Nopes I am not talking about the Romance by Ralph Lauren or the Alfred Sung creations she wears. I am talking about the true essence of being a woman. Has any man truly deeply inhaled the scent of a woman?
A true essence of a woman is her ability to dispense the perfume of love. I won’t go into the clichéd saying that to be a true woman you have to be a mother. No being a mother is the final burst of her gorgeous perfume.
Prior to that, a woman dispenses her scent in being just a woman. It’s her capability to be an independent thinker, her expertise in being a good daughter, a sister and most important being a very good friend.
Friends it’s very sad that when you inhale the scent of woman, you only inhale the perfume. Delve deep into her heart and take a deep breath. I promise you will inhale the most intoxicating aphrodisiac of this world.
Tinka tinka jod kar aashiana banaya tha Ussey apney haathon sey jala rahi hoon Ghar ki jis deewar par prem chhap chhapa tha Aaj apney ansoonon sey dho rahi hoon
Loosely translated: I gathered each straw to build my nest, With my own hands I put it to flames, Walls of my house where we had stamped our handprint of love, Today am washing them with my tears
I still remember the day we moved into my home. We decided to move on our wedding anniversary day. We were so happy. After a lot of search we had found the place we thought was perfect for us. A small single-family house, as it is called in real estate jargon.
My home; where I wanted to start a family. Where I believed I would be residing till the day I die. Now its no longer a home but merely a house. If only these walls could speak. They would tell you my pain, my sorrow and all the tears I wept.
Yes my house is to be sold. Every week prospective buyers come to take a look at it. They look closely at all the rooms, the walls, the garden, and the yard. They ask me questions about the dimensions and square feet. I try my best to answer them with a steady voice. What they fail to see is my sweet and bitter memories, my shattered dreams.
Very soon I will have to move to a new apartment. This time my search is not for the perfect place to spend my life. This time my search is simply for a roof over my head.
OK, It’s a wonder that I can still type straight. I had a great time last night. I was with a great group of friends, and yesterday they proved how good they all are, because I got dead ass drunk and made a stupid ass of myself.
We met at an Indian restaurant for dinner, fifteen of us. We created a great ruckus in the restaurant. That’s where we had the first of our many kamikaze shots. Now here I have clear something up. I have never done shots before because am not a hard liquor person. Most I can drink is half a glass of wine. Yesterday though I threw caution to the winds and said to myself “What the hell? You only live once”.
By the time we had finished dinner and moved to the nightclub, I already had two kamikaze shots and one small glass of peach schnapps (ewwww, had it ‘coz it was compliments of the restaurant).
Temple the nightclub we went to was playing hip-hop music. Although am not a big fan of hip-hop, I let myself sway to rhythm. One of my friends KD suggested, we all go for a round of drinks an hour or so into the dance. Drinks of course meant more shots. By the time we were out of the nightclub I had a total of 6 kamikaze shots. Possibly more but I had stopped counting after six. And then the fun started.
I could barely walk straight. I turned towards my girlfriend YS and said “I feel like crying”, and started bawling like a baby. Immediately, another friend KZ was by my side, hugging and comforting me. I did not realize when KD came by and took me aside. He too was comforting. He told me that whatever happens, it happens for a reason. Had my ex not left me, I wouldn’t have made an effort to know this excellent set of people. He told me that I was an example to everyone around with my bubbly and cheerful nature. Also I was the only one, who could kick KD’s ass when needed, none had the guts to do it.
Once I calmed down a bit, although the tears poured down once a while. We all decided to go for Kolkata style chicken roll in the Greenwich Village at 2 in the morning. We got into two cabs, KZ never leaving my side, trying unsuccessfully to keep me steady. As we crossed Times Square, the bright lights hit my face. I said out loudly, ”Can I say screw you to the world?”. JS my other girlfriend, KZ and VN said in unison, ”You can say and do whatever you feel like”. So, I just blurted out “Screw you world”. KZ said, “That did not have the right effect”. He then rolled down the window of the cab; I put my face and half of my body outside the window of the speeding cab and shouted to the bright lights of Times Square. ”SCREW YOU WORLD”.
We had the delicious rolls, and decided that for my birthday (which is coming up in another 2 weeks’ time); we’ll be going to this authentic Bengali restaurant in the village to celebrate. I refuse to celebrate my birthday moping at home. KZ dropped me back home, and waited in the car till I was inside. I went to bed straight still fully dressed at 5 in the morning.
Today my house is too bright for me, my head is heavy and my throat is all parched. It’s a bloody miracle I remember everything. But my heart is so glad, that I met these awesome people. Friends who supported me when I could barely keep steady. Friends who made sure I had a good time. Friends who understand my rebellious age of 35 soon to be 36. Friends who would also understand when in two weeks’ time I will claim I am 19. That is how I feel right now.
Today I’ll tell you the story of a person very close to me. She is none other than my mother’s younger sister, my aunt or as I call her mashi.
