Piggy Tails Of A Kinky Kind

The mane world’s divided into two camps - the straight-haired and the curly-haired. Occasionally members from the two will bump into one another - at a party, on a street, in a cafe, at a funeral... And sooner or later, they will wind up expressing an affiliation to the other side...The poker straight-haired girl will be like, "My hair’s so boring. Blah..." The bouncy curly- haired girl will go, "My hair’s wild. I just can’t get it to behave... especially when I want it to."

Personally, I find this exchange cute. However, my heart bleeds for the curly-haired girl. (For one, ‘cos my hair’s the erratic, perennially PMSing, wavy-curly category.) For that reason, I’m not able to completely empathize with the straight-haired girl. I mean what does she have to complain about? Hair’s boring? At least you can depend on yours to not look like a cat got electrocuted on your head. I recall an interesting conversation with an old friend ,who has super-sleek, polished hair. She says, "Straight hair’s like having this really hot boyfriend who’s also very, very dull." Uh-huh? Well curly hair’s like having this wild beast with tentacles sprouting in all directions for a boyfriend defying all acceptable laws of conduct... Who’s also a freakin' weather barometer for Pete’s sake!

Enough dramatics...I’ll cut to the chase. I kind of have a love-hate relationship with my hair (bordering towards hate most of the times). There are times when I can’t take my eyes off the bouncy cascading spiral curls that make me ME. But left alone for fifteen minutes in Mumbai humidity and they’ve turned into, literally, a monstrous web of lies. Trust me. I can never catch two mirror reflections of mine narrating the same story, even with all things being equal.

Mostly, I lead a follicular dual life and just blow-dry them out of sight, the customary tangles done away with. I’m so damn attached to my blow dryer that I spent a whole day whining and hunting down a multi-plug extension cord on a vacation in Spain and didn’t rest until my bangs were underneath the comforting hot stream of air that has so much to promise.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against curls and embracing who I am. But at times my hair’s a freaking nightmare...all the frizzy kinks and antiquated curls come to life and haunt me for the rest of the day...and if somebody dares ask, "What have you done to your hair?" or if a vacuous hairdresser would say, "Why don’t you get it straightened?", I swear, a part of me just dies a little every time.

And the inevitable happened. I got exhausted from the subservience to straighteners and thought of giving myself some personal gratification by moving over to the other side. I got my hair relaxed. The verdict? Even though initially I was thrilled to bits about how organized and professional my hair was, I got weary of the same look everyday. And along with the glossy sheen and sleeker locks, came various stages of hair trauma, the worst being raggedy Bob Marley-ish kind of mops that were stuck somewhere in no man’s land, totally nondescript.

But it occurred to me that there’s perhaps something innately wrong with the way we’ve dismissed naturally curly hair as messy, zany, loud — a sign of laziness and non-maintenance. With the right haircare routine, which no two hairdressers seem to agree upon, I should be able to feel confident in it — which for me translates to leaving it the fuck alone and not feel like I’m stepping out sans pants every time I go out with my natural curls.

I recall every pop-culture reference that portrays the curly-haired woman as carefree, loose, bohemian, wild, lazy, eccentric… Pretty Woman had Julia Roberts sporting the most gorgeous head of curls but well, she was a hooker and also using a safety pin to keep her romper from falling. I recall a photo shoot at my workplace when it was diplomatically suggested that I do something to my hair so it looks a little more clean. I cringe everytime when somebody compares my hair to a popular brand of noodles.

Then it struck me why my hair bothered me so much. The perception that revolves around curly hair is that the kinks are non-conforming and deviant. It may take an army of products to get it to behave but even then, a curly mane has a mind of its own. You may rest your head on silk pillows and use giant, futuristic gadgets to diffuse your curls but there’s no knowing that it will not turn into a knotty battlefield if the wind doesn’t blow the way you want it to. (Think slow-mo, gently-swaying movements of perfectly hydrated curls.)

What curly hair is - it’s bold and intimidating. It won’t shut up so that the air’s pleasant and everybody can plant a sweet smile on their faces. It won’t keep up appearances— no sir, let’s just call a spade a spade. It won’t throw a glossy halo over your head Tresemme style so that it can temporarily reflect rainbows and unicorns as you strut down a ramp, nice and easy on the eyes. You may love it, you may hate it. It doesn’t give a fuck either way.

What it will give you is uniqueness (well each curly mane is a novel in itself), an undeniable character, more inches in height ( try measuring it out-of-bed), an other-worldly charm (think Botticelli ringlets), an endearingly childish appeal, an everlasting je-ne-sais-quoi…

And if you’re still left thinking about whether it is acceptable or not with all the cultural stereotypes coming to haunt you, well you know, for starters, stop watching movies and walk down that sunny street, wearing your big gorgeous curls loose.

