return to studies. Happy Auditing to me. :(

Comments are most welcome!!

My delicious 2013-end and 2014-start!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 02 Jan 2014 05:59:00 +0000

Dear Future-husband,

I hope you know how to prepare all the daily food like dal chawal and roti sabzi. Because I sure as hell don't. I'll make you the following every week. :)

How I ended 2013-

Yummy home made cheese pizza! *drool*

How I welcomed 2014-

Yummy chocolate cake from R&B! *drooling*

How I began the first day of 2014-


Yummy, super yummy, home made pasta! in a flood of drool!

2014, you are here!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 02 Jan 2014 05:37:00 +0000

I have to say, the most dreaded year is here. Dreaded, for me. Why? When I cleared by CA-Inter (in 2011) and started my internship, my attitude was "Woah! My CA Final is in 2014! There's lot of time!!"

And, it is here.

Oh, believe me, I am not all engrossed in my textbooks, grasping every straw of knowledge to become the penultimate Chartered Accountant. No, sir. I am watching reruns of Two and a Half men, The Big Bang Theory and having THE time of my life watching Romantic comedies while slowly trudging through my accountancy problems. It sucks. Big time. Not getting to focus on all the movies and series! Okay, fine, it also sucks not being able to focus completely on studying. Ah, screw it.

Anyway, HAPPY 2014, people!! Here's hoping that-

I clear CA Final exam in the first attempt

I thoroughly enjoy my last days of internship to the hilt!

Appa doesn't give me "the talk" regarding "age-factor-to-be-considered-for-marriage" and "why-marriage-is-oh-so-important"

Appa doesn't start his lecture on "how-important-it-is-for-a-girl-to-learn-how-to-cook" (I can cook maggi, pasta and pizzas. Anything else, we'll order!!)

Amma doesn't give me a lecture on "how-getting-married-and-having-kids-changed-my-life-for-the-better" and "You-are-so-immature!"

Amma doesn't say "Say your prayers and shlokas everyday or ummachi will kannu kuttify" (English: God will poke your eyes. Don't ask me why or how or to what end..)

I get to party all night and welcome 2015

I get to party all night and enjoy my birthday while simultaneously dread turning 23!

Paati doesn't go around introducing me to her friends giving me the tag of "eligible bachelorette" (believe me, I am not)

Completely strange families don't just turn up for "ponnu paatufying" (Hindi: ladki dekhna)

I get my own place and move out of my parent's place (FINALLY!)

I finally take a solo trip (FINALLY!)

I blog about better things & write better (uhh, I'll even add "and try to make money out of my writing")

If any of my cousins gets married, old aunties won't come up to me and say "next, nee thaan" (English: You are next!)

Nosy uncles and aunties don't ask me how much I earn (none of your concern!)

Well, can't think of anything else for the time being.

May you all have a happy 2014. May all your wishes and dreams (however wicked, nasty, dirty, delicious) come true! And may you majorly screw up all your resolutions so I have company! :D

Bye!

Recharge your hair, recharge your life

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 24 Dec 2013 17:40:00 +0000

As I walked into my parent's place, yelling orders to my junior over the phone as to what needed to be done with all those journal and bank vouchers, the family of three sitting on the family couch was completely out of my peripheral vision. I went to the balcony, got rid of my shoes and after hanging up the phone, came back to the living room, demanding a hot cup of filter coffee from Amma while continuously staring at my phone, checking out my messages. Considering the silence that followed, I was made to look up at five pairs of eyes staring at me with an amused expression. Mom, Dad and the aforementioned family of three. Suddenly, the woman in the red saree (not my Amma!) asked me "Do you remember me?" It was then my turn to stare at her blankly with my eyes darting from Amma to Appa to the aunty. Slowly I squeaked a "Umm.. no.. sorry!" And the aunty said "Ohhh!! How come! I came to your naming ceremony!" I kept a straight face with all the effort in the world, my hair coming in handy to an extent at covering my face. "Okayyy" I dragged on, gave a polite smile and tried to get away from the room to avoid the awkward conversation. Dad suddenly spoke up saying "Shreesha, meet the Iyengars, this is A" pointing at the cute guy sitting between his parents. I smiled and we shook hands.

