The Introverted Parent Trap

Image Source: Presspack

Scenes From An Early Morning School Drop-Off:

[Dark, greyed elevator...something of a quiet place to shut your eyes in for a few seconds.]

I hop—wait, I am merely sliding in —with my four-year old daughter gleefully jumping into it first with her eight-watts smile, disturbing the whole atmosphere without even saying anything. Morning person much? A man and two other women join us, hounding and blocking what I consider my free breathing space. Each of us moves to light up our destination digits, makes brief eye contact and zones out in our individual fortresses.

I pick the dark corner that also lets out a secret vent for my benefit. Saanvi continues to intrusively study everyone, keeping her wide-eyed smile. Of course, she can't stand still even for ten seconds. She notices something and yells at me from another corner, pointing crudely at the only man in the elevator.

 "Mom! Mom! Look at him. He is wearing dad's t-shirt."

Of course, that remark is open to wide interpretations and I'm mortified. But I've learned the hard way that whatever I do in a desperate attempt to salvage is only going to backfire. So I just give her a half-smile and avoid eye-contact in general. I'm counting in my head to get the fuck out of everyone's hair when comes another uninvited remark.

"Uncle, can you give it back? Papa really likes that t-shirt."

Obviously, now I have to dive in head first with apologetic giggles that only get drowned in the roaring laughter coming from the seemingly-polite ladies in the elevator.

Kids say the ballsiest things, don't they? That's cool.

Mostly, they say things that overwhelm you and outnumber you in rapid sentences. And that's OK too I guess.

But if you're an introvert like me, it can get exhausting.

Last year, we went on a holiday to Bintan. Saanvi had just turned three that year. It was her birthday. We had a quiet dinner at an Indian restaurant so she could have her lunch staples—roti and bhindi—as opposed to Ramen and pizza. She picked the table next to a sweet Indian couple. The entire time we were there, our tables were shuffled incredibly close together with her chair facing the Indian couple. I felt sorry for them 'cos they seemed to be newly married. My husband took a picture of us from that day. The couple was downright jubilant to be in our company. Saanvi was in mid-sentence. And me - well, I had this sheepish, awkward smile.

Like I wanted to get out of there as fast I possibly can.

And that is definitive of how I feel when we're out as an introverted mom and extroverted daughter duo. 'Cos here's the thing about being an introvert. You want to be able to control the volume of conversations. So, when I'm talking to people, one-on-ones with people I know are ideal.  Group-conversations are next best cos you get to catch your breaths a lot. Of course, I love my friends! I'd meet them with their kids too, sometimes craving for a cup of coffee with them in the middle of the night, imagining the kids all tucked in with a nice classic, say Wizard of Oz, while we sit outside and indulge in some petty, slanderous gossip about everyone we know.

But the perennial introverted parent trap arises in one form or the other. Like in the following situations:

• When you're amidst strangers in a long journey and you're forced to engage in conversations 'cos your chatty daughter won't have it any other way. And she won't even nap cos that'll get in the way of discovering new people. (New people are over-hyped.)
• When you're in the company of society park moms who're engaging in long conversations with your daughter asking her interesting open-ended questions. And you kind of feel obligated to do the same with their kids.
• When you've had a long, tiring day of relentless conversations with your little jabberer and you're ready to call it a night. And your daughter asks you to cook up a fairy tale from your imagination and narrate it to her. One that does not end with, "And she was tired, miserable and sleepy ever after."

I know what you may be thinking. Am I even remotely implying that my energetic daughter is making me miserable? So what if she talks a lot?

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful each day for having a little ray of happy, bouncing sunshine in my life. And she's a good conversationalist. Not kidding. She talks like a grown-up. She'll talk about anything from fun science facts to philosophy, sometimes she'll just make up her own trivia for the sake of conversation fillers.

But for me, in order to be a functional mother, who listens to her and  nurtures her with the same sort of love and energy every day, I have some alone-time mandates. Maybe, it is a little selfish. But my me-time refuels me, sometimes more than a good night's sleep, more than my other basic necessities in life.

And that's when I knew what I need to do in order to survive motherhood. So that I can over-indulge myself in uninvited conversations. So that I can make it through birthday parties without feeling like a deflated party balloon. So that I don't go looking for a spiritual connect before letting another person into my space. So that I can flit from one group to another without having to feel like an alien. Which is the hardest part for an introvert by the way. When we find a comfortable space, we cling to it with all our might. So chances are, even when I'm out on a social spree, you'll always find me with the one person I started my first cocktail with. That is if said-person hasn't abandoned me. (I do have social abandonment issues.)

So here are some everyday guidelines I've laid down for myself:

1. Tuning out from the world completely: Alone-time is not hard to come by since we're a nuclear family. So, I put my phone on silent, sit with a book/writing pad /mindless television, whatever the need of the hour and stay put for as long as it takes to feel rejuvenated.

2. Starting my day ten minutes earlier than everyone: Sometimes, all it takes is five deep breaths,  a dose of morning fresh air and quiet to get me up and about.  The realization that the world hasn't started needing you yet  is divine energy.

3. Having a job that doesn't necessitate face-time: Because honestly, what good can come of a room full of people trying to fill up air with their own stuck-up ideas and making themselves look important? Fine, maybe greater good that can potentially change governments. But fortunately for me, I'm still trying to get all the way back to jump-starting my career and I realize that with my skills, I could potentially even work from a remote island. As long as it has WI-Fi.

4. Music: Big part of my survival kit. I can absolutely not do any sort of physical activity without my playlist. It is therapeutic. Irrespective of whether you're an introvert or extrovert, it's important to have at least one thing in your life that is meant just for your personal pleasure. My playlist is one of them.

5. Letting it go: You may try to mingle more and be more receptive to others and put yourself out there more often. But you can't change who you are. I try to accept that and not beat myself about it. I fail miserably but I try again.

Of course, it fills me with an inexplicable envy when I see bright, cheerful moms who can fill the room with their positive vibes and radiant energy. But I've come to healthy terms with the fact that I'm just not one of them. I'm happy to spend my alone-time refuelling for random play-dates and spontaneous social events that tend to drain the life out of me.

As long as I'm there in body and spirit, I'm enough.

Well Barbie, We Meet Again

Photo Credits: Her Uncle, Surya Chaturvedi

Is there a girl on this planet who hasn't been moved by the appeal of Barbie? Either it tugged at all your heartstrings until you broke into a Barbie ballad or it vexed you to the point of chewing off her head. And her beautiful shoes.