The halo of frizz is becoming.

The Body That Gave Birth Knows Pain Like No Other

“We’re not perfect. I’d like to think we were all perfect, naked as we came, as we entered a brand new world. Things started getting progressively worse from there. Soon, we realized, to be perfect, in our eyes before anybody else’s, we’ll have to work. We’ll have to put up a fight within the confines of an ageing body.”

The bell rang loudly as if reverberating from the shallow depths of my own consciousness. I am not friendly to waker-uppers of any kind, especially the literal ones. Groggily, I crawl out of bed ready with my outbursts of disapproval at the a-hole who’s had the nerve to call on me at such an ungodly hour. Crap! Need to check on the baby first. He’s showing all the expected signs of waking up, rubbing the back of his head vigorously against the pillow in scritch-scratchy swishes. The bell rings again. Urggh! This one is getting my special wrath from hell. I limp, holding my waist to one side nursing a lower back-ache that, I imagine, can only come from a 12-hour shift of gruelling work at a construction site. I don’t get it. What have I done except fall into an interrupted slumber and feed my baby for a half-hour before that?

Raging towards the door in a comical swagger, I unbolt it quickly only to see a shiny, happy face beaming at me. One who probably does afternoon yoga followed by freshly-brewed matcha smoothie. (I know this cos not long before, I used to be one of them.)

Her smile fades when she takes stock of my possibly disheveled, neurotic state.

“Umm…sorry, were you sleeping?”

[Now isn’t that an intimate question? Whether I was sleeping or in the middle of something hot and steamy, which seems a bridge too far at the moment, how is it any of your business? The point is your timing couldn’t be worse.]

“Uh-huh. What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were sleeping. But it’s six o’clock. I thought….

[Say whattt? Yet again, I’ve snoozed all over my plans of starting an exercise regime. Or taking the baby to the park. Basic things that are nowhere close to the supermommy elevation. I know what you’re thinking. What kind of a mom of two sleeps till six pm? Don’t you have kids to feed, errands to run, emergencies to address?]

Speaking of emergencies, one presents itself. The baby can now be heard loud and clear from across three rooms, traumatized, in unmistakable agony.

“If you don’t mind, please come later.” I grit my teeth, slam the door on her face and rush inside without giving much thought to social etiquette — who cares what the queen would say — and the repercussions of anti-social behavior in our close-knit neighborhood.

This has been my wired emotional state for the last couple of weeks. The permanent state of exhaustion and guilt trips that can only come from feeling caged inside a fragile body recuperating from giving birth to another. “We’re both jet-lagged at the moment,” I’d joke to my other mommy friends who wished to pay a visit with biryani, gifts and cheers. Everybody around me is tending and nurturing me as if I’ve just been born. While all I do is look after my baby and train myself to be at his every beck and call. Sometimes, an eerie white noise passes by drowning his loud wails and urgent cries. Sometimes, I forget about the existence of my other daughter, who’s much too sweet and understanding to mind.

My postpartum mind and body seem as though they have been through several ages, through several hells, with stories to recount of war, blood and toil.

But they tell me I’ve had it easy. I had a natural vaginal birth with no medical intervention except for the anesthesia at the end for stitches — I had tears at three places including my cervix. Scientifically speaking, my body will be bouncing back faster than a woman who’s had a C-section or any complications during birthing.

Yet the memory of pain hasn’t quite faded yet. The endorphins didn’t play their part this time. My body reminds me of the work it has put up constantly. My breathing is heavy and erratic. My spine aches in a way that it never has before. My face could audition for an extra in the Twilight series going with the pallor of my skin and contrasting under-eye dark pools. My hair, framing my face flatteringly (I’m told) is beginning to boast of some serious greys, although I don’t feel any wiser. In a nutshell, I despise everything about my mirror reflection — hunched, tired and sad.

Moving from spring to autumn, in a contradictory direction from the external environment, my body and mind are a drastically different landscape from what they were just ten months ago.

It was my birthday. I was wearing a bodycon, off-shoulder black lace dress, completely in my element, happy to be back in a fit and healthy body. The asthma that I had inherited from my mom hadn’t surfaced in the longest time thanks to a dedicated yoga schedule. My spine was erect, alert and agile, just the way it should be. In the days to follow, after we stumbled upon the two pink lines, I’d be ecstatic and ready, prepping my mid-thirties body for the toil it was to go through, sticking to a safe exercise regime and eating healthy, preaching ‘how to maintain a healthy body weight and brace your body for labor’ on Instagram.