After the predictable questionnaire from the other Mom and Dad Iyengar- Where do you work? (like my dad hasn't already told you!) How much do you earn? (even my parents don't know, why, oh, why would I tell you?) What all can you cook? (Pasta, coffee, sandwich and maggi, a wholesome meal, don't you think?) Why don't you stay with your parents? (Oh, my parents thought the restrictions and curfews were all done with and threw me out) What all shlokas do you know? (the Hanuman Chalisa, but, I'm agnostic) Gasp! (shrug) What all festivals do you like to celebrate? (ogling at fireworks at Diwali and partying and welcoming the new year) Party, gasp! (shrug) *awkward silence* Dad then said "Why don't you and A go out for coffee?" Having no other option about it, we take off to the nearest Cafe Coffee Day (my filter coffee all forgotten about). As we awkwardly made small talk, big talk, debated and agreed, we realized that we actually had a lot in common! Deciding to meet for dinner the next day, we hugged and left, me to my friend's place to gossip and him to my place to join his parents.

Fortunately for me, the next day, my parents decided to go to the Iyengar's place (the other Iyengars), I had the place to my self. By seven, I started to get ready and realized that, being the first date, him living in the States for the past couple of years, me watching too many romantic comedies and my "forward thinking" as Iyengar aunty put it, we might kiss. *Blush* I started to wonder how the kiss might be. Soft? Forceful? The Mills-and-Boons-hunk-kisses-damsel-in-distress type? Damn those romantic comedies! I took a beauty bath, shampooed and conditioned my hair and wore the classy dress I purchased that afternoon (black, slightly low cut, ending just above my knees). Just fyi, I let my hair down, no make up, just moisturizer, lip gloss, my awesome awesome dress and black stilettos.

We went to Pizza by the Bay, enjoyed great pasta, pizza, potato wedges and chocolaty pastry (damn my diet) and we walked down Marine Drive for a few hours. We really enjoyed all that "romance" with constant texts and calls from our Dads as to where we were. He dropped me off home in his car (chauffeur driven :D). He walked me inside the building and came into the elevator with me. As I hit the 14th floor button and the elevator doors closed, he put his hand at the back of my head, his fingers through my hair and kissed me. Oh, the passion. As the elevator pinged on the 14th floor, he released me and gave me a tight hug, wherein I simultaneously felt him take in the fragrance of my hair, letting out a soft moan. I detached from him, smiled, blushed and walked out thinking, had it not been for the Sunsilk recharge, how on Earth would my life (and my love life, if I may) have been recharged with this cute guy and my yummy first elevator kiss . The thought of A struggling to get his fingers out of my all tangled and dry hair is just makes me shudder!! Thank you, Sunsilk! :D

Comments are most welcome!!

Expectations

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 13 Dec 2013 18:24:00 +0000

To a new born kid: You are such a beautiful kid, you will grow up to be a doctor/engineer and make us proud

To a school going kid: You need to score so and so marks and I'll buy you whatever you want; if you don't, you won't get anything

To a college going kid: You are in college now, you need to take life seriously, no girlfriends, no parties, no hanging out with friends, no fun, start studying and put in all the efforts

To a college graduate (boy): You have earned your degree, you need to find a well paying job and work hard

To a college graduate (girl): you have earned your degree, if you wish, find a job, earn work experience of a year or two and then we'll get you married; we'll start looking soon

For getting married (arranged): You need to settle down in life now. It is high time you do so.

For getting married (love): You know nothing about love and what is good for you. You will get married to the person we choose for you

After getting married: Come on, make us grandparents/uncles/aunties soon. What else do you need? You have a life partner and now children will complete your family.

After children: You never come to meet us, we never get to meet our grandchildren. Why are you doing this?

In case of divorce (arranged marriage): The girl needs to be understanding. Don't think about divorce. Also think about how it will reflect on us. What will the child do?

In case of divorce (love marriage): I TOLD YOU SO!

It's not that a new born kid ever knows it's surroundings or what the hell the parents whisper into it's ears. When a kid enters school, is it so hard to teach kids the meaning of ambition, goals, aims, the good, the bad, the consequences and results beforehand before going around bribing them with so and so goodies in case of a good rank or percentage? Is it so hard to give college children a sit down, discussing their goals in life, how to achieve them and encouraging them to have fun? Is it so hard to give a young adult time and space to make sure their career goals are achieved before stepping into marriage? Is it hard not to understand "I am not ready for marriage yet!"? Is it hard to understand "I am in love!"? Is it hard to understand that once two people get married, it is their job to worry about having kids and raising them and that others are not privy to information about their lives? Is one's social status more important than a happy life of your kith and kin? Is it hard not to make a point of about a zillion "I told you so!" instead of providing comfort, understanding and support?