Or like me, you were somewhere in between. I was sorta a doll person but I was an easily distractible child. My interests kept moving from skinny, poker-faced dolls to congenial-looking, fuller puppet dolls and robust superhero figures; basically whatever lent to the tone of my tea party, life-saving quests, tree-climbing escapades and other pastime lures. I didn't really idolize Barbie too much, but I gotta say her glimmering mermaid gowns and lulu skirts were too haute couture to resist. Add to that an unattainable hourglass figure, a smashing boyfriend, a dream shoe closet and knees that bend both ways and you know you want to grow up to be just like her!

Obviously, for those very reasons and her annoying 'come hither' expression, there comes a time in your life when you loathe her with all your might. And poor Barbie still struggles to prove her worth to the world at large, including feminists - that she's not just a pretty face living in a fancy bubble. She took her exact same measurements and doll face across diverse, smart professions. She was a photographer, an astronaut, an US presidential candidate, a rock diva, a doctor and thanks to recent commercials, a professor, a soccer coach, a vet, well everything that you could possibly want her to be. And if parents like me are getting peeved with her empty stares, Hola new Barbie! The Hello Barbie series is programmed to have intelligent, politically-correct conversations with children belonging to various ethnicities, recording their responses and leading with new questions. Of course, the immediate concern with that one is won't her engagement come in the way of her role-playing ability in child neverland?

When I look back at the journey of Barbie, I feel a bit sad for her. I wouldn't say she's necessarily a bad role model. In fact, I'm even tempted to go ahead and say that the reason Barbie is trying so hard to please everyone is because of her to-die-for figure and her beautiful face. Had she been a little hard on the eyes, or carrying a bit of holiday weight every now and then, or sporting some occasional acne like us lesser mortals, she wouldn't have to try this hard to prove her worth. She wouldn't go on to fight against phrases such "You're such a Barbie" to imply insipidity, narcissism, an all-hair-but-no-brain existence and above all, a woman who's perennially a damsel in distress. Maybe it's her trademark commitment to flawlessness and anorexic waistline that make us feel threatened. We fear that our little girls would in some way internalize that perfect, skinny ideal and not appreciate any other shape as acceptable. Barbie, frozen in her utopian bliss, could potentially be tipping little girls over to the real world of body shaming, low self-esteem and food abuse.

Nevertheless, I feel for her, for as far as I can recall as a little girl, she was super-fun. And yet, when I see my three-year old girl slowly edging towards the 'Barbie world', only to linger on with her for hours, I am a bit wary. Cos now I'm an over-analytical, paranoid parent who believes that little children draw lessons from everything around them. So if I watch her play with a tad too many pink princesses, I fight back temptation to throw in a scientist doll. I try to bring in a bit of diversity in the hairstyles and dresses she sports and when Peaches fusses over her hair, I emphasize that she doesn't mind frizzed-out hair once in a while.

And then I think to myself, "What the f*** is wrong with me? She's a plastic doll. Peaches plays with her the same way I did. She's mesmerized by her tiny bags and shoes and little pets. Her body proportions and appearance make for a cute playmate but they don't really matter to her that much. Barbie in an emerald mermaid gown is dragged into a diaper-change situation or a hill-climbing adventure in much the same way as she's cordially invited to a tea party with bunnies in tuxedos. Sometimes, Peaches insists she wears her baby tees cos she thinks her dress is not too comfy. Sometimes, little Barbie falls sick, even though she couldn't look less airbrushed to perfection, and she's administered orange juice in a dropper. And while trying to slide on a pair of jeans on her that Peaches has washed for her benefit , I realize that even poor Barbie has 'real' moments when her jeans are too tight to go over her hips.

And it occurs to me that all the Barbie-bashing and stereotyping actually happens in my mind as an adult. The real problem is not Barbie's fake eyelashes and unrealistic body image. The problem is that I read too much into it. Cos as parents, we either probe something too much to the point of irrationality or we just stare at it blank-faced in incomprehension; right before falling into an awkward slumber, exhausted from thinking, manipulating and pointing cautionary fingers.

The truth for now is that my little girl is discovering a world of her own, alongside Barbie - a world where everything goes. Where a head-turner doll in high heels and short skirts could very well be a palaeontologist if she wants to. And a world where Barbie doesn't get her way just 'cos she's pretty and she'll still have to wait for her turn to go on the slide next to pudgy piggies and slow turtles.

So, quite contrary to my beliefs earlier about not wanting Peaches to get swayed by dolls and runway dresses, I've decided I'm gonna let her keep her Barbies and dollhouses. I'm going to let her pretend-wear my lipstick once in a while and watch herself in the mirror, etching her grown-up diva self in her reflection. I'm gonna let her get caught up in designing her own wardrobe (well in her case, it's going to be the shoes that come first) and every candyfloss reality that she cares for. For, as long as I can remember, girls have had a vision of an enchanted life in which all eyes are on them. I read the classics as a little girl and imagined myself in one of those lacey, lilac, tight-corsetted Victorian gowns, even if it meant getting nebulized in them later. I imagined how it would have been to go to one of those ball dances and be the center of everyone's attention and then sneak out to have my own after-party with a select fraternity later. Girls need their excuses to dress up and have everyone swooning after them and their magical existence.

However, I am going to keep a watchful eye on the saturation level. And maybe direct her penchant for fantasy and attention-seeking to dance, music and theatre. And if she gets a little too involved in her appearance, so beat it. It doesn't mean she can't have other interests, such as animals, food and the world around her. Maybe, there'll come a time when she'll echo the beauty and popularity ideal dictated by the instagram of the fashion brigade. As being the turf of those who fit the Barbie image of being slender and tall and goddess-like. She'll probably even paint their reality as idyllic with their days filled with rosy escapades of shopping, fine dining, fitness routines and high-flying parties with tiny, vibrant-looking canapes and selfie props. Of course then, I'll have to try harder to ensure that this obsession of superficial gloss of it doesn't stay with her for long and she can move on to more constructive things in life.

But aside from this grim, adult vantage point of her fake charmed life, let's not forget that Barbie, to a little girl, remains a dedicated playmate who is true to her self and is venturing out on her own into a world of possibilities. So she does it with extra sparkle but that couldn't hurt anyone.

Thus I vow to not give Barbie any more flack for her itsy-bitsy waistline and bunion-giving shoes. Sure her choice of make-up and footwear seem a bit impractical, especially in a lab coat. But she wasn't really meant to mimic real life and I'll let Peaches call her bluff by herself. Whenever she's ready.