My mashi was always the prettier one amongst the two sisters. Seventeen years ago when she came to visit us in Pune from Kanpur. We were horrified to see her. She had a horrible lump on her left shoulder almost the size of a small basketball; she also had a lump in her throat. Mashi had been diagnosed with soft tissue sarcoma, a form of cancer. She was being treated in Tata Cancer Research Center in Bombay. Pune at that time had one of the topmost radiologists in India. Since we lived in Pune, Mashi decided to get her radiation therapy done from there.
Doctors had given her only six months to live. They said her sarcoma was in an advanced stage. If the radiation could control the growth then there was a slim chance. But she would lose her left arm forever.
Mashi on hearing this said, “I will not let anyone cut my arm out. I just bought the most beautiful gold bracelet. If you cut my arm out how would I wear it”? My mashi always loved beautiful jewellery and sarees. Her life revolved around her jewellery and her only son.
After almost a month of radiation therapy, she went back to Bombay and was operated upon. Doctors did not cut her arm; miraculously the tumor on her shoulder had shrunk. There was just a hairline gap between the tumor and her bone. Had the tumor touched the bone then the arm would have been amputated to save her life. After the surgery she went through a course of chemotherapy. Then she came back to us in Pune to recuperate. Finally she left for Kanpur. At the day of her departure, my mother cried a lot. She still believed her little sister was going to die.
Six years later on my wedding day, my Mashi stood in front of me. She was dressed in a beautiful silk saree, and her wrists were adorned with her favorite bracelets. Today she lives with her husband, son and daughter-in-law. All she had was to look forward to wearing her bracelets and she beat the dragon of a disease called cancer.
We should all look around; dig deep into the closets of our mind. Search through the depths of our soul and find our own bracelets.
Optimism is a very powerful trait. A true optimist can beat all odds even death. All one has to say is I wish to succeed, I wish to beat, I wish to be the goddess of my life.
Dave came into my cubicle and asked me “Romita would you like to adopt?”. I was dumbstruck. I said, “Dave you know me someday I am going to adopt a child, but not now. Now is not the right time”.
Dave then said, “Well there has been a tragedy in my house that led to a joyous occasion. Hence I thought I should share it with you”.
Here’s how the rest of the story goes. Dave’s second son dropped his pet hamster Squeaker. Squeaker fell on her head and died. His son was inconsolable. So Dave goes out a buys him a gerbil and names it Princess. A week later, Dave’s son is all excited. The gerbil cage it seems is too crowded. On closer inspection Dave found out that Princess who was pregnant when she was brought home; has given birth to 6 baby gerbils.
Dave who already has a wife, two sons, one daughter, one sister-in-law, one mother-in-law, a cat, a dog, a rabbit, 3 gerbils and a fish tank; now has additional 6 gerbils. His home is a veritable animal farm. He figured he couldn’t keep 9 gerbils as they are going to grow and reproduce faster.
Now Dave is looking for good homes for his new gerbil children.
Alas I have no love lost for any type of rodents. I offered to adopt Dave’s cat, dog, rabbit, fish tank or anyone of his children. I even offered him that am willing to adopt his sister-in-law or mother-in-law.
But Dave is too attached with all of them. All he’s willing to give up are the 6 gerbils.
We live in a dysfunctional and disabled society. It’s a society filled with people who claim to be educated but are still illiterate. They are too bound by social norms, customs and superstitions that do more harm than good. What good is our education if we cannot break free of the evil customs of our society?
Nowadays more educated a person is, more he can demand for material goods in dowry. It does not matter that the girl herself is equally qualified.
If a couple is unable to have children, then the woman is deemed barren. She then has no standing in the society. Every mother’s day she has to cry silent tears, every auspicious ceremony she attends she’s ignored and every day she feels helpless and curses herself. If a young woman is divorced or widowed; again the same situation all over.
Why is it that we find such immense pleasure in others’ misfortunes? Why can’t we empathize with others? And most importantly why can’t we break the barriers of such evil norms?
Is education only used for earning money and not for bringing in social change? Why is it that when a young girl who is divorced, or a woman who has not had a child after several years of marriage, is asked not to take part in an auspicious ceremony? No one comes forward to protest. What good is our education if we have the mentality of an illiterate granny? Even sometimes grandmothers’ are wiser and they protest.
Do we make society or society makes us? This is not the ancient times, when the barter system prevailed and hence we had to be dependent on the rules of the society for our livelihood. In this free market economy where no one is dependant on another, we still fear one simple fact. What are people going to say? Or in Hindi “Log kya kahengey”
You may call me jaded, but I write this as I have been witness to all this. May be this kind of culture is more prevalent in smaller groups like the Indians living abroad. Hence the Indians in India are much better off. But all things said and done the immigrants brought their culture along with them from their homeland.
I for one have made my choice. I say this to all the gossipmongers in the society. Screw you. I’ll live my own life and make my own rules. As I believe I make society not the other way around.
On the behest of a fellow blogger, I read the biography of Isadora Duncan. An exceptionally talented and brilliant danseuse.
Isadora Duncan was born in Oakland, California in 1877. Shortly after her birth, her parents went their separate ways. Isadora was a child of beauty and imagination. She hated reality; she loved to live in her dance and music. She was in fact a born rebel. Since at a tender age she was witness to a bitter marital break up. Isadora had vowed to embrace love but never to marry.