Expectation costs nothing to the person expecting all the shit in life. It is the person expected to fulfill the other person's fantasies that suffers. Without having much time in hand to fulfill his own wishes, he is running about trying to fulfill the dreams of his parents, partner, children, friends, relatives, bosses and God knows countless others! Poor suckers we all are.

Comments are most welcome!!

Dove guessing game with my friend!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 10 Dec 2013 12:25:00 +0000

Growing up in a family where the parents were transferred from one place to the other in a couple of years, my friendships lasted good only for those years. quickly adapted to the changing environment and hopped, skipped and jumped from one friendship to the other like it was no big deal. And it genuinely wasn't a big deal at all. You may think horrible of my parents now since I had no real friends. But, no. They knew, they understood and they managed it well. While it maybe true that we kept relocating to a new place every few years and left something behind everywhere, my parents never made me miss any of that.

My first badminton tryouts and games and scores were kept with my Dad. He also taught me cricket, lagori, kabaddi and kho-kho. He trained me, no matter what time of the day, no matter how tired from work he was, he was there to make up for new friends after we moved. My first make up experience was with my Mum where she let me experiment with all the colours and different items in the make up kit on her and smiling obliged when I asked her not to wash any of it off for quite some time. My sibling was the one I played "ghar-ghar" and "doctor-doctor" with. We used to roam the housing society, hand in hand perfectly comfortable in each other's presence and not really having a complete craving for a "friend". We also stood up for each other when the other was lying through their teeth to get away from trouble from Mum & Dad!

Then again, friendships were forged and broken. One of my friends, let's call her K, used to blackmail me into studying (the below average student that I was). When I had this craze of Daniel Jacob Radcliffe (Harry Potter), she always said "if you get good marks in this exam, I'll give you a printout of his photo." Being from a middle class family and kids of parents working in the service industry, printer was a complete and unnecessary luxury, the printout was a real driving factor. This other friend of mine, let's call her S, used to coach me in high jump at school in order to be able to participate. The never tiring "high!" in a super high girly pitch sure gave me all the more reason to try and jump higher and higher. My friends from college, P & A are the ones I discovered, crushes and lust and teenage love with. The trial room visits to the mall, trying on clothes too expensive to afford and clicking pictures in them, the common Facebook addiction, cyber stalking of our latest crush, bunking classes together and enjoying vada-pav and samosa-pav at the local thela wala were just some of the mischiefs we got into. As I grew up and went to work, my office friends were very kidnly helpful to initiate drinking and all night partying. There also came the time where we fully understood the meaning of meeting deadlines and fun late night work at the office which as ever combined with yummy sandwiches and chai or coffee and bitching right through the night of the boss having an affair with his PA!

Friendships may or may not last. What does last is the memories (and photographs if you clicked them). I personally do not believe in Best-Friends-Forever. I believe friendships come with an expiry tag. As and when a person grows and matures, their needs and wants change accordingly which the "BFF" may or may not provide for rendering the friendship redundant and lack luster. What I can tell you is that relationships will never be as smooth as this. Cheers!

Karthikai 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 17 Nov 2013 13:37:00 +0000

Comments are most welcome!!

Teenage drama (!?)

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 09 Nov 2013 06:34:00 +0000

When I was cleaning my cupboard this morning, I came across an old memory card of 1GB. When I opened the files, I found a Word file named "Dreams". Something written by me on 31.08.2010 at 12:04am. I had just started my second year of B.com. Thought I should share:

Dreams are not what you see when you’re asleep, but the ones that do not let you sleep, they say. My tears may not dry, my eyes may seem happy, but my heart yearns to see that day.

A day when my heart is overwhelmed with happiness, my eyes overflowing with tears of joy.

A day when I would not know how to store happiness within.

A day when I would be so content with life, so blissful and divine, and when my eyes would reflect the calm within.

A day when I would make my choices, and be loved for them.

A day when I would not be asked to explain my decisions.

A day when I would not be asked to justify my actions.

A day when I would receive validation for my feelings.

A day when I will be loved. Unconditionally.