But sure as hell, I'm going to be a total grinch and say no to Barbie-themed parties, oreo cookies for Barbie, Barbie bathroom sets and pink furry pencils with lil Barbie mascots.

That's where I draw the line on the Barbie infiltration...

Of Bullfights and Women's Rights

I was in Spain two years ago. And I happened to watch the decline of the bullfights in Madrid. I didn't do it because you're in Spain and you just have to watch one. I did it because it has been on my to-do list ever since I first read "The Sun Also Rises." Hemingway has a way of putting experiences in words that makes you want to get a first-hand view. He described a bull fight as, "Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor." Yes, aficionados of the bullfight will call it an art, not a sport.

As we sat in the arena, watching the sun shine on brilliantly and then mellow down to veil the gory bloodshed that was to follow in an ombre tint, we could listen to the dull murmur of anxious people all around us and at some point, we could smell that raw animal scent, which seemed oddly familiar. The high-spirited opening music, which subsequently introduced all the participants,  gave us a sense of the vigorous drama that was to unfold. When the first toreador threw his hat  and it all began, I found myself climbing out of the jumbled-up mental collage of that intensely psychological and brutal sport of toreo and watched it just as it came.

And I was transfixed.

I watched the matadors engage the bull in a dance of death choreographed so flawlessly that at some point, it seemed like they were one. There was an odd slowness to this dance, which riveted the tension even further. Sometimes, the matador came so close to getting hammered down by the bull but he never flinched, instead he skittered back gracefully, ever so narrowly, as though he had choreographed the entire routine, and spectators cheered wildly.  But ironically, every bull and matador couple elicited a peculiar, irreproducible performance that can only be summoned at the spur of the moment. The bulls at times outshone the matadors in their bravery and indomitable spirit, much to the applause and relief of the onlookers.

However, the end of a bullfight, when the bull, exhausted in body and spirit, accepts his dreaded fate and comes crumbling down, only to be met by repeated gores and lashes until his very end, is heart-wrenching, to say the very least.

To have witnessed this, I can only say I'm grateful that it's all over now. Bullfighting aficionados to this day believe that even though bullfighting had been corrupted into a cheap spectacle over decades, in its pure state, it's a passionate struggle between man and beast in all its grace and heroic value. Bullfighters even go on to say that nobody loves the bull more than them but it's their responsibility to kill them....That those bulls are fated to die.

And I think that's what makes the bullfight so repulsive. This line of argument that defeats all normalcy - the reasoning that we, as mere mortals, can not only seal the fate of those deemed as less fortunate, but turn it into a humiliating, sleazy spectacle for any-said purpose, be it even art, entertainment or social awareness. That is really what makes us glorify a bullfight as an art form, the matador a noble and poised artist and that's really what makes us label a bull who, despite its quizzical nature, fought to protect its honour and precious life, a hero (when in truth it really had no other choice).

And strangely, when I watch news coverage of rape cases, which has nothing in common with a bullfight, except the victim in question, I am revolted the same way. The event of a rape, apart from the excruciating trauma that it bears to the victim and her family, is indignant and disturbingly invasive on its own. We're repeatedly given information about how it happened, the girl's exact whereabouts, interviews of people who give us empathetic details of their last encounter with the victim or how a secluded area such as the spot of crime is no place for a girl to be. Why is it that the media leaves no stone unturned to characterize the rape victim? Who is she? What were her aspirations?  Did she know the assailant? If yes, how? What are her parents like? And often questions that infer culpability, such as what was she wearing and why was she out so late?

What I can understand is that a ghastly, inhumane crime such as this needs to be brought to public attention and it naturally incites agitation in everyone, especially when there's a threat to the female population's safety and a more pressing concern about the deliverance of justice to rape victims. And of course, we have an appalling apprehension about the frequency with which our memory is refreshed and haunted by such inconceivable monstrosity. There's no doubt that we need a sustainable campaign against crimes against women.

What I cannot understand is why we need to delve into the horrific details of the crime over and over again, speculate whether she knew the assailant or not, ask why she was out so late, and go to the extent of circulating pictures of her violated body. Why can't we instead pose questions to why the frequency of such crimes remains undeterred despite there being so much social awakening in the country? And isn't it also time that we bring to centre stage other crimes against women, such as dowry deaths, acid attacks, eve-teasing, marital rapes, public groping and many other acts of violence that women bear in silence and accept as a part of life, either because they have been intimidated into keeping mum or for fear of losing their social status?

For if we did discuss these issues more frequently, we would shift our focus from the horrific details of an extreme act of violence to a fundamental spectrum of thought.

"Why do men rape?"

Can you really just blame it on a psychological aberration or link it to pornography or blame the justice system for not expediting action against criminals and leave it at that? We lash out the sternest capital punishment ideas for rapists on public forums but have we ever stopped to consider that it could be a part of a more plaguing cultural misogyny, which is why we don't see a decline in rape crimes despite widespread protests and public outrage? Misogyny is evident in the mildness with which the police deal with crimes against women that are reported, let alone the fact that sometimes they are willing accomplices. Misogyny is evident in the way such acts are even hushed up and even when they get to limelight and justice is delivered, we can't know for sure that another potential criminal will have learned his lesson and will not savagely assert his power on a woman or even a minor, for that matter, in a fit of rage.

As I read more and more about it, I realized that sexual crimes against women have multiple folds and until we make conscious, widespread efforts to check symptomatic traces of these crimes, they are not going to decline.

According to an article in the Guardian, poverty, lack of education and the skewed male-female ratio in the lower classes is one. Usually when we look at the criminals involved in gang rape, they come from poor economic backgrounds, are usually unemployed and uneducated. Even when there are stringent rape laws in place now, they are not afraid of attacking a lone woman for they have found an obvious loophole - that they can escape identification by attacking younger girls in a mob and torture them into death.

The other imminent issue is public apathy about crimes against women. We've all seen this video of a social experiment conducted in New Delhi in which a white van with black screens was parked in a public area with belligerent screams coming from inside but attracting a scant reaction from passersby.

Why would that be, I wonder?

Simply because people don't want to have anything to do with the cops, unless it can't be helped. And it's outrageous to see the insensitivity with which they handle a rape case, most often alienating the victim in a state of despair, by attaching blame to her, from questioning her walking the streets at night (obviously, she wants some action) to the length of her skirt. While I do get that the nature of investigation is such that they have to ascertain that the act was not consensual but how is it that an investigation that is supposed to deliver justice to the victim turns into another haunting memory of harassment? Because some of these esteemed guardians of law and propriety subconsciously have the same medieval thinking as the rapists - that you're in a jungle and the same laws apply so don't do anything that asks for it. Don't wear short skirts, don't go out at night, don't have boyfriends, and if you've been drinking, it's consensual.