And here I was, back in the body image battlefield, wearing an alien body that can no longer hold a side plank. A body that is striving to carry a baby in its arms for more than ten minutes without a reactive spiralling pain in the lower spine and a numbing tinge in its legs.

“My baby boy’s got me weak in the knees”, a reflection that I instantly regret cos it’s disturbing at so many levels thanks to my Shakespearean literature background.

Then I remind myself that even though I’m back to ground zero, my baby and I are in this together. We’re both in a state of limbo. He is not in the protective walls of my womb anymore so he’ll have to learn how to unravel the beauty and harshness of the world around him, independently in body and spirit. I am not housing my baby anymore but I’m metamorphosing from an old mom to a new mom so I have to be more attentive to what the stretched, weakened walls of my pelvis whisper to me. I have to be kind and gentle to my reflection and remind myself of taking it slow and trust the process. Even when my body feels strange and foreign and I can’t wait to clamber out of it back to my old self.

I have to make peace that I can no longer go back to my old self. My body and heart are transitioning to a new place that I’ve never been to before, carrying with them a brand new life, repurposing and reinventing. Slowly, steadily, gently…

Perks Of Sporting A Baby Bump

"Get out of the way! It's an emergency. We have a pregnant lady in the house and she needs to get to her gigantic bowl of salad right now! Moveeeee people...."

Fine. He didn't really say that...But there was something about the way the manager furiously snaked across cramped tables in one of Mumbai's hottest, most-buzzing salad bars, hushing words to his staff and customers, actively expressing the discomfort he felt on my account, that went fittingly with that exclamation. Surely some curious divinity was at play. I took one askance glance at the long queue of people who were, strangely enough smiling, not mad at the manager for making me feel like royalty. Curiouser. Ha! I smiled cheekily; of course, I was high-fiving my baby bump for bailing me out of yet another potentially miserable waiting-line.

This is my second pregnancy but in some aspects, especially in terms of feelings and bonding, it feels like a first.

I've been around women who get this innate, spiritual mommy-voice activated the moment they witness the fated two lines. They watch their bellies grow, have strangers say hello to the baby, refer to themselves as 'We", hold spontaneous pep talks with the baby, grow plants, click weekly bump pictures, glow and emit that fetching mommy-to-be radiance, plan and think ahead.... Well, you get the picture.

I am not one of those women. At least, I could have been their arch nemesis in my first pregnancy. I was employed full-time throughout my pregnancy so I had no time to dwell on what was going on with my body and baby. The only time I connected with my daughter was when I caught my reflection in the mirror. All I could gather myself to say—and even that felt ludicrous—was "What's up baby? How's the weather inside?"

I do feel terribly guilty about that. So this time to make amends, I've found a middle ground. I am taking notes. I watch and observe. I watch my belly contort in disgusting ways when the baby's getting all alien-like, trying to jump out of my uterus/womb. (Is it me or does the word 'womb' sound creepy AF?)  I baby-talk to it. I just cannot get myself to talk to the baby like a grown-up cos well, then I'll confuse it with my inner-voice and treat it like a shrink. Now, before you tell me I can't refer to my angelic baby as an "It", it is only for the sake of convenience and gender-neutrality.

Anyway, I thought there'd have to be other women on this planet who're like me and the only time they emit that pregnancy glow is when they're in the flattering kinda warm light or from morning sickness sweats.

I'm here to tell YOU, pregnancy-phobic woman who's casually toying with the idea of starting a family, that despite all the pains that it brings, there are a few perks of sporting a baby bump, ones that you'll terribly miss when the baby's un-morphed itself out of your being and taken along the spotlight with it:

1.  Nine months of starry PJs and tent-like, breathable clothes:
Bottom-line : Pregnant women are expected to be comfortable, no matter which red carpet event they have been inconvenienced to attend. The usual dress code norm doesn't apply so breathe and blossom in your favourite stretchy PJs and flannel sweats. Oh and it doesn't hurt that some of the maternity lines are gorgeously flattering and comfortable. Expensive yes but worth the million-dollar feeling of belonging in your tailor-made fit.

2. Hormonal in the right way:
Who doesn't love a furious hair brush that doesn't return with loose strands of hair fleeing from your head? Now pregnancy does wonders to your hair. Most pregnant women will experience arrested hair loss and grow their tresses longer in pregnancy, thanks to the good hormones and nutritional supplements. At least, the second trimester does its bit of making you feel like you're on top of your game with magically-disappearing acne, voluminous hair and curvier curves.

3. The Pampering Rituals and Royal Treatment:
As I've already established, the moment your bump is visible, people will shower you with compliments, concerns and pot pies. "How's your health sweetie?" "Is there anything you feel like eating today?" "Did you sleep alright?" You're only human, so of course you may be tempted to make the most of all the attention. Guess what? You can and should. You're not being parasitic or obsessively self-centered. Take liberties. Go ahead and cross a busy, uncaring street. You will stop traffic. Be rude and fall asleep right in the middle of a roaring party. You'll wake up to bright and endearing smiles and a cushy blanket.