Yes, I crave acceptance. I crave affection, and admiration. My feelings fear rejection. Anger is the cloth I put in my defense. But all I crave is validation.

I fear that in this feigning of satisfaction, I might end up hurting myself, if not others. Pleasing others at the cost of one’s happiness isn’t quite the ‘in’ thing, right?

I suppose I’ll eventually find a way out. It can’t be the end if it is not happy. It is only Happy Endings that exist. Maybe patience would help. Maybe some tact, a little lesser level of impulsiveness, and yes, some faith in me should be it. At times I wonder if it’s worth dreaming. At this moment I dream of everlasting happiness, and I’m ready to give all it takes to see a life that way.

I cannot say "Good Lord! I was so immature!" because I still am. :D Good day!

Comments are most welcome!!

Glug.. Glug.. Glug..

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 27 Oct 2013 10:29:00 +0000

Okay, disclaimer!

1. This post is about my drinking experiences. If drinking is a taboo for you or at the thought of drinking you do "Hai Tauba!!", then feel free to not read this post.

2. I do not think I'm cool just because I drink.

3. I am not an alcoholic. I've had just three drunk parties since I've turned 21. Just. Three.

4. Occasional drinkers cannot go "Glug.. Glug.. Glug.." .. Why can't we have proper smileys here!? :-/

5. Why the fuck am I explaining myself!?

Drunk One
So, this was my initiation. I had already tried beer, didn't like it as such. So, I wanted to get wasted. Three other friends and I met up at one of the girls' place (alone.. shshshh!).. we got two bottles of Vodka and Blue Lemon syrup. And, well, we got drunk. Half a bottle down each, two of the girls were almost in their senses, this other girl, A and I were seriously out of our minds. Things I did:

1. Tried to break free from the in-proper-sense-girls and get out of the house and failed
2. Took my friend's face wash and poured it all over the place
3. Took my friend's talcum powder and sprayed it all over the place, their faces and their hair
4. Painted my friend's fingers with clear nail paint. Fingers. Not nails.
5. Begged my friend to do her boyfriend (they're waiting until marriage. I'm not judging!)
6. Surfed porn and made my friends watch it
7. Called and texted my other friends with whom things aren't rosy and talked shit
8. No, I did nothing illegal

Drunk Two
Went on a trip with my office people and got shit drunk. With Vodka and cranberry juice this time. Lots and lots of Cosmopolitan! Things I did:

1. Tried to get out of our rented cottage
2. Drank on an empty stomach with no snacks and had a terrible tummy ache
3. Got physically violent with the guys
4. Almost called Appa, fortunately reception was poor
5. Went into a dark room and kept exclaiming how dark things were in there and how scared I was
6. Poured my heart out regarding family matters to two other Tam Brahm girls, they really did get it. They were on the same boat!
7. Stole the bottle of whisky that the guys were hiding but they managed to pry it out of my hands
8. Sang Sutta loudly with this other girl
9. Managed successfully to stun the rest of my office people with my drunk behaviour. No standing ovation, please.

Drunk Three
Quite recently. With 3 other office girl I got drunk with the first time around (they are good friends now), one of the girls' brother, her boyfriend and the brother's boyfriend. Two more girls. We were a total of nine people. So, started off with Vodka. I had a bet that I wouldn't get drunk until very late. I controlled myself wonderfully and then just let myself go. Things I did:

1. Helped take care of a got-drunk-earlier-than-usual-friend
2. Downed whisky
3. Did not like whisky and somehow, during the mess of drinking it, spitting a little of it out, drinking it again and giving an awkward face, I broke a mug
4. Threw up in the kitchen sink
5. Kept falling down in the mess, had severe bruises on my arms and knees
6. Poured my heart out about Mr. Shreesha Iyengar! I hate my big mouth. The girls got some juicy piece of gossip about my life
7. Managed to get to work the next day, badly hungover, and it was a Sunday. I hadn't had any breakfast and went in late. Didn't feel well and threw up majorly at work. Fortunately, I managed to get myself locked in the bathroom just in time.

Well, there you have it. I want to read funny drunk stories from you guys. I know, my stories might not even be falling in the category of basic level crazy. But, hey, I had fun and this level of crazy is plenty as of now. My next drunk party will be next year, once I am done with my finals. Or maybe for my friend's housewarming in December. Can't wait! :D

Comments are most welcome!!

Something personal.. Everything stupid..

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 26 Oct 2013 16:32:00 +0000

Hello!! I'm back! I was resting in this secret haven of mine called laziness and sheer boredom. Okay, what's new? Got done with my September work load, the October workload is being technically supervised by my senior, I'm the fun, entertaining, gets-to-go-home-early junior :D, November workload will befall me. Oh, hell, I'll think about it then. Random stuff, then? Thank you.

1. Mr. Shreesha Iyengar's girlfriend cheated on him and he came to yours truly for support. Now, well, I really don't want him. What can I say! He wants wife and kids and the perfect suburban family. I want fun.

2. Commuting these days is really easy considering work is only thirty minutes away!

3. I sleep at least 10 hours a day.

4. I've put on weight. Damn! And I've started exercising! I can still fit into my Size 30 jeans, though. :) Bitch, me.

5. Haven't read a book in a very, very long while. Very, very long.

6. My exams are starting on the 8th of November. :(

7. House and Cuddy had sex! Google them, nut case.

8. You know how I rant on my blog? Well, the one really honest reason why I haven't done it in a little over a month is I've changed. How? Well, I just don't care what people think. It's just a phase. If they are wrong, I tell them so, if they irritate me, I tell them so. No consideration for seniority or anything. I just do it. I'm having fun and my friends at work are having fun. I'll deal with such behaviour when the time comes. (read: when I get into trouble) :D

9. I got drunk a third time and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Fact: Do not mix vodka and whisky. You. Will. Get. Sick. Or characters like me will be expected to work the next day, will get drunk the previous night and end up sick at work.

10. My internship ends September next year, during which, I'm on leave for about 5 months.. yayayayayyayay!!!

11. I still like numbering my points as opposed to paragraphs.

12. Have developed a complete addiction to "Kismi" toffees by Parle. Try it. If you generally like cardamom.

That's it. Not much. The normal old life. Good night :)

Comments are most welcome!!

The little pleasures in life

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 10 Sep 2013 17:24:00 +0000

When a really old shirt that was once tight, fits me perfectly

When I have lost even just a few grams of weight

When I have extra jalopenos in my pizza or veggie delight sub

When I have a lot of sweet onion sauce in my veggie delight sub

When my phone's screen is squeaky clean

When the views on my blog have increased significantly

When I find just the perfect shoes in the perfect fit

When I get a window seat in the bus or train

When the bus conductor gives me change for my Rs.500

When I get a lot of rice crispies and caramel in my butterscotch ice cream

When I complete two bottles of water

When I don't dirty my shoes the whole day (especially valid for school kids)

When I eat exceptionally healthy that one day

When I spot a senior-citizen-couple holding hands

When I spot a really small kid laughing madly

When I get a rickshaw without having to haggle/ fight/ threaten to call the cops

When people comment on my blog posts

When I realized that Russell Peters is coming to India (it turned to instant sadness when I saw that the Mumbai show was sold out)

When I watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S and laugh and end up with a belly ache

When my balance sheet tallies (You accountancy nerds, you got it, right?)

When I am able to cross the Sakinaka junction in under 60 seconds (Sakinaka Junction, Andheri has NO pedestrian crossing signals) (Mumbaikars who frequent Andheri, you know what I'm talking about!)

When I just escape a pot hole/ crater on the road with my vehicle

When rickshaw walas/ cab walas/ shopkeepers say "You're welcome" or "Welcome" to my "Thank you!"

When I leave the office very very early, do not inform my boss and get away with it

When that guy I have a crush on, smiles at me <3 <3

When that friend of mine breaks up with the guy I knew was wrong for her and even told her so and I control myself from yelling "I told you so, bitch!"

When I know that I can call my friends "bitch!" and flirt endlessly with my guy friends and yet get away with it

When I know that my friends will vouch for me if my parents ever doubt me of "bad habits"-- read smoking/ drinking/ having a boyfriend

When I close a book and have a smile plastered across my face for hours

When I realize that I'm in love with the protagonist of the book I'm reading

Really long list, eh? When I make lists and they look awesome! :D

When I have a dreamless night of sleep and wake up fresh (allow me to assure you, it hardly ever happens!)

When I end my posts with a Bye-bye! :) and someone says "It's nice how you lambasted eight of your sore points, and then have the grace to sign out with a gentle goodbye and an emoticon :D"

Good night, people! :) :)

Comments are most welcome!!

Why I think you are a stupid idiot

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 07 Sep 2013 17:29:00 +0000

You don't offer your seat to senior citizens/ handicapped people/ pregnant women

You spit/ litter (especially on the sign that says "Do not spit/ litter)

You don't thank the rickshaw wala/ cab wala once he has dropped you off at your destination

You don't thank the conductor of the bus after he gives you the ticket

You don't thank the salesman after the transaction

Saying "sorry" doesn't come easily to you when you are at fault (you arrogant moron)

You don't respect your parents/ guardians (they should have screwed you over, badly)

You don't like your family (you should seriously be thrown out)

You kiss some serious ass (Does your mouth stink from all the kissing?)

I texted you at 02:30pm asking you something. You were last seen on Whatsapp at 02:35pm and I receive your response at 03:40pm (You are not busy, we all know that)

You have no sense of hygiene (Refer to my next point)

You dig your nose in public/ adjust you pant around your groin in public/ scratch your butt in public

You use "there", "they're" and "their" wrong (Did you even go to school?)

You are a weight loss freak who would diet to no extent and YET manage to put on weight (are you sure you aren't an alien?)

You are desperate to get married and start a family (I didn't know guys liked desperate :-/ )

You don't stand up for what you think is right

When you walk with your boyfriend, you hold his hand tight and lean on him (He's not running away and you don't need someone to support your weight; the poor guy is unable to walk)

You waste food (You should be left hungry until you learn your lesson)

You drive one of those noisy bikes with no silencers fitted with annoying horns (I don't want to become deaf just because you want to show off your khatara which is not cool)

You have the reverse sound on your car (You know, Titanic, Airtel, Carols)

You hog (and by hog, I mean you eat your share as well as every one else's)

Girl, you wear sleeveless with all that hair on display (And also use deodorant)

Your mouth stinks (you get breath mints for Rs.10)

You have a fake laughter, the one you use to impress someone not in your gang of friends

You show off your degree/ achievements (I thought actions spoke, duh! Stupid me)

You wear such tight pants that they are on the verge of bursting at the seams

Dude, you are wearing tight jeans, your 007 is on display and it looks cheap, don't even think of comparing yourself to the ever elegant and classy James Bond. Idiot. :-/

You waste water

You speak on the phone all the time. ALL THE TIME. ALL. THE. TIME.

I have more. But, I'm sleepy. Good night :)

The world in pictures!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 30 Aug 2013 16:16:00 +0000

The world in pictures taken from my Samsung Galaxy S II

Comments are most welcome!!

Musings from Mylapore: Raks: Things that will irritate my mom

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 29 Aug 2013 17:49:00 +0000

Musings from Mylapore: Raks: Things that will irritate my mom: If Raks were writing a blog, I guess this is what she would post... My mom is obsessed with two things in her life; making me eat mamm...

Comments are most welcome!!

Grammar lesson!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 24 Aug 2013 18:02:00 +0000

Dedicated to all those people who ooze confidence with their broken English and fake accent who make me cower for dear life! No, seriously, I cower so you don't see me shaking violently with laughter and my facial expression that clearly shows that I'm mentally correcting your English. Come on, I'm not that mean! I am polite enough to cower, remember? Now, if all of that just went over your head, e-mail me on shreeshaiyengar@gmail.com and check out the image below.

Comments are most welcome!!

India is my country and the Indian men are not my brothers!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 23 Aug 2013 17:52:00 +0000

I read about the Mumbai gang rape today. You can check it out here. I must say, it left me deeply disturbed.

You know, not so long ago, I was going out for dinner with my girl friends. Dad asked me what time I'd be home and I said that I'll be back by 11-11.30pm. He refused point blank and asked me to be home by 9.30, 10pm at the most. I was taking my scooter. We had a row then and there and dad finally declared "Mumbai is not a safe place for girls anymore!" I laughed at him. On his face. I said "Mumbai is the safest place on Earth for women!" and I honestly meant it. After this incident, realisation dawned (I really wonder why it took me so long.) No, Mumbai is not a safe place anymore. Why Mumbai? Neither is India!

When I was in school, 6th standard maybe, we were travelling overnight by train to Tamil Nadu. This man kept eyeing me for no particular reason. The top berth being the favourite most for any kid, was allotted to me. In the middle of the night, I realized that same man lying behind me, hugging me close to his body. I woke up with a start and he scrambled back to his berth. I woke mum and dad up, they created a ruckus and that pervert got off the train. What more could I do?