And it all boils down to the simple fact that we as a society continue to burden the female population with all the sexual responsibility and awareness. We'll pass on the sacred wisdom of our traditions and morals to our girls so that their virgin character always shines through. We'll sternly educate them on all the precautions that they need to take for their safety to avoid going through the trauma of rape. "Who are you going out with?""Why do you have to step out so late?"  "Are you really going to wear that shade of lipstick?""Is that boy from your class going to be there?" "Be back before 10 and give me all the phone numbers." "Did I raise you so you can shamelessly go to a pub and smoke cigarettes....?"

What we don't do enough is teach our boys how not to turn into rapists. Maybe because we just assume that they're not capable of such monstrosity, given our values and traditions. And it's a good assumption but can you say for sure that even when their values will never permit them to commit such a ghastly crime,  the next time they hear of it, they will not be subconsciously thinking that the victim deserved to be raped? Unless ofcourse the girl was a minor, was out with her husband, dressed appropriately and/or took all the precautions to avoid being assaulted.

So maybe it's not such a bad idea to educate our boys too. About how a girl dressed in a short skirt in a pub or anywhere else is not asking to be lecherously stared at and no, you cannot assume she's a slut. About how a girl rejecting your advances is not secretly expecting you to try harder....and harder. How power, money and social standing doesn't translate into sex on demand. How mothers and sisters are not frail creatures needing to be protected at all times and to be watched over. And that rakhi is a bond of love between a brother and sister and not a contract of guardianship that needs to be exercised when you see your sister asserting her choice of wardrobe or male companionship.

Undoubtedly, we can ask for the cops to show some basic humanity while handling rape cases. We can also ask for unforgiving capital punishment for rapists, a fast-track criminal justice system and a dedicated anti-rape movement that checks aggressive acts and attitudes hazardous to the safety of women. Undoubtedly, we need a safe place for women, from all castes and classes, to come out and share their stories without the fear of indelible shame and we need to extend all the necessary support and compassion to them.

But at an individual level, we need to stop making excuses for people who force a woman into sex, no matter how she was dressed, where she was located and whether or not she knew the assaulter. We should not be afraid to speak up against all propagators of a gender divide that is urging to be filled, more than ever before.

For we are not just spectators this time but also potential victims.

Sources / Recommended Reading:
http://india.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/12/20/understanding-the-psychology-of-gang-rape/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/jun/17/sexual-violence-india-patriarchal-narendra-modi-women-reform-rape
http://www.womenundersiegeproject.org/blog/entry/why-steubenville-is-not-delhi-how-we-are-failing-in-this-country

Conquering Two-dom

If you read my last blog and/or are following me on FB, you know that this is an exciting time of the year for me. (Reason I was MIA.) Apart from the fact that it involved my anniversary and two other birthdays of people really, really special to me all scrunched together into one helluva weekend, my darling daughter, my tiny little vessel of love, turned two!

Two years - seems such an insignificant amount of time, still fresh out of the womb, still so much to accomplish. NOT!!!! For I've lost the count of how many times I've been amazed at how someone so tiny can suddenly seem all grown-up and wise. I sometimes get this strong feeling that she's an old soul just continuing on her journey of another life and in the process, doing some volunteer work and reforming some lost causes, such as me. It's like she occasionally switches from Baby Bambi mode to Old Monk mode, just to get a sneak peak of the other side.

Peaches at 6 days

Two years ago, around this time, I was still trying to wrap my head around the idea of getting my little bundle of wails and cackles from the hospital and wondering what it'd be like when she starts communicating - by not working up a screeching cry, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. 

And it's been just a few months since she started getting all adorably vocal in her chipmunk-like voice that goes up notches higher in volume when being ignored. How did that happen? And when? Now she gabs on and on about everything and I just can't get her to shut up. Instead of whining out loud or screaming her lungs out, she calls me, "Mummy! Mummieeeee! Oh Mummieee!" Her melodramatic performance goes on in various timbres and if she continues to be ignored, it is followed by a much sterner final call, "Shalineee Mummieeee". Guess there's no way to miss that, huh? It's kinda cute that she's figured out the same pattern for her dad too. "Sumit Papaaaaa".

And she loves to sing. With her infectious energy and the hippy happy in her voice, she's composed a whole medley that starts with a soothing rendition of "Twinkle twinkle little star" and ends with a shake your diapared booty uninhibited version of "If you're happy and you know it." Or as Peaches sings, "Happy new? Clap your hands, Hooray!!!"

Saanvi and Sophia

Meanwhile, she's also extended her warm affection for her hitherto uncherished dolls. Over a year ago, I was internally debating if Peaches will turn out to be a girly, doll-dressing girl or a hot-wheeling, doll dismantling girl. Turns out she's absolutely and inseparably in love with her baby dolls. She even holds them like a lovey-dovey Disney mom figure. She doesn't have any of the skinny, anorexic, pokey models of perfection yet but she's got three of the marshmallowy, cuddly baby ones - Sofia, Bobby and Baby (we're still not sure of Baby's gender). I guess it was when she got Sofia from her Nilesh maama that she truly discovered her maternal potential. She saw her, sniffed her hair and held her in her arms as if she's a prize possession; she started accessorizing her hair (to the point of madness), singing a lullaby and cuddling her at night and feeding all her babies whatever she was having. (I had such a fright one day when she tried feeding Baby, with his/her creepy mouth slightly agape, some spinach. Wasn't a pretty sight.)

I'd have to say. One of the perks of being mommy to a little girl who can gab up a storm is that we get to have full-fledged conversations with her - not just about doing this or doing that or introducing one word at a time to her constrained vocab but a riot of things. And it's funny how nothing's inanimate in an infant's world. She looks at an object and starts by asking me, "Ye kya hai?" (What's this?) And for example, I say, "This is a button." Her next question's "Button kya kar raha hai?" (What's the button up to?) So I've got to summon my inventive hat to come up with a zany answer to that. Every time! And whatever my reply is, she'll either consider it gravely as if it's a subject of national interest or break into a hysterical giggle as if I've suggested something utterly preposterous. Even while she's having a high-voltage meltdown, if I point down at a little dog on her tee and ask her, "Ye kya hai?", she'll go back to being the incredibly curious little thing that she is and reply, "Doggy" in a perfectly calm voice. And then go on to ask me, "Doggy kya kar raha hai?" And just like that, with pools of tears in her eyes, she'll scamper off to discover more of the whole, wide world before her.