4. Cravings that are not symptomatic of food disorders:
Remember how in the middle of the night your husband found you with your head and hands buried deep inside the refrigerator digging out leftover rajma rice or a tub of chocolate ice-cream? And you could feel that piercing judgment on his face that perennially ruined your secret midnight-snack escapade. Well, same situation. Except no guilt trips. "The baby made me do it." As long as you're eating everything good for you and your baby, you're encouraged to do it more. (Read controlled caffeine and no alcohol, which may not necessarily spell nirvana for everyone.)

5. Forgetfulness, hurtful meltdowns, insensitivity to other mortals—it remains in that sweet, spotless zone of  mind where it's all forgiven:
While you may not be shedding any hair during pregnancy, you will shed uncontrollable, bitter, resentful tears. Over a bad cup of tea. Over your husband getting marginally late from work. Not pleasant. What is comforting though is that now all your sudden meltdowns and ill-timed outbursts come backed with a medically-sound factfile. In other words, no remorseful repercussions to follow.
Word of Caution: This is a temporary phase of power - a glossy bubble that'll burst sooner or later. Don't get used to it.

6. Not having to bend over: 
As you progress towards the third trimester, you'll find that bending to pick anything is getting increasingly difficult. Especially when you get to a point when you can't see your toes. Which is why this'll be a great sunshiney time to make hay and experiment with different necklines. First of all, you won't have to worry about peepshows from bending over and second of all, you feel a lot more confident and sexier (on some days). And if you happen to accidentally drop your keys in public, it'll evoke a Ninja-like reflex from passersby—the keys shall be picked before you can control your wheeze to ask for help. So by all means, flaunt what your Mama hormones gave you :).

7. No matter what's happening to your body, you feel you can accomplish anything:
"Honey, how was your day? What did you do? Oh, you cracked that presentation. Good for you! What did I do? Oh  I just made my baby's toes and fingers."
Despite the panda eyes, heartburn and swollen ankles you're sporting, there's something incredibly empowering about creating another human. You're gripped with this overwhelming feeling that you can conquer the world. Great time to lead a project or start a new venture cos you haven't felt more God-like before.

8. Nine Months of Holistic, Healthy Lifestyle:
Let's face it. We don't really worry about what we're putting inside our bodies until we have another human inside of us. Words like holistic nutrition, wellness and spirituality are fancy mumbo-jumbo that don't apply to you on a regular basis. But when you're pregnant, you're biologically forced into eating fresh, nutrition-packed, small-sized portions of food at regular time intervals. Try and betray that rule and see how your body plays havoc on you. (Read: Acid reflux) For that reason, you'll find you're drawn to fresh food rather than take-outs. You'll read the fine print on food labels before popping it in your mouth. You'll be keeping a food diary.
So while you may be obnoxious company for friends on a lunch date, your body and baby can't thank you enough.

9. You get a cute baby at the end of it:
Let's face it. The third trimester is rough. You'll lose sleep, appetite,  rationality, cell phones...So it helps to know that the shore is near and pretty soon, you'll be holding this cute, tiny, adorably helpless human in your arms that you hadn't even met before and are already irrevocably in love with. And he/she loves you right back unconditionally. So get ready to feel really special. (Small Disclaimer: The unconditional clause lasts only till your baby discovers the toy store.)

Experienced/expectant moms, got any fun perks to share? Let's change this world one baby at a time :).

Are You Laughing Along At Sexist Whatsapp Jokes?

As a growing kid, attending weddings was just another excuse to stuff my face, to the point of misery, with ice cream and stay awake till the wee hours of the morning to play board games and be silly in general.

At the wedding, all the kids would be in awe of the new bride, dressed head-to-toe to dazzle, not talking unnecessarily, not laughing with her mouth open. Overall looking like she's one of those puppet dolls meant to seem eager-to-please - in family terms, 'sanskari'. So when we got a chance to talk to her informally, we'd be like, "Oh she's not fallen from the stars and she's pretty much like us with her own mind, hobbies and pet peeves...

In nearly every wedding I went to, there'd be running jokes about the loss of freedom imminent for the groom. There'd be the band playing songs that would warn the groom that he was going to be 'shaheed' and some close bachelor friend would be making speeches about how "shaadi is barbaadi" in the groom's interest. The bride in question would also be the victim of such warnings but she'd be going through a slightly more solution-oriented ordeal - lessons about how to please her mother-in-law, portrayed as the vamp in her life. About how to keep the husband in her 'mutthi', about how to run her house etc etc. For us, as the chillar party in the background, such conversations seemed mildly interesting and peculiar but held little relevance in our lives.