Isadora pulled herself from depths of poverty and became a world-renowned dancer. She had her own style of dancing, which was quiet revolutionary in the 1920’s. She danced all over Europe and was lauded wherever she went.
Isadora also faced tremendous personal tragedy in her life. During a dance performance once she received the news her two children had drowned in the river Seine in Paris. Life was dead; dreams were dead; the world was empty. Isadora Duncan, the rebel, had won her rebellion and lost all that was worth the fight. She felt she would never dance again. But she did dance. In her tragedy she had become a giantess, and life does not or cannot stand still. She won new triumphs, found new loves, and achieved new furors. She faced new tragedy in 1914 when, under the shadow of the dawn of the First World War, another baby was born—dead. Still she danced, and still she continued to teach her girls. She danced her Ninth Symphony to an audience that sat as though in the presence of a creature divine. Her greatest creative dream had become a reality.
Isadora had a liking for wearing long scarves that would trail behind her touching the floor. Little did she know her liking would one day be the cause of her death? Isadora died in 1927, when her scarf got entangled in the wheel of an automobile. She choked to death. Isadora is no more, but her dance school and her dances are still with us.
There is an Isadora Duncan in all the woman in IFF. Some of us who have known great personal tragedy. Some of us who are going through difficult times. We should learn from Isadora Duncan and realize if life refuses to play your song, then make your own melody and sing your own song.
Note: I dedicate this post to my friend and sister Payal. Payal dance to your own tune dear. Believe me dance sets your body,mind and soul free. Do not be afraid.
Holi the festival of colors is celebrated all over India. A festival with different names but celebrated with the same spirit of joy. In the western state of Maharashtra it’s known as Rangapanchami, in Bengal as Dol, and other places as Holi or Dulhendi.
Holi is also the time to remember the eternal love between Lord Krishna and Radha. It’s a time when people in India forget the caste barriers and apply color on each other. In a philosophical sense Holi reminds us that we’re human beings first, no matter what color, caste or creed. Once the colors of Holi are applied we all become same.
As a little girl growing up in all over India, this widely celebrated festival made me feel at home, no matter where I was. My celebrations for Holi would start from the day before. I would get my water gun or Pichkaari ready, fill all the water balloons with colored water and make small packets of dry color or Gulaal.
On the day of Holi, first I would play with my neighbors’ kids, refilling the Pichkaari time and time again, throwing the water balloons mostly on the adults and squealing with joy. Later mom, dad and I would go for our Holi rounds. This means we would go from door to door in the neighborhood, apply colors to one and all, and eat lots of sweets. The Holi rounds had a charm of its own. With every house we visited, new families would join us. Some of the adults would bring along with them the drums or Dhol, people would sing and dance on the streets. The adults for one day would throw caution to the winds, shed their inhibitions and play Holi with one and all.
Finally we would get back home late in the afternoon, and then there would be the scramble for the bathroom and lots of scrubbing. Sometimes the colors would refuse to come off. In the evenings again people would come to our house for more sweets and tea.
The excitement of Holi would stay with us till next day. At school it was a competition to see who still had the most color on. More the color on your face meant more Holi you played.
I miss this festival of colors very much. Tonight on this Holi all I can do is wish all my friends a very happy and colorful Holi.
Few days back namkeen wrote a very beautiful post on bindi’s. The red dot that crowns the forehead of every Indian woman and completes her beauty. Dilipraj a fellow blogger asked a question in that post. Why doesn’t a wondow wear a bindi? A simple question that set me thinking about the problems of the hindu widows.
Yes why can’t a hindu widow wear a bindi on her forehead? Why does she have to be draped in dismal colors like pure white or ugly brick red or even black? In the most conservative families she’s even forced to shave her head. Why isn’t a hindu window allowed to re-marry or carry on living the life she wants?
A hindu widow is a symbol of mourning for the rest of her life. She has to perform a penance for losing her husband. She’s charged guilty without a crime and is given a life sentence that she did not deserve. Hindu widows are forced to eat dull and cold foods. No non-vegetarian foods for them, some of the vegetables and pulses are also restricted. This to ensure that her sexual desires lie dormant. She’s expected to slave in the house where she dwells and her free time spend in prayers. She’s the epitome of exploitation in every sense. Even then sometimes she’s driven away.
If loss of a spouse is to be mourned forever, why is it that the same rules do not apply to the men? How come the men do not have to be a living symbol too? They get to live their life as they did before, they can even re-marry. Men have no restrictions on the way they look, eat or live their life.
I believe the answer to all this lies in money. Hindu scriptures gives equal property rights to a woman once she gets married. Hence when her husband dies, the rest of the family is certainly worried about the division of property. This worry for finance led to the heinous custom of Sati quiet frequent in the 19th century and even in the 21st century. Remember Roop Kanwar in 1987 and Kuttu Bai in 2002. In forcing a woman to immolate herself on her husband’s funeral pyre, the relatives were getting rid of the problem once and for all.
Certain communities in Punjab, ask the widow to get married to the younger brother of her deceased husband, if there is one. What if the brother or the widow does not want to marry each other? