I Won't Take A Day

I won’t take a day.

I want the complete year.

I don’t want to be pampered for the sake of my gender.

I want to be treated as an equal.

I don’t want to be looked down upon, for my constraints.

I want to be respected for my strengths.

I don’t want celebrations for my mere existence. Yes, I do matter and I do make a difference, but that is limited to my close circle. And that, I believe is a personal thing. My loved ones don’t need the 8^th of March to celebrate my existence! They already have the 26^th.

Is that too much to ask?

And frankly, why this helter skelter about celebrating womanhood for a day, when we are not going to remember it till next 11 months. (Of course, the ad agencies and the marketing companies will get into their act a month before. And that is a reminder good enough.)

I don’t want to draw the attention to the extremities. I am not going to talk about exemplary ladies who have brought laurels in their fields. Nor am I going to talk about the unfortunate few, who have faced atrocities of the worst degrees, because one lot has been unusually talented and the other lot has suffered exceptional misfortune. And exceptions don’t govern general guidelines.

I want to talk about myself; a girl with a comfortable middle class urban upbringing, good enough schooling and availability of the right opportunities at the correct times. I cannot claim that life has been a bed of roses for me, but it has been manageable.

During school days, differentiation on the basis of gender was limited to school uniform and assembly lines. And that made a whole lot of sense too. It was never a basis for judging one’s potential. Sadly, this mythical world was lost along with the carefree nature of school days. (Or what could be more likely, is that I didn’t open my eyes to face the real world until I passed out from school).

As I reached college, I found myself in a place where girls were supposed to sit in the front row during classes and to stand in front of (and away from) the experiment setups in labs. The fact, that I wanted to hammer my own bolt in forging workshop might raise eyebrows, was novice to me. As is always the case, I got accustomed to the changed circumstances pretty soon (and vice – versa). By the time college life was nearing a close, I found myself to be more aware about my gender but never in a negative way

However, my first posting was indeed an eye opener. Even during the orientation training, there had been a few hints, however, I found them easier to ignore than explore. My first posting was in a department which by default spelled masculinity and I was expected to be that simple and docile girl, of which we usually read about in matrimonial ads. This indeed was shockingly new and absolutely unacceptable for a person as uncouth, headstrong and firebrand as me. (And I am sure, my true self came as a big shock to my colleagues as well.)

Anyways, bestowing me with a ‘namaste’ while shaking hands with my colleagues can be a matter of personal choice; not remembering my name can be attributed to having a poor memory; however, adjudging me to be a lesser mortal than my male counterpart is definitely not acceptable by any logic. 

I might not be the strongest person physically, but then manual labour was perhaps not a prerequisite of the job. Also, I might have certain ‘safety’ concerns associated with me, but that I believe should reflect more upon the society and the guys rather than my existence. I might also have ‘family’ responsibilities attached, but so is the case with the guys as well (Here, I do assume that my male counterparts are not ignoring their personal lives for the welfare of their employer). Hence, for these cases, I would prefer to plead ‘not guilty’ rather than giving others an open ended permission to undermine my capabilities as per their convenience. Moreover, if genes (specifically presence and absence of the ‘Y’ chromosomes) were to be the sole deciding factor in defining one’s competence, then life would have been so much simpler.

Thus, when these seniors and colleagues, after challenging my existence in the corporation for 364 days, suddenly decide to celebrate ‘International Women’s Day’, then things do feel extraordinarily fishy.  And that is why I won’t take a day.

Judge me for being insincere, for being inefficient, for being unintelligent and for the umpteen flaws that exist in me; but don’t go about stereotyping me for being a woman.

All I want is to be treated at par.

Regards,

A Female Subordinate & Colleague

P.S. This year, 8^th March went very peacefully indeed. Heartfelt thanks to everyone for not isolating me on this account. :)

Testing the Limits

It was never a rare or a difficult-to-gather experience. However, in my particular case, fate had been eluding me this chance since last seven years. In fact, as a friend correctly summarized, being a female is somewhat disadvantageous in these matters; mainly because, so many factors need to fall in place, before a ‘Madam’ can be declared ‘fit’ for being a ‘blood donor’.

So, when this Sunday morning, Aks casually mentioned a blood donation camp being organized in the neighbourhood, my mind immediately worked out all the statistics to evaluate my fitness. With an affirmative reply from the fitness section, I called upon all the ‘sweet-girly’ powers of conviction in order to obtain the requisite NOC from my dear hubby. Eventually, a deal was struck, but at the cost of a ‘Fast ‘. I was happy nevertheless. After all, this experience had been on my wishlist for a long time.

For me, experiencing the phenomenon of donating blood, was somehow never associated with the social welfare part of the issue. Neither was I concerned about the reported corruption prevalent in this sector. For me, it was all about testing my limits. It was all about getting a confirmation about my strength.  It was only about answering whether I could.

With all these thoughts in mind and with Aks doubting the righteousness of his NOC, we reached the venue. We were amazed by the number of cars parked outside the small wedding pandal which was serving as the camp site. There were at least ten folding beds lying on one side of the pandal, making it resemble a make-shift accident relief camp. On the other side of the pandal, two counters had been set up for registering the volunteers and for the elementary medical checkup. As I went through the formalities, many ‘well wishers’ came forward to assure me that ‘ghabraane ki koi baat nahi hai’ and ‘dariye mat’. In response, I smiled politely and tried my best to hide the curious-excited expression. It was pointless trying to explain the selfish intent behind the noble act.

Finally, as I lay on one of those beds and the sister struggled to find a suitable vein for pinching the needle, the long awaited moment had arrived. With a 350ml pouch attached to my left hand, the procedure commenced. In less than two minutes, even before I could intake the complete experience, a fellow donor exclaimed ‘bhar gaya’, which was slightly disappointing. However, just then I felt dizzy and it took all my willpower (and a lot of effort) to keep the eyes open. It was then that I truly understood the meaning of the phrase ‘to suck life’s blood’. This struggle between the mind and the heart continued for another fifteen minutes, after which the eyes were able to remain open on their own and I was back on my feet.

As I rose from the test bed, the reassuring well wishers were back at work. However, as I made my way towards the exit, there was a beaming smile inside my heart. 

Now I knew, for sure, that I CAN.

The Bridge That Transforms

There is a bridge, which owns the responsibility for the transformation that I go through on a daily basis. There is a creek underneath, which clearly demarcates the two lives that I juggle between. And there is a part of me, which silently believes that if only I could cross that bridge blindfolded, perhaps I would be spared from the pressures of duality.

Last Saturday, I woke up to the realization that Diwali festivities could no longer be extended any further and it was time for me to be on my way back to Gandhidham. The true affect of that journey started to seep in gradually, as the train traded green fields of Indo-Gangetic plains for the undulating topography of the north western region of the country. As the temperatures continued to rise, my happiness continued to fall at a subconscious level.

I was sad to be leaving home, but I was happy to be reaching home as well. The only part I was not really looking forward to was the re-starting of the routine I had happily fled from in the name of Diwali. However, even though my heart was silently monitoring the conflicting emotions fighting amongst themselves, it didn’t deem it necessary to trouble my happily engaged mind about it. Not yet that is.

I reached home and since it was a not a Sunday, thence, there was this automatic understanding that I had to rush to office. Consequently, there was an urgency of getting through the mandatory routines of a homemaker ASAP. One of the major benefits of being in a pressured situation is that it makes one forget about all other impending issues. Thus, the office worries (read the second life) got another push to stay in that remote corner of my mind, which is fitted with the strongboxes of the highest quality. They simply didn’t stand a chance to start troubling me.

Having fulfilled the compulsory duties, I was left with no other valid reason to lengthen my leave any further, so I started the ride to Kandla. However, since I had dialed up my Maa’s number, so mentally, I was more at Lucknow than elsewhere.  Sadly enough, it was a working day for Maa as well. As a result, the call ended sooner than later. After putting the cell phone back in the purse I lazily looked outside the window, to realize that the car was just stepping on the ‘bridge’. I could feel the hustle bustle of the city life and make out the dense skyline. While I was busy observing and absorbing the scene, suddenly without any prior notice, the skyline changed.

There was no way in which I could now ignore the rising tank farms and the spanning salt pans in front of me. The port cranes loomed dangerously in somewhat near distance. Abruptly, the scene outside and the thoughts inside went through a whirl wind. The safety vaults unlocked themselves and all thoughts pertaining to all the pending (and probable) issues started to rise. The worries, the stress, the angst, the feelings of not achieving the self designated targets, of not fighting enough, of helplessness, of lack of understanding, all got into a cat race to reach the top. Suddenly, I was a ball juggler trying to do the act with 20-30-40 (and counting……..) numbers of balls, and the balls were continuously falling on the ground and dying like droplets of rain falling on a parched earth.

The site of those tank farms was a sufficient reminder. If the morning routines had seemed tough, then I was in for a reality check. The morning was just a clip, the film was about to start. I started to make a mental list of all the documents I had delayed processing in the name of Diwali. I began to recollect, without much effort, all the devices which were seeking my attention when I wished them sayonara. Also, all the mails, waiting for their replies started thrusting their ‘flags’ right in my face.

My ‘daily’ second life had started.

I had crossed the bridge that transforms.

A Sunday Breakfast

I cooked sandwiches for breakfast today; nothing special, just kheera, pyaaj & tamatar and bread. I know I am a very lazy person and my indolence reaches its crest when it comes to accomplishing any housewifely chore, especially cooking. Anyways, so I ended up plating 4 sandwiches for breakfast and it so happened that one of them consisted of the first and the last slice of the loaf.

As we sat devouring the bread, the special one managed to find me. Now, charms of these two slices are well established to all the bread eaters. These happen to be the not so soft, thicker than the rest, with lots of crumbs falling apart kind of pieces, which are difficult to incorporate in most of the dishes. As I chewed and chewed and chewed this particularly lucky piece; a ‘Happy – Sunday’ scene from my childhood days flashed before my eyes.

Back then, a regular Sunday started with an episode of ‘Rangoli’ on television, and all of us around the dining table, a pot of tea at the center and a packet of bread to go with it. What I remember most vividly about those mornings  is that whenever we’d be on the verge of finishing a packet or starting a new one, Mumma would always intervene saying that ‘Leave the Last (or the First) slice for me, I really like it’. And naturally, we always did exactly the same. As I think about it, I am not too sure whether our reaction was due to our love for Mumma or because it was an easy solution to ‘the despicable slice’. However, the end result was always the same. In due course of time, the last/first slice became synonymous to Mumma’s plate in my mind. However, today as I sat munching that special piece, a question popped up in my mind and I wondered, ‘Did Ma really like this? This?’

There are some things which just get registered into our mind without us weighing them on their logical merit. This ‘bread slice’ thing was a similar case for me. After 27 years of existence, this was the first time that this doubt surfaced so evidently in my mind. Of course, I understand that we as individuals have very diverse tastes, likes and dislikes; but even then, there are certain things you’d never expect anyone to like and enjoy willingly. Nevertheless, today, that sandwich made me examine my Ma’s intent behind her fondness.

As I tried to delve deeper into her psyche, I remembered many more instances of her crazy preferences. She’d always pick the most blackened bananas from the lot. She’d always keep aside those roti’s which refused to rise; for herself. As a kid, I always thought that she actually liked that stuff, but now I know better. In fact, now, even she knows better, even though, she still carries on with many of these choices. Nonetheless, eventually she & I have matured sufficiently to admit & understand the true motives behind them; well most of them. However, I am still unsure about the bread slices and my search for her confession continues.

Engrossed in these thoughts, I just happened to see the clock and if we are to trust it’s hands, it’s time for me to try my hands at roti making. As I consider the proposition, I become all the more certain that I can’t repeat my Mumma’s feat in this regard, as that would end up in my eating all the roti’s that were rolled.

Archives: Death of a Donkey

Recently during an evening bakar session an interesting issue was raised; 'The similarities between donkeys and their human counterpart'.

As the discussion progressed further, I realised that 'gadha' as an abuse was actually an overrated misnomer. Donkeys are more popular as stubborn creatures and their laborious nature is usually reflected in negativity of foolishness tending to rudeness. However my friend highlighted the similarities. Well, not everyone can be categorised thus, but a few stubborn people amongst us, who have too straight a back to bend and too upright a sense of honour to modify can definitely be termed as the 'Donkey' beings.

In the days that followed I found myself pondering over those issues and soon enough I realised that I could attribute more than 50% of my daily routine acts to this donkey in me. However, wanting to project a cool non 'pappuish' image of myself (something I've been striving for since college days!), I continued ignoring this donkey for a long time. Perhaps, I had been taking it for granted. I say this because just like we Indians realise the importance of a healthy body only after falling sick, similarly, the moment I realised the conspiracy being plotted in background to strangulate my donkey, I realised its importance. To say the least it hurt, and trust me it hurt real bad.

If death is something living beings are not very fond of then I guess something worse than death can only be a 'slow' death. And this is what a handful of people were busy planning for my donkey.

Its a very hard to describe as to how it feels when the realisation begins to dawn upon a person that the whole world has set itself against him, that all his intentions are being misinterpreted and all his decisions, all his actions are being manipulated and highlighted in the wrong light. Initially, one might want to revolt and rebel, to compel others to listen and understand the correctness of his actions, the righteousness of his intentions and most importantly the genuineness of his act. But this reaction is of course impulsive and impulsive acts don't always last in the long run. Even if the person is emotional enough to take this route, he usually realises the futility of it soon enough. And then the seasoned part of the brain takes control, curbing all the instincts to do anything more vocal. This is when the real tussle begins; to do or not to do is the question to be sought. With one's heart and mind very clear on the route to take, it sure is heart wrenching not to be able to do so due to external factors. To make matters worse, these factors are not there by divine grace. These factors exist and grow because 'we' are not 'man' enough to stand tall against the flow and against the wind.

The previous statement is highly idealistic and theoretical in nature. In the practical world, intentions and will power alone are not sufficient. To elaborate further, let me make use one of the most popular starting lines from our essay writing days: 'man is a social animal'. The truth remains that we are not born martyrs and though we are born alone and leave the same way, yet there are emotional ties which prevent us from going the self destructive at the smallest of outburst. The decision to make is how small is small and when does it become big enough to take a stand!

A reader might wonder that since I’ve been babbling about genuine intentions and correct decisions then what stops me from getting them implemented and executed. Perhaps there is something lacking in the intent itself! But, hey my point remains that how much can I fight and change in spite of the external factors, from 'my position'. Standing at the bottom of the pyramid, as the odd one out (in ways more than one), I shout and shout and keep on screaming, hoping that someone will hear me someday. I don’t expect for any help, just enough support to ensure a free hand in getting the job done as per specs with a long term perspective in mind.

The donkey is willing to bear any amounts of load, doesn’t want any appreciation either, all it wants is the chance to work. Donkey being a donkey with a penchant for doing the right thing has a tendency to fall into depression when devoid of work at all. And unfortunately, this is what people around me seem to be up to. They seem to have tried all tricks from the book. Upon realizing that this one is from the old school, they have finally found a solution; even if they can't change my mind, they can definitely change me.

On days when I am low on spirits, I often think about saying 'I quit'. And just as I begin to mourn the death of my donkey, I remember some golden lines penned by Kipling 'If you can keep your head, when all about you are loosing theirs and blaming it on you'..... Ahh! Guess 'donkey' beings have always existed among mankind since inception.....So after refurbishing my spirits and giving a boost to my donkey, I usually am back to work the same ways. Quoting from something I wrote years ago, 'try as they may please, will they succeed in taming the donkey in me, I cannot say'.

Ever untitled :)

Why does my urge to write at its strongest when I am not in the best of my moods?
Has writing got anything to do with the rush of adrenalin? For that matter, has adrenalin got anything to do with the worst moods?

In past 1.5 years of blogging and of over a decade of writing diaries, one feeling has ruled for more than 90% of the times. On an average at least 3 times a day I find issues I would like to write about. But the ones which actually take the shape of alphabets from vague hues are the ones penned on an impulse - like the present article.

The tussle that ensues between the impulse to write and the mind unwilling to write about frustrated emotions is very interesting for a third party onlooker, (However, being caught up amidst the chaos is not the best position to watch). Consequently, a thousand 'gems' die at the foetal stage itself. One day I realised that the list of 'draft' posts was much longer than that of the published ones. I felt so abashed at my inability that on yet another impulse I deleted the list. That was a classic case of 'na rahega baans, na bajegi bansuri'.

Anyways, my list and moreover the ideas are once again piling up. Ideas are like dust - you can never wipe them off completely, you'll wipe a portion and it will simply be replaced by another set. The only tangible benefit of penning such thoughts is that it allows one's soul to be freed from the frustrated mind. But then, there is a huge disadvantage as well. Reading such articles at a later stage always make me feel stupid about my behaviour, sad about the situation and immature at the reactions.

Interestingly the 'not so good moods' have a lot of variety to offer. There are times when I'd be really angry, almost like having a fit; thoughts compiled under such situations would be highly incoherent in flow as well as grammar. On other occasions, there would be moments when I'd be deeply hurt; compilation of thoughts is a rare process under those circumstances, however, if at all it happens, the outcome is bound to be melancholic and can get subtle at times. The worst of all the scenarios is when I feel absolutely helpless and there is nothing that I can think of to improve (or remove) the conditions. The end result in these cases is a ranting; comparable to the outcome of a blown off safety valve; these articles are of the worst variety, they are just a collage of facts, like a sensationalized news report, even though they might be high in content, but they are very low on substance.

Infact, even the articles penned during super exicted and chirping mindset tend to get incoherent at times, but the overflowing happiness seems to hide the damage pretty well. All in all, the best articles are the ones written with a balanced mind, and a peaceful scenario (which explains why there are such jewels are extremely rare). The most difficult aspect about a penning session is giving direction to the article and seeing to it that it reaches a conclusion. After all even though ideas are never-ending, yet articles cannot go on forever.

Presently, I am simply not able to understand why this untitled piece has been written in the first place? What is it all about – a description of different articles that I write? I seriously cannot name it, can you?

Annual Celebrations & Perennial Nonchalance

Time: 09:00 hrs

Date: 15.08.2011

Place: Garden Swing

It had stopped drizzling a short while back, clouds and sunshine were busy in their usual duel thereby benefiting the earthlings. Patriotic melodies resounded yet again and 'desh-prem' was once again call of the hour. Beloved 'tiranga' manifested its presence via all possible media. Cell phone inboxes and facebook walls were flooded with Happy Independence Day wishes. Nationalism ruled and with every agency trying to strike the best deal out of the prevailing sentiments, commercialism ruled as well.

I myself had done my bit; by playing one of my favourite Independence Day tracks. As I swayed on the swing, absorbing the environment and allowing the patriotism to strike the right chords inside my heart, I could feel something not so right about it. Struggling hard to figure out the nagging thorn, my mind searched through each one of the 15th August spent in past.

I remembered my pre-primary years, where on every eve of I-Day and R-Day, we painted the tricolour on white sheets. Our teachers added the finishing touches to the flags by drawing the 24 blue spokes. The next day we would hold the flags high and march around in unmatched steps looking as cute as tiny tots do. Though these painting sessions ended with the onset of primary education, yet holding a tricolour high on those days remained a high point throughout my school days. What was to be the fate of those venerated sheets of paper after the patriotic surge had subsided fell under my mother's purview. In those days, I never allowed myself to be burdened by such lesser causes.

Playing out loud 'desh-bhakti' numbers, attending flag hoisting ceremonies at school (and some times at my father's office), watching the 2 p.m. I-Day special movie on Doordarshan, quite summed up the physical activities I indulged into on a regular I-Day. It was followed by an unyielding demand to be taken on a sight seeing tour of the city in the evening. The beautifully decorated government buildings made them quite a sight. All these acts made me feel that I-Day was something special, something to be cherished forever. However, the charm of I-Day was not a consequence of these activities. These pursuits simply added to the flavour. The most prominent feature of the whole affair was the fervent enthusiasm that came from within. And yes, now I had nailed the nagging thorn, the enthusiasm was not as fervent now as it used to be.