But then I grew up to be on the other side of the spectrum. I understood how the loss of freedom in marriage meant very different things for a new bride and groom. For a new bride, getting her own way meant avoiding domestic conflicts, retaining a small part of her identity rapidly being lost among sudden family obligations and yet living up to the new title that was bestowed upon her - "humari bahu". Everything else that she had known before her marriage - her mom, dad, siblings, friends, her hobbies, personal ambitions, food habits,  at least for some time, till she learned how to balance her new family-life with other second-place priorities, would have to wait. It was usually an upward climb involving gently putting her opinions across and manipulating the decision-makers with a bit of drama and costumes. She had to remember to seem self-sacrificing, well-behaved and lady-like at all times... Things that she never had to worry about before marriage.

For a new groom, the loss of freedom usually entailed sharing his room with his wife, giving her closet and wallet space,  letting the reigns of TV controls loose, letting go of juvenile movie posters, sacrificing spontaneous plans with the boys for family get-togethers...It meant giving up some of his cherished boyhood.

I'm not about to get into who made greater sacrifices to their freedom out of the two.  Each couple's marital equation is different. And undoubtedly, when you have a special someone to share the rest of your life with, personal boundaries do tend to blur. That's alright. The idea is to find your own formula for happiness, right?

But then you wake up in the morning, you kiss your husband and kids 'good morning', sit with your cuppa chai after finishing your morning chores. For reasons beyond comprehension, instead of grabbing the newspaper, you go straight to Whatsapp. Of course, there are some 70 odd messages on assorted family and friends groups to catch up with.

This is what you see:

Oh! I get it. Marriage is suicide 'cos of the wifey in the equation...ha- ha-ha...
















A. Ghunghat? Bollywood-stereotype much? B. Oh so we need to wear make-up at all times so the husband doesn't get a stroke. Cos, we're that ugly in our skin.  Fine, I'll laugh.

Cos home is where the hell-raising wife is. Right...

Bald, frail uncle wishes to have new wives in arms everyday. Hmm....not creepy...not creepy at all.

"Darling, you aren't laughing. What's the matter? Don't you have a sense of humor?"

Initially, I told myself, "Chill, they're just jokes." Fun way to bond with the rest of your family.  But as the frequency increased day-by-day, I began to feel squeamish. There were jokes that went to great creative length to show a wife's bitter, nagging, clingy side and the poor husband who's had to live through it all. There were jokes that talked about mothers-in-law's sorry plight as created by the new, 'modern' daughter-in-law.  Or there were sad elegies about how a mother works all her life for her sons, forgetting to eat and sleep, putting all her personal wishes aside sacrificing herself for her sons while the son's wife sleeps in peace, not worrying about anybody but herself. Or some poetry about the 'paraya dhan' aspect of girls. Or something satirical about the new-age 'sanskari' bahu and the death of our cherished values and traditions at her hands.

In a nutshell, if you wanted to feel really shitty about waking up as a married woman, you need to visit Whatsapp family forums first thing in the morning. Right after an uptempo morning message with Buddha silhouettes, amidst Rahul Gandhi humour and Japanese technological advancements, before good night messages with a beautiful crescent moon, that's where you'll find your cyanide.

Not only were these forwards regressive and insulting to women, but what amused me most was that most of these jibes and bitter digs at women were sent by women! They were shared, re-shared, multiplying like rabbits, as if they were some kind of twisted incurable disease spreading through Whatsapp contacts.

I often wondered to myself, "Who's writing these things? Every day, I get at least six to eight of them on my whatsapp. How come not a single woman ever takes offense at these jokes?" I considered expressing my disapproval in the nicest possible way in forums belonging to my husband's side but then who'd risk getting lambasted for not being sporting? Sure, I'd just have to learn to ignore them but they were getting harder and harder to overlook just by sheer numbers.

Not to say that there are no husband jokes. But surprisingly, I just don't see enough of them on family forums.

Maybe over time, as women, we've learned to look the other way when somebody passes a lewd comment, a sexist joke, pages of unsolicited 'good girl' advice, and body-shaming illustrations meant as cocktail jokes. We've learnt to laugh along or shrug them off cos we don't want to confront the problem and come across as stuck-up, argumentative drama queens. We don't want to tell off the joke-teller, trying to lift the spirits of the crowd who probably needed that joke to come out of their sad, daily grind.

As harmless as these misogynistic jokes appear to be, there is an inherent hostility in them. What they're really doing is singling you out based on your gender, based on the generation of women you belong to. They're calling you off for having desires over and above your husband's family. They're telling you how self-absorbed you've become for wanting time alone with your husband or even something basic like wanting to go shopping or to a spa to pamper yourself.

Researches have shown that tolerance and encouragement of sexist jokes, which is higher in men discriminating against women, also lead to harboring of hostile feelings towards women and the subsequent lowering of their status in the society, beginning from home spiraling down to work, affecting their chances of professional growth. Think about it. In a family, at a dinner-table, how often is it that you would make jokes on your dad or husband's incompetence in anything as compared to your mom's or wife's? On a normal day, you wouldn't think twice before pointing out flaws in their cooking or choice of outfit.

The emergence of Whatsapp as a means of connecting with all your dear and loved ones is comforting. We're blessed to live in a time when you don't have to wear your sneakers and stand in queues at the nearest payphone to make quick "trunk calls" to our family and friends miles away from us. As much as this is a blessing,  it is also a doom. 'Cos what whatsapp has also done is opened doors to everybody's private drawing room conversations, especially for people who can no longer be openly sexist for fear of social boycotts. When on Facebook, you'll find these people sharing liberal thoughts on gender equality and anti-rape slogans. When on private whatsapp forums, the same people forward cliched gender behavioural stereotypes , sexual innuendos, graphic female body-shaming images and wife-bashing jokes.

In one way, Whatsapp has made women-bashing an everyday thing.

Irrespective of what it has done, you wake up in the morning, you kiss your husband and kids ' good morning', sit with your cuppa chai after finishing your morning chores. For reasons beyond comprehension, instead of grabbing the newspaper, you go straight to Whatsapp.
And all you can do is ask yourself, "Should I be laughing along? Should I ask why my fellow family members are portraying me as excess baggage? Should I ask why none of the other women are taking offense in being called money-sucking, logic-deprived parasites?"


But I switch off notifications and silently sip my tea, unaware of the deep crimson flush in my cheeks. "It's just a silly forward," I tell myself.

It Was My Last Day In The City

It was my last day in the city.

As always, Mondays are a busy morning. I had a whole day lying ahead of me before I went away but all I wanted to do was sit here and revel in this city's in-your-face beauty.

And so I sat by my window sill, in the quiet humdrum of a busy day, to the constant noise of cars, buses, motorcycles - their blaring sirens, their screeching tires.
A million dreams and aspirations whir by a narrow street, in an organized madness, trying to make it through the mist of strangers to their higher purpose.

I looked on from a vantage point and wondered to myself, "This city takes so much from you everyday. To find meaning to your life here can be a fatal thing."
Faceless crowds pushing and shoving you into rapid movement when all you want to do is slow down and catch your breath.
Empty eyes in untold time follow you off-handedly until they lose sight of you in the blinding beat of the jarring city anthem.

I vividly remember walking along the streets of this city in the afternoon, as a new city girl.
Signs telling me where to turn, where to look, when to stop...
"I don't think I know how to get home." I feel the restless hustling but I don't quite know where to go.

At every turn, the city got bigger; all I carried within me is a tiny, microcosmic world of my own, a small speck in its jutting vastness.
The only thing binding me to it was the interwoven sunlight on my street, the corner Alphonso vendor and....
Ah! Just then I saw you from a distance wearing your usual flashing smile when you look at me — me, a tiny, spacey-eyed girl in her grungy tee.
Almost immediately, I remember feeling hope — of knowing that I had just made it somehow.
Of course, you were just suspended on a loud billboard, coated in dirt, slowly being washed away.

Every time I step out in the city, I am flushed. I feel exposed. My rhythm is broken. My voice is muddled with anxiety. I don't want to leave home.

But for all you know, just once in a while, this city pursues you. Perhaps when you're in a rickshaw and you stop at the red-light signal long enough, let's say around twilight, and the city becomes your muse. 

I peered out of the rickshaw and saw little faces, breathing in the musty air, looking down from their matchbox houses.
Drafts of their evening cardamom chai-scented breeze reach out to me.
Homeless children sell balloons — they criss-cross through cars caught in a signal, moving from bumper to bumper. I follow the trail of animated balloons crowding into one another, grinning down at me from a distance.
Lovers leaned into each other in a side-walk, bright-red petals from broken flowers cling to asphalt, the smell of wet concrete in the air.
Stray dogs scavenge near garbage bins. Birds fleet home. Pedestrians, rushing past the traffic which was beginning to inch forward, let out fire with their protesting mouths, igniting a trail of city lights.

In this city, beauty lies in the ordinary, in the everyday.
I know nothing of wilderness and lush green fields. I know only of sparse trees decorating the city landscape.
I am not familiar with clear open skies and starry nights, fireflies lighting the path to constellations.  I am familiar with the dark depths of the ocean surmounted by hope springing up in the horizon as skyskrapers reach for the stars.
I am at ease in the harsh anonymity of my existence in the big, bad city. I'm wary of friendly neighbors showing up at my door with casseroles and getting freebies at the local bread shop.

I  am  a  city  girl. I sit by my window pane, looking at life scrambling at every corner of this cramped urban jungle and in my heart I just know, even though I'm going away, this is my home — this is where I belong.

Why Would You Want Your Husband In The Room When Giving Birth?

I've often wondered about this. Isn't it strange that you'd want a man to partake in an event that seems uncomfortably private in the feminine sense? When I gave birth to my daughter in the town of Bokaro, I had with me in my room, three doctors, two nurses, my husband and my mother-in-law. It wasn't a complicated labor. It was easy.

But I was a hot mess.

And not just physically. It was like I was temporarily schizophrenic, fighting within me many voices - one that craved peace and quiet and a single point of direction from the calm, even voice of my mother-in-law, another that sought attention, that clung on to everybody at the table to explain to me what was going on, why my body was in a battle with me, what was happening down there, and if I would I make it to the end of this...And then there was also this tiny voice growing within me, rising to the surface in a mob of questions. These questions were directed at my husband. "Why do I get to go through this while you stand there looking at me sympathetically? "Why couldn't you put your foot down and get me that f***ing epidural? " "Yes, here I am in enormous pain, sweaty, smelly and unattractive. Do you realize you did this to me?"

I wondered then, "Did I really need him to be here?" He could have just hung out at the coffee shop while I went through the agony of it all. I mean haven't men skipped the blood, poo and gore all along to hold their new babies while looking adorably at their post-workout glowing wives?

It was a hot day in peak northern summer when my daughter arrived. And yet when I gave birth, I had both chills and sweat trickling off my spine all the way to the cold steel of the theater table. I looked at the jubilant faces of all the people crowding around me telling me it's all over and that my beautiful daughter has arrived. But the face that I sought, even before the face of my new angel, belonged to my husband.

And here's why. I was in pain and gripped by fear. And even though my husband's face was causing me great anguish when the contractions were getting gritty, it was also a source of gleaning comfort. He stood by my side telling me to let go of the feeling of misery, let go of the sense of time, guiding me how and when to breathe. Even though the process of labor had nothing to do with him whatsoever, even though it wasn't a pretty sight to take, even though I was giving him the silent treatment and deathly stares, he stood by me and saw me to the end of it.

And then it was all over. I had given my final push and my daughter had been declared as arrived.

Here is what I was doing when that happened:
I was laughing. Uncontrollably. With me eyes closed. I was so happy that it was all over that I didn't even crane my head to steal a glance at my daughter.

Here is what he was doing when that happened:
He was squeezing my hand in victory. And then he gasped in awe to take the sight of our beautiful daughter covered in blood and slime, still pale from the womb. And when she let out her first cry and turned pink, he held her in his inexperienced arms, strong but slightly tremulous from the miracle of birth.

In effect, her dad was the first point of contact with her family when she stepped into the world.

Before I asked my husband's presence in the delivery room, I did this quick visualization about how awkward it'll get later. It'll take all the feminine mystery away and maybe mess up things for us intimacy-wise. There are contradicting theories about whether men should be in the delivery-room. One school of thought talks about how a man's presence in the labor room is redundant and a man can never look at his wife the same way after he's had a first-hand look at childbirth.

I can safely say now that I don't care much for that school of thought. I couldn't have done it without him. I look at childbirth for two life partners as living a world of raw emotions together - pain, anger, fear, joy, sensual pleasure, love...If your partner sits by you on this ride, there isn't another wild adventure that'd ever come close to giving him that kind of rush.

Darjeeling — Where The Hills Laugh And Sing

Wait a minute….did I just hear laughter? Can you hear it too?”

En Route To Darjeeling

Somewhere before Darjeeling, we had been stuck — maybe that’s the wrong word — I mean soothingly waiting in a line-up of cars that wouldn’t budge and wouldn’t be ever-so-aroused by any blaring horns or impatient tip taps on windows. It was a little unusual for an unending line of cars to be standing there like that. Only the faintest murmurs and dull revving of engines express their quandary. If we had been in Mumbai in a debacle like this, we’d have had some form of road rage to alleviate or participate in by now (ie if somebody hadn’t already been beaten blue). Yet, here we were, with people who had no rush to get anywhere, no profanities to scream at each other, all thrown together in a very Ohmmm-inspiring backdrop of ascending hill silhouettes interrupted by clouds that were flushing pink with twilight.