When I lived in Kerala, I was walking to my place, in the middle of the day. One rickshaw wala slowed down next to me, asking me with indications if I needed a ride. I said no and he drove away. I kept walking and next thing I know, the rickshaw took a U-turn, came racing up to me, and sped past me while the rickshaw wala grabbed my breast. I kept walking like nothing happened. What more could I do?

People say most rapes take place within the family. No, I'm not about to narrate a horrible tale or anything. My own cousin, a guy, used to get all touchy with me. No, not all that bad. He used to put his arms around my waist, keep holding my hands, etc. It made me very uncomfortable. It made me feel all the more disgusting when I realised that he did all this when my parents were not around. Ever since, I have maintained my distance. What more could I do?

When I leave for work in the morning, the morning shift of security guards manning the building stare at me, unfazed. What can I do?

When I stand at the bus stop, waiting for a bus, a creep invariably stands beside me, staring at me with not a single flicker of shame. What can I do?

When I board a bus, some pervert purposely pushes behind me, keeping maximum possible proximity. What can I do?

When I sit on the seat reserved for ladies, men who don't find any seats stand next to the ladies, pushing their groin and huge paunches at our face and shoulder. We ask them to move away. They do and another guy takes their place instead. And this cycle continues. What can we do?

When I commute by bus, creeps stare at me, not flinching once when I stare back. What more can I do?

While commuting by bus, men wait with halted breaths as to when the wind will give them a chance to glance at my cleavage or get a glimpse of my bra strap. What can I do?

In buses/trains, men go to the extent of clicking my pictures, like I am some model showing the fun ways of travelling by public transport. To discourage such behavior, I tie my face with a scarf. Eventually, the heat gets to me and I remove the scarf. And thus, the cycle continues. What more can I do?

When travelling by trains, the slum kids, especially boys, ride by the ladies compartment. They prefer hanging out of the train door. They also prefer staring at women's breasts while also commuting from one place to the other. What can we do?

When I drive, I get many whistles and hoots and honks and squeals. I ignore them and drive on. Sometimes, I am even chased after. And yet, I keep driving. What more can we do?

While walking down the road, I am stalked by the roadside romeos and am subjected to whistles. I ignore them and walk on. What more can I do?

I am subjected to stares from the policemen. What can I do?

When I went on a school trip to Kodaikanal, my butt was groped by some man while walking down a hill. What could I do?

At railway stations, with all the crowd in India, especially Mumbai, my breasts and my butt are subject to a lot of teasing and excitement, however well covered/decently dressed. What can I do?

When men sit next to us ladies, they invariably find the need to fish something out of their shirt pocket. Really? Don't you know that I know that it is just a perverse way for you to nudge and get a feel of my breasts? At the most we can push them away. What more can we do?

When commuting by crowded buses and we don't find any space to sit, we will invariably find another man standing behind us, his groin pressed to our back and his hot breath on our necks. We, again, as usual, push them away and at the most, raise a ruckus. What more can we do?

While commuting by public transport, when men sit behind women, the men just love to touch women's waist and hips. We create a ruckus and some drama. He ultimately gets the piece of action he wanted. What more can we do?

I now fully understand why my parents have a problem with me wearing sleeveless t-shirts, shorts and one piece dresses. I now understand why my parents set a strict curfew. I now understand why my parents ask me to limit my number of guy friends and my closeness to them. I now understand what my parents must be feeling when I don't keep them updated as to where I am. I now understand why my parents are willing to spend any amount of money to ensure that I travel by private transport, safely.

Bloody hell, I now understand why female foeticide and female infanticide is so rampant in India. What parent would want their girl child to go through all that we do?

Most hilarious sexpert answer in Mumbai Mirror

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 17 Aug 2013 12:46:00 +0000

The Sexpert column from Mumbai Mirror, 17th August 2013 edition- by far, the most stupid question and the corresponding answer, which according to me is the most hilarious one ever given!

I like to masturbate to images of the 50-year-old actresses in Bollywood. Is it okay to fantasise of a much older woman?

I am a 22-year-old man. I like to masturbate to images of the 50-year-old actresses in Bollywood. Is it okay to fantasise of a much older woman?