And her memory of events, even somewhat in the distant past....That's another marvel. She'll come up to me and narrate about an incident at the mall when she wanted to sit on the carousel, which was inoperable due to a technical fault. She'll say, "Hum mall gaye the. Horsey nahi baitha. Horsey battery nahi tha." (We went to the mall. Didn't sit on the horsey. Cos it was out of battery.) "
And that was three months ago! The days I yell at her for some harmless misadventure of hers, I thought I'd have to reinforce learning through a cute little bedtime story. But, she, with all her snuggles and nuzzles, lying in my arms, summarizes it in a whisper, "Mummu ne daanta. Kyunki kaam nahi chhoona hai." (Translation: Mommy yelled at me. Cos I'm not supposed to touch her laptop.)

These little incidents, touching as they are, probably aren't exactly groundbreaking. Nothing out of the blue. But as far as I can see, my little baby is stepping out of her cosy little cocoon, through her heartwarming victories, gently crossing the threshold and one fine day, I realize she's not a baby any more. She's a little girl.  A girl who loves her dolls and animals. A girl who loves to sing at the top of her voice, even at a crowded restaurant. A girl who has a whole bunch of 12-year old BFFs. A girl who's uncomfortably social - bordering on being obnoxious and intruding on dates once in a while, usually much to the chagrin of the boyfriend. I mean obviously he'd want to be the only one stealing his girl's heart, atleast while they're still in the coffee shop. Not that I'm complaining. Sumit and I get to enjoy our private little date at their expense, even with a watchful eye. (Now that's what I call multi-tasking.)

And as I struggle to recollect what she was like as a baby and while her milky odor, garbled noises, and toothless smiles continue to slip away from my grip, I can't say I have any regrets. I do regret the fact that these memories have been replaced by assorted pictures and videos. But there's an infinite amount of adventure in watching your baby grow into a person everyday and wondering with shock when she teaches her Mum to face her irrational fear of lizards by coolly saying, "Mommy brave girl." Or nudges Mommy and Papa to pray everyday without fail. Or trails off into the room to get a baby wipe after smearing cream all over the TV unit while I'm busy screaming myself hoarse, then cleaning up the mess and remarking, "Ho gaya, simple!" (It's done, simple.) Or mortifies me in public when I wear something like a short dress by reflecting, "Mommy aapne pant nahi pehna." (Translation: Mommy why aren't you wearing pants?")

And I can't help wonder, "Where did she learn that?" "When did she...?" "How...?"

And this is when she turns all of two. 

Tress Distress

The world's divided into two camps - the straight-haired and the curly-haired. Occasionally these two kinds bump into one another - at a party, on a street, in a cafe, at a funeral... And sooner or later, they wind up expressing an affiliation to the other side...The polka straight-haired girl will be like, "My hair's so boring. Blah..." The bouncy curl- 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.) Honestly, I'm not able to completely empathize with the straight-haired girl. I mean what does she have to complain about? Hair's boring? Hello... Atleast you can depend on it 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 but also very, very dull at times." 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!

So 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 then 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. Still sends a cold shiver down my spine to think of life without it. Now 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 did get 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 got to be a simpler, less neurotic way of accepting who I am and I don't have to feel like I'm stepping out without my pants every time I go out with my natural curls.

My curls - Au Natural

So after a lot of experiments in the hair lab, I've come up with some kickass styling tips for all of us curlies that guarantee a hair identity loaded with purpose and pride.

What you will need to include in your styling kit:
1. A smoothening hair conditioner and shampoo
2. A leave-in conditioner meant for curly hair
3. A hair brush with soft bristles
4. A wide-toothed comb

First of all, let me go ahead and say it, I think both straight hair and curly hair are beautiful. And both come with their own woes - maintenance hiccups so to speak. All you need is a commitment to a hair care routine that works for you.

This is what works for me:
1. Washing curly hair:
My scalp's pretty oily so I need to wash my hair thrice a week. I use a straightening shampoo and conditioner to relax my curls but if you like your curls as they are, you should use a curl-protection shampoo. Of course, I make sure that I get atleast one DIY deep conditioning treatment and/or hot oil massage per week to counter the dryness and frizz.

2. DIY Hair Conditioning Treatments:
I've done a plethora of hair treatments using the frugal goodness of pantry products.
My top-rated treatments that'll not only help smoothen your hair but also give it that extra boost are:
I Coconut milk and honey mask:
 I can't rave about this enough. I mean it takes precious little time and literally works like a hair reincarnation especially for the lower strands that can look so lifeless and burnt out. Plus it smells nice too. All you need to do is get a bowl of coconut milk and  mix it with a tablespoon of honey and heat it until warm. Apply it on your hair until your hair's dripping with it. (Really just no need to economize.) Leave it for 15 minutes and then wash your hair the usual way. You'll find your hair light, bouncy and frizz-free.

II Beer conditioner: 
Again, you can't get simpler than this. Just pour a glass of flat beer through your hair and use your fingers to massage it onto the scalp. Leave it for 15 minutes and then wash your hair. This definitely helps get rid of any build-up and gives your hair good volume (Not the crazy Humidity Monica kinds but the fulsome Amy Adams kind.)

III Yoghurt and egg hair mask: 
Stink bomb but a deep moisturizing one. Break an egg into whisked yoghurt and massage it onto your scalp. Leave it on for 30 minutes. Wash it off with a mild shampoo to seal the moisture onto your tresses.
Disclaimer: Not recommended as a pre-wash treatment if you have a hot date or any other commitment involving people.

IV Olive Oil Massage: Lukewarm extra virgin olive oil massage does wonders for your hair. For best results, leave overnight.

3. How to Style your Hair (Au natural):
"Throw that blowdryer out the window!" NOT.... I'm not suggesting you need to get rid of your hot-headed stylist friends completely but here's how you can minimalize heat damage and still not look frazzled, in fact maybe even get your curls to dazzle. (Excuse my lame attempts at poetry.)

I. Leave-in Conditioner: 

Get an absolutely brilliant curl-protection, frizz-control, smoothening leave-in conditioner. Absolutely must-have for curly locks! I find the L'oreal Kerastase Nutritive Oleo-Curl Definition Creme quite spot on. Does what it claims. I haven't had frizz for the longest time and I live in Mumbai!

II. Combing your Hair: 

I have one of those neuroses where I just have to run a comb through my hair once I'm out of the shower. Using a wide-toothed comb, I find, is a great option to avoid hair breakage and a sensitive scalp.

III. Styling: 
Ok, I know that we all have days when your hair just won't listen to you, no matter how much time and product you invest in it. And that's when you'll be tempted to give it some hot blows to keep it under check. But trust me, you don't need a high heat setting to style your hair.

Just follow these steps:

1. After wash, towel dry your hair and then apply a leave-in. All you need is a dime-size amount on your fingers and work it first on the ends of your hair moving up to the roots. To get looser curls, run your fingers through your hair in a downward motion.
2. To detangle your hair, just run a wide-toothed comb through it. Now it's ready to be styled. While your hair's still wet, just flip it upside down and scrunch your hair by taking handfuls of it and squeezing them upwards. Let your hair dry naturally. Once detangled, DO NOT comb your hair until it's dry.
3. If you have to use the blow dryer, use it to straighten your bangs. Use a medium-heat setting and ensure that the blowdryer is at least 8 inches away from your hair. Style your hair till it's about 80% dry. And then use the cool setting to finish. (This way you won't have flyaways and frizz)
4. If you don't have a blow dryer and you also can't have your hair wearing a flaccid, lifeless, and shaggy look, don't fret. All you need is a couple of bob pins and a clip. After applying a leave-in and scrunching your hair, when you get to the point when your hair starts drying and doing the crazies, twirl it all up in a bun and secure it with a clip. If your bangs are prone to getting uninvited kinks that you just can't stand, comb them down and off to one side. Slide on a hair pin where it's prone to getting curly and leave it on for as long as you can. This is best done overnight but may also work as a quick fix. 

Tip: Another styling option for those days when you have utterly belligerent hair is to tie it in a loose side braid. I think it gives a really romantic, boho-chic sort of appeal to curly hair.

Straightened bangs with scrunched hair

Swept up bangs with crimped waves

Side braid with loose curls

Frankly, even though, I'm not successful at being completely off the blowdryer (as I'm enslaved to it to straighten my bangs), there's a bit of a liberation in wearing your hair the way it is - the lightness of knowing that you don't have to worry about contact with water, the Cinderalla-ish "chariot turning into pumpkin" sorta obsession buried underneath. I'm trying to wean off heat styling gradually but meanwhile, I'm happy to explore the variety my mane in its natural state has to offer. A constructed naturalness so to speak :).

Weekend Project - The Illusion of Choice

You know when you have one of those moods? When you really just want to spend an inordinate amount of time doing...nothing. When you're just so exhausted from trying to catch up with things you ought to finish that you wipe out all pressing commitments from your memory and just sit on the porch dreamily gazing into the distance, losing track of your chain of thoughts and then slowly, steadily you inch towards shutting down for a while....when suddenly out of the clear blue sky, an uninvited thought pops up in your head. And just like that, things go awry. You can no longer rest unless you chase that thought until it rolls you under.

So I'm lying on my couch, neither asleep nor awake, minding my own business and suddenly, I have a grave philosophical question lugging in my head, "Is there really such a thing as freedom of choice?" I throw the question back at the universe and then go back to watching some mindless TV. And then for no reason, I pick up the paper. FYI, the papers and I have been mutually exclusive entities for some time. I almost never read the paper these days. Not because I think I'm above it or something but it's just an activity that takes up more time than I'd like to block so it somehow has landed in the bottom shelf of my priorities, only to be buried underneath my constantly shifting scheme for the day. (Somehow Facebook's always somewhere on the top for reasons beyond my understanding.) Anyway, so I get to the Sunday Review and there it goes again. "Success means having the freedom of choice".

Uggh. Foolish thought! Wherefore I'm doomed to depart from my state of blissful dormancy .... Pray, do tell, how do you propose I get rid of thee?

And thus the weekend quest for the truth begins. Truth that will set me free... for the time being. Now it's not crazy that I spent an entire weekend wondering about it, scouring for the answer on the internet and as it is with philosophical questions, I found that there's no absolute answer and that my interpretation is as right as anybody else's. And as it is with such questions, you get all entangled in them and emerge none the wiser.

So here's my analysis. Everybody craves for freedom, and we can't have enough of it - we celebrate it, we get tattoos engraved on our body to symbolize it, we constantly cuss and whine about not having the kind of freedom we'd like and how we're burdened with responsibilities. But how do we know we're free?  I guess by exercising independent choices -the only measure for knowing if we're truly in control of our destinies and determined to live life on our own terms. In theory, it all sounds really simple and inspiring. I mean who wouldn't want to be the architect of their own matrix of infinite possibilities. But even if we had complete freedom and zero accountability, will we really make free choices? That is the million-dollar question.

Totally uncalled-for flashback to the 13-year old me:
Picture a skinny, fragile, amiable sort of girl with serious fashion blunders to her credit, going about her life as usual. Enter a cool, sassy, confident, micro-mini clad girl and by some strange comical law of nature, we bond immediately. So I am still me and I still wear those horrid, ill-fitted, loud dresses with fierce shoulder pads, without really giving it a second look. But now, all of a sudden, I want to be a style diva. I start to despise my clothes and use all my pester power skills to persuade my dad to buy me something stylish and tiny from one of his foreign tours. And my sweet dad, who's all marshmallows at heart, gets me my first mini-skirts. He buys me a really cute and tiny B&W small check-patterned skirt and another tiny dotted wrap-around with matching footwear. Dizzying with excitement, I put on my white tee and the checked mini and for the first time, I look for something other than my sneakers to step into. I can hardly recognize myself and I walk to my friend's house to flaunt my new acquisitions. (They being spidery, long legs.) Her house was on the upper block, at least half a mile away from mine. Of course, I normally hopped, skipped and jumped to her place. But this time, the walk, which began with full-sprung excitement, started spiraling down fast to wretched misery. Reason? The skirt was too revealing, too tight and I didn't feel like me.  And I just kept hoping that nobody would see me on the way but as it normally goes, the whole town, which was otherwise pudgy and lethargic, seemed to be out for a walk that day. So I dodged everyone's judgmental looks and reached her place, trying to gain inches of fabric by furtively tugging my skirt down the whole time. Obviously, my friend loved my new look and she suggested that I stick to it but deep inside, I knew that even though I was bang on trend, my little checked skirt will not get to see the light of day for a very long time.