And then among the racket of crickets and low grumbling of engines, I hear laughter. An unmissable, strange, divine echo of a chuckle that was too unfeigned to belong to a human.

We had been traveling for almost ten hours now so maybe I’d been hearing things. From Bagadogra airport to the roof of the world, Darjeeling, is a breathtakingly beautiful upward spiral of a drive, one that makes you wonder why you’re squandering your life away in the city. We took the same route as the Himalayan toy train, moving against it on one side, as it shone majestically, slowly breathing white puffs in its trail. We spiral steadily upwards alongside green pastures and rock-strewn mountains with white explosions in the sky every now and then. Of course, in this delightful place, who could resist a warm cup of chai, a valid reason to stop and lech at our picturesque surroundings (and the gorgeous hill people with no acne wrecking their lives)? 

Kaali

So we stop by at Kurseong, a hill station around 5000 feet above sea level, at a tea stall located on a bend with a canopy tucked perfectly between the hills. My daughter played with a dog called Kaali. My husband and I order tea far too delicate for my taste but it really doesn’t matter. We’re pretty busy chasing the delicious view of the Himalayan range peek-a-booing at us from between the clouds. We talk about how we’re in this strange, peaceful but convoluted territory of India’s ethnic Gurkhas who have been fighting for a separate identity — Gorkhaland — to define life in these winding hills and their habitations. “I think the government should give them everything they want. And more,” one askance look at their benevolent faces and I could feel myself believing in their cause.

Sharing laughs with a view to die for

We continue our upward climb. At Ghum station, which happens to be the highest railway station in India, we’re greeted by glowing teenagers. They wore distressed denims and understated sweatshirts with their jackets cinched around their waists, sharing smokes and stories as they wait for their ride to come along. I think about their life in the hills. I mean can you imagine any crisis whether one of the heart or any other form of longing that cannot be cured by this glorious evening weather and a panoramic view of the Himalayas? No wonder they look so radiant and pink. Of course I was romanticizing everything. I was a traveler. Sadly for me, there were many fleeting moments that I missed capturing on my camera, such as this group of young students sitting and waiting. It would have helped bring forth the seeming transparency and simplicity of mountain life.

Woman At Work - Tibetan Refugee Center

Just as mysteriously as we had been arrested in a traffic block, we’re lifted from it. We start pacing towards Darjeeling. I’m left pondering about the origins of that laughter but there is the slow-winding climb to brave so who cares about weird cackles straight out of the Poirot series? Before planning this journey, the only calling that Darjeeling had for me was four strong cups of first flushes of tea a day, perhaps a cursory stroll in the tea gardens… Though I was a tea addict and the tea gardens would’ve been my Napa valley, I wasn’t exactly too thrilled about touristy Darjeeling. Little did I know that this elusive city on slopes, dwindling between the past and present, the one our driver called “The Queen Of The Hills, had so much to offer.

At 6700 feet above sea level, when you’ve been slowly winding upwards, you don’t quite get to appreciate just how thin the air gets. Not until you climb a flight of stairs anyway. We get to our abode, Ivanhoe House, a quaint Victorian heritage house known to be the favorite haunt of the likes of Sir George Everest and British Raj families. 

Lobby of Ivanhoe House

We greet everyone enthusiastically, trying to match the speed of the Gurkha women, who are doubling up as porters, lugging our heavy suitcases. One long flight of wooden stairs puts my adrenaline levels to check and sends me reeling from shortness of breath. Which is when we’re informed that in the hills you have to take it slow, follow through your breaths and find your rhythm. It is this advice that served me well as I managed to go on multiple hikes and long uphill walks feeling invigorated as opposed to my initial sensation of crashing and burning.

Cosmic forces ar work

To me, Darjeeling has been like a swift-paced period drama, shuttling between different temporal boundaries, changing sky landscapes as though they’re linens. One moment, you’re sitting on your green porch with clear blue skies and sunlight bouncing off your gleaming coffee table, planning your busy itinerary for the day. The other, you’re hunting down the mall market for umbrellas, looking towards the great black clouds on pale skies that threaten to warp every idyllic vantage point that you cared to devour. One moment, you’re congregating with townspeople and other visitors at Glenary’s, sipping Himalayan coffee in the backdrop of the evasive Kanchenjunga. The other, you’re staring at old pictures of British Raj families, appreciating expensively ornate chinaware carefully strewn around your dining room, remotely hearing yesteryear tunes on the old piano now sitting upright and silent in a corner.

At Glenary's

In Darjeeling, you’re among fresh, dewy faces, soaring pines, clouds that slide to your table, mystic mountains in the distance and the whiff of freshly plucked tea.

Darjeeling, you’ve been a darling. A delightfully capricious one to say the least.