Masturbation

By:Anonymous

8 hrs ago

1 Comment

I just can't relate to it!!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 16 Aug 2013 17:22:00 +0000

Alright. I know many of us find ourselves in such situations. You see someone doing/saying something that you JUST can't relate to. Yes, it has happened. And I am about to list out some of them.

1. Not following pedestrian crossing signal- Let me explain how the signal works. When the red light glows, the pedestrians are supposed to halt to let the traffic pass. When the green light glows, the pedestrians should cross the road. How hard is it to understand this basic rule. Really? You think the traffic rules were put in place to cause you more harm than there is!?

2. Motorists honking before the signal says "Go!"- Are you blind? If so, you wouldn't have been given a driver's license. Oh wait, you may not even have a license. My mistake. Either way, let us just assume that since you drive, you are not visually impaired. So, when you can see that the light has not turned green, there are still 4-5 seconds left for the signal to scream "Go!", why the fuck are you honking like there is fire up your ass?

3. Accents- I hate accents. People who live in India, talk in accents. People who go abroad for a very short span, talk in accents. Why? Do you know the one thing I genuinely love and respect about the way Indians speak English? The neutral accent. Yes. When we speak, everybody can understand. That's awesome. It really is. When you ruin that by faking an accent, it takes all the will power in me to not twist your tongue.

4. Speaking loudly over the phone- No. I am not talking about those times when people felt speaking loudly over the phone on a long distance call ensured better quality. I'm talking about the rising level in our speaking volumes today. Okay, given, not just the volume, I hate it when people are rude enough to pick up their mobile phones when another person is having a conversation with them. Hey! I am Queen Rude. I can be rude just to anybody, I can be mean anytime I want. But even I have the manners to say "Excuse me" in formal situations and "Hey! Give me just two minutes for this phone call" during informal conversations. Get your courtesy up and going, people!

5. When girls talk- I know, guys, I know, we talk a lot. Sorry, not we. They talk a lot! I can write as and when my mood permits and I just feel like rambling. How can you girl talk for such long periods over the phone without getting a jaw ache or an ear ache with all the mobile radiation? And how the fuck does your mobile not get heated up? I swear, I was commuting by bus today and this girl beside me was just rambling on about how she was going to some multiplex to buy tickets to the latest box office hit movie. She was rambling, I swear, I'm unable to exactly elaborate on what aspects of the process she touched. Eventually, even the guy on the other end stopped listening, or so I guessed since she suddenly started yelling "Aap kabhi meri baat sunte hi nahi ho? Kabhi toh baat suna karo aur acche se jawab do!" (Translation: "You never listen to anything I say! Can you sometimes listen to what I am saying and give an appropriate response?") Seriously, girl, what do you expect? Do you want him to jump up and down, all excited because you are going to purchase movie tickets for some stupid movie that did not deserve to be a hit? Bloody hell, the guy was not even invited to the movie. Go, take a walk!

6. Distance- People! Maintain some distance! Remember, in school, during the Physical Training period, our teachers taught us the "One hand distance" rule? How about a little application of that in real life? Especially when we are standing in queues? I always, always maintain a good amount of distance with the person in front of me. But the woman behind me has her boobs stuck to my back trying to peer over what is going on ahead or the guy behind me is sticking to me with his bloody paunch and breathing down my neck! And the kids! Seriously? Do you even attend school? When kids stand behind you in a queue, one thing is for certain, the head will touch your butt, accidentally of course, they will touch your hips or butt or back while standing restlessly behind you. What the F!?

7. Guys and porn- No, no, guys! I'm supporting you. Girls! Listen up! Men will be men and boys will be boys. You've heard that, haven't you? Well, what's not to understand? Yes, men watch porn, a lot! So what? As long as he's not actually cheating on you, come on, give the guy a break. So he is watching something stimulating and enjoying himself with a solo performance. Don't by coy, you, sly you! You read 50 shades, girl! You enjoyed Christian Grey! Why the eff can't the guys enjoy!? Hmph!

8. Comments on clothing- I simply can't stand it when people comment on what others are wearing. So what if she's wearing a tight T-shirt? So what if she is wearing shorts? So what if the guy is wearing pink? Good Lord, live and let live! I mean, do you want me to comment about the fucking sleeveless purple colour turtle neck sweater you are wearing with blue jeans on a hot summer day in Mumbai? No? Well, shut up!

That is about it for now :-)

Comments are most welcome!!