What I mean to demonstrate through this somewhat inconsequential example is that to a by-passer it may have seemed that I am exercising my freedom of choice in what to wear by donning a really tiny skirt. But you and I know that I chose that outfit because I wanted to emulate my fashion-forward friend and because I wanted to fit in. Did my friend suggest I wear it as it would elevate our status to BFFs? Nope. Did my dad give me grief for wearing it due to which I felt ill at ease? Hell, no. Was I worried that the town would talk about my skanky skirt? Guess not since Mr. X's dangerous liaison with his maid or Mrs. Y's ice-cream guzzling disorder made far better coffee conversations than a teenage wannabe's choice of skirt. So it really boils down to the fact that even though there was no tangible act of coercion, I didn't really make a free choice as my choice got swayed by my mind playing tricks on me, but while I'm at absolving myself of blame, let's call it peer pressure.

Moving on to more meaningful and life-altering choices... Let's examine another choice that we all start speculating on early in life. The choice of whom to be. We all come into this world with own baggage of race, ethnicity, social class, biological make-up.. But then, irrespective of our background, we chart our dreams with a career choice that fascinates us most , say an astronaut, doctor, pilot... As we grow up, the choice moves on to people we'd like to emulate, so if your dad's your role-model, your choice will be whatever profession he is in. Gaining a couple more years, our choice begins to wear the semblance of our interests, passions and skills. While we may have the freedom to choose a career based on any of the premises above, most of us tend to narrow down our choices, as we grow, based on our self-imposed constraints of economic well-being, distinction, and family responsibility, having us tread down the antiquated path of least resistance. It goes without saying that it may not necessarily translate into happiness and satisfaction.

But what about material choices? Surely I imagined we'd have more control over what money can buy, the only real constraint being money itself. But let's take a quick trip to the supermarket. You have a multitude of shelves of  ketchup with varying sodium levels, flavors, sizes and added ingredients.  And you have all the freedom to choose whether you'd like your ketchup with onion, added garlic, chilli, and olive oil. Then you come to the cereal section and there begins another mind-numbing hunt for the perfect cereal. By then, you're already feeling dizzy and you just pick a flavor you like and dash to the next aisle. So what good is a free market of infinite possibilities if it's turning you into a cereal zombie? But the good news is that the explosion of choice at the supermarket totally compensates for our lack of appetizing options in political leadership. (So much for living in a democracy.)

As I start examining some of my mundane choices, it becomes clear to me that the freedom in our free choices often falls prey to frustration, temptation, social pressure, cultural biases and manipulation. Take for example, the choice of deciding your money's worth when taking up a new job. I remember when I faced my first job interview and reached that moment of truth when I was asked by this cocky gentleman in a very God-like fashion, "Tell me. What's your dream salary?" I did a quick math involving the number of dresses I wanted to buy each month and said, " Rs.10,000". And the deal was sealed. It was my first job interview and I was damn well free to ask for the world considering how full of ambition I was. How did I really arrive at that figure? You know the drill. I asked a friend what the expected salary at entry-level is and I played around with the range subtly, just enough to get in. And that's how it usually goes. And here's the downer. Even after years of industry exposure and domain knowledge, and even though my work was billable to the client, I do not get paid the handsome amount the firm billed for my work but the market rate for employees at my level. So then we're not exactly free to choose our money's worth, only whether to accept what an employer offers us or not. And how do the employers determine how much to pay you?  Based on how easy or difficult it is to replace you. So then the freedom to choose what you will get paid is really dependent on others.

Even if we are to discard external influences, we may still not make free choices. Don't we value our own experiences in making decisions far more than the wisdom of others? While we turn to our own memory to search for answers to situations we've encountered before, our memory doesn't quite serve us well and will only show us what we wish to remember. For example, while choosing a restaurant to take your wife for an anniversary dinner, you leaf through a mental memoir of the hot places in town. Your memory gives you a quick recap of all the restaurants you've been to and if it colors your recall with an unpleasant squabble with your friend over dessert or maybe another situation where a romantic date with one of your exes took an unprecedented turn to the four words that killed your relationship ("We need to talk..."), chances are you won't be making reservations there, even if the food and ambience were to die for. Tricky manipulative beast, that brain of yours.

I'm not sure if my weekend was entirely wasted pondering over the mystery of choice and my fallibility in making a free choice. But in my research, I came across this interesting book introduction that probably sums up how we can make more liberal choices - by being self-aware, reviewing our instincts, empathizing with other people's choices, and by being able to identify potential manipulations. It's called the "The Myth Of Choice" written by a law professor, Kent Greenfield. He explores the nature of our choices and provides us with some useful tools to improve our decision-making in everyday life. Definitely intend to check it out.


But there's something I figured through this weekend project. That before hoping that baby Saanvi has all the freedom of choice to create the life she wants, there'll be a lot of homework on self-awareness, personal responsibility and tolerance for other people's choices. Free or not, I want to ensure that henceforth, every choice counts.


References:
http://www.themontrealreview.com/2009/The-Myth-of-Choice-Personal-Responsibility-in-a-World-of-Limits-by-Kent-Greenfield.php
http://tomfishburne.com/2012/01/product-proliferation.html

Bippity, Boppity, Boo | The Real Stuff that Fairy Tales are Made of

When people ask me what my occupation is these days, I usually tell them I'm a stay-at-home mom...following which I get a wide range of reactions. Some say "Awww isn't that sweet" and then go back to ranting about their lives. Some sympathize with me and tell me more about my work-from-home options. While some go ahead and tell me how lucky I am to have that choice of not stressing myself too much, others think it a noble act worthy of the highest respect and acclaim.

Well, frankly, we all have notions about each other so I have no issues with people thinking I'm available all the time and that my life's boring. (And I could use the honor badge :)) And sure, as a kid, when I had to wake up early to go to school, I'd envy my mom for having the choice of going back to sleep when I left. (I really didn't think she'd have much to do after I left.)

And some of the assumptions are partly true. Here are some candid confessions about my new role (as it stands today):

• The going hasn't got so tough yet and I do get time to nap every now and then (with my baby girl of course).
• Yes, my life isn't all that exciting. In fact, most of my sources of entertainment come from Facebook snooping, common gossip and glossy soap operas. I used to be an avid reader but now I turn to the less mind-consuming forms of entertainment. (Cos they're bloody addictive!)
•  I have no excuse to not exercise. I mean I do have some spare time but I procrastinate it or blame it on my "situation" because it just never seems so pressing. (Until I go shopping and realize how skinny other girl shoppers are and how I cannot pull off anything even remotely sexy.)

So there you go. But I am not going to delve into details about what I actually do and preach about how difficult but rewarding motherhood is. It is what it is.

Allow me to digress now.