A candid confession: from past 4 years I had been looking forward to the national holidays as a method to save leaves and escape the confines of my office. I still feel enthusiastic about the celebrations, but the passion has begun to dwindle. Disillusionment has begun to replace dreams, negativity is eating its way into the hopeful heart, and a sense of helplessness is spreading like a cancer polluting the heart and soul. 'Iska kuch nahi ho sakta' has become the favourite punch line for every situation.

Now, my heart often questions my intent saying 'why do I remember my country only on the 15th of August and 26th of January?' It asks me that instead of flying tricolours only twice a year, why don't I work for country and try to bring about the changes that are needed. Why do, on the remaining 363 days, I take the 'Let it be' stand and am unable to produce a voice loud enough to be heard. Why do I prefer to be a passive observer of the constitutional injustices around me? Why even on the 15th of August, do I feel content by just humming Jan Gan Man in the morning and then proceed to spend the remaining day as yet another holiday? I think that I am simply scared to take an initiative because I feel that I am not well equipped and am alone in my fight; but is this the only truth? Is the only thing stopping me is this monophobia?

As I continued swinging, my heart treaded further on the path of introspection. Done with the scrutiny of carefree childhood I-Days, it was now busy analysing the mature ones, and, let me be very frank, it happens to be my most critical critic. The first finger it raised was towards the language of my thoughts. I tried to deviate it and responded that there were still 45 days for ‘Hindi’ Diwas. It had bigger issues to trouble me and therefore relented on this one. The next issue it mentioned left me speechless. It asked, ‘How much longer do I plan to be the silent passerby?’ I had no replies to offer.

Restless, I left my coveted seat and started strolling. My thoughts all jumbled were quite a contrast to the firm footfalls. I could not recall the first time when missing the flag hoisting had not raised a pang of guilt, but I did know that I have been quite irregular on this front of late. Of course, I have stopped making/purchasing my own tricolour because I am unable to undertake the responsibility of safekeeping them once the celebrations are done with. However, these were not the only things bothering me. In fact, this was just the tip of the iceberg. Attending or missing the morning ceremony doesn’t seem to make much a difference. At heart, I love my country; but then was love alone sufficient? Further, was my duty, as a citizen, limited to standing in attention to the tune of the national anthem when the tricolour flutters high, on the annual occasions and for the remaining year was I supposed to be oblivious to the issues ailing my motherland?

When I was young, I often fantasised about fighting against British for our independence. With a childish sadness I used to regret having been born after 1947. However, even then, I could sense that my country was not fully free from its woes and I made a hundred thousand promises to myself that when I grow up, I shall definitely work towards making a difference. Now, my heart jeered, ‘How more will I have to grow before putting my thoughts into action?’ I retorted that I was struggling hard to do justice to all my responsibilities, personal and professional, and that I tried to do full justice to my systems in terms of quality and longevity. The furious heart, burning with piled up frustrations, snapped back vehemently. ‘So, now doing regular office duty, for which one gets paid, also comes under the category of greatness? These are truly desolate times in that case’, it yelled at me.

The practical mind was still busy devising methods to get the heart off ‘this’ track, however, my conscience knew that I had been a lazy being. Heart and mind continued their debate for as long as they wished, and I became an observer once again. I knew which was right and which was practical and had no courage to side with either. In past, I have resolved and re-resolved umpteen times, however, my resolutions have yet not been powerful enough to bring about a change in my inertial state. Swinging or strolling, debating or distracting, I knew that nothing shall come out of it unless resolutions turned into ideas and ideas were shaped into action.

Engrossed in this mental mess, I struggled hard to come out, but to no avail. Perhaps my conscience was regaining some of its strength, however, just then I heard the main gate being thrown open. With a jerk I came back to practical realm and watched my husband returning from the flag hoisting ceremony at his office. The heart had just one last observation to make, ‘Amidst the nonchalant behaviour upheld throughout the year, at least some had not given up on annual celebrations as well.’