I mostly hang out with 12-year old girls these days, who are smitten with my baby girl, Saanvi. We go for walks everyday and I imagine it to be a good time for me to have a quiet time with Saanvi, maybe meditatively watch the glistening leaves sway and listen to the birds cooing in the distance, and also chat up with other moms (read brag and whine). The girls, however, come swarming like a cloud of bees, in effect walking all over my private plans, and hound us, screaming at the top of their lungs, "I'm going to pick her up first!", "Me second!", "But I saw her first!"... Owing to this persistent intervention, I'm starting to appreciate the nature of the job of a referee in a wrestling rink. In their defense, they're better behaved now and their company is quite entertaining.

Here's an enlightening conversation I had with two of the girls the other day. Let's call them Jo and Dee.

Jo: So Aunty [Yes that's what I'm known as now], there's going to be a costume party during Ganpati Utsav and we've gotta start thinking about what we're going to dress Saanvi as.

Dee (jumping feverishly): Oh yes! So much fun. What do you think we'll make her, Aunty? [They go out of their way to rub it in.]

Me (mildly interested): How about a princess from a Disney movie. Cinderella, maybe?

Jo and Dee (in unison): No way!!! How pakau! [Translation: Lame]

Me (doing a double take after a real quick flashback to my Disney-enchanted childhood): Now why's that pakau? She'll make a pretty princess and Cinderella is still a hot-favorite I hope?

Jo: I hate Cinderella! She's so dumb!

Dee: Me too...Too blonde.

Me (saving that Stereotyping lecture for later): OK, maybe she wasn't too bright. But why do you hate her so much?

Jo (launches into a speech): You know the story na, Aunty. She was living with her super-mean stepmom and jealous sisters who didn't give a damn about her. She did all their stupid work for what? To get kicked around even more. No self-respect at all!

Dee: Yea, why couldn't she just run away from home and take up a job as a maid or maybe even become a designer or something? Since she could sew and all.

Jo: Or even model part-time. She was a hottie, right?

Me (nudging them more): Wow...You've really given this a thought. But think about it. If she were a maid somewhere, how would she find her Prince Charming?

Dee: Pleeeease! That Prince Charming marries her because she's pretty. And we have no way to know he's  a nice guy. Cos they don't tell you what happened after they got married.

Jo: Yea...All he really cared about was how pretty her foot was. [Giggles]

Baby Saanvi (taking this as a cue for interrupting our profound discussion and pointing to the swing): Baa...Baa.

And thus, after establishing that Cinderella was a total nincompoop and Prince Charming had a foot fetish, this interesting exchange ended cos the girls moved on to their more-appealing pursuit.

And it got me thinking. As a little girl, as most little girls, I did want to grow up to be one of those Disney princesses with the pretty dresses and fancy shoes, a charming, dreamy man who's head over heels in love with me, all set in an ethereal, magical world where pumpkins turn into limos and rags turn into Oscar De La Renta gowns. But does that really redeem it of the vapid foolishness portrayed in a Disney princess and the one message that is rammed into every little girl's head - why make any efforts to control your destiny when you can don a beautiful dress and simper your way into getting Prince Charming.

But then we all eventually grow out of the Disney Princess trap, either we realize the fallacy on our own or test the magical waters only to realize that believing in your dreams and sitting pretty on them doesn't really get you anywhere.

There's still time for Baby Saanvi to fall into the lure of flowing long locks and off-shoulder dresses and fairy Godmothers so I thought, just for kicks, let's examine three of the popular Disney Princesses and how messed up they are.

1. Cinderella:

Lives a shoddy, inconsequential life, slaving for her wicked stepmom and biaatches of stepsisters. She's utterly gutless, freakishly schizophrenic (with all the tiny mice friends), lacks useful imagination but can sew (even tiny micey clothes), cook and clean and sing. (All Disney princesses can sing, FYI.) Oh, and she's pretty. The only saving grace for her is that since she's "oh so gentle and kind", her fairy Godmother arrives just in time to pull her out of her miserable rut only to put her in another.


Message: 

Little girls, just suck it up and do your cleaning and cooking and yes, practice balancing some hot trays of food. But when there's a royal ball, doll up - wear your hair extensions, a low cleavage, tight corset dress and your achingly beautiful glass slippers. Two minutes of small talk away from the Royal guards and of course, you'll land Prince Charming for life.


2. Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty):

A born Princess but blissfully unaware as her loving parents, in order to save her from an evil prophecy, thought it'd be much safer for her to be shunned in the woods with three fairies masquerading as clearly incompetent humans.(Awesome parenting that.) So she grows up to be a loner living in an imaginary world with her own version of Prince Charming singing and dancing around trees. From the story, we gather that she's cursed to sleep her way into getting her knight in shining armor  (No, I mean literally sleep).

Message:

Girlies, it pays to be lazy and absent-minded so get all your beauty sleep, dream sweet dreams of the life you could have if you were awake and stay pretty. And of course, it takes only a song sequence to fall in love and you don't even have to be awake to enjoy your first kiss.


3. Snow White:

The original Disney Princess - guess also the culprit behind the fair-skin obsession since the dawn of time. Now here's an exemplary princess who lives her life devoid of any brain activity and method. In fact she's so dumb that she could easily end up as a cameo in her own movie, was it not for the bounties of luck. She glides through her whole life in her blissful naivete - first she chances upon a cottage of seven little men and declares it an idyllic living arrangement for her to be cooking and cleaning their mess for them. Lucky for her, they're asexual (or gay). Next, she graciously accepts an apple from an evidently shady, vampish character. Of course, Lady Luck couldn't take it anymore and flees the scene to let her deal with her own shit. But then somehow, her Prince arrives, and yet again kisses her without her consent to save her. What the f*** dude? The good news is he's into her and she doesn't have to spend the rest of her life lounging in a glass coffin subjected to the ogling eyes of seven little men.

Message:

Ever heard your Mom and Dad saying, "Don't trust strangers.". Total myth, y'all. So play dumb, live on the wild side, make some obscenely ill-informed choices, and some day your Prince will come and make it all worth it.


Oh-kay. Got a little carried away there. But having said that, I'm not a feminist and I will not be paranoid about Saanvi adulating any of the Disney Princesses above or even having aspirations to marry Prince Charming. Aside from the fact that it would make me a hypocrite, I feel make-believe can be a powerful tool to inculcate positive messages in your little ones and maybe that's what I'm going to try and do. All the signs, so far, show that she's not into pretty princesses and more into bottles, action figures and cellphones. But maybe sooner or later, she'll ask me to read Cinderella to her...over and over again. And I'll be happy to oblige. After all, I like to think that most little girls are born with pixie dust and you can't take the Disney out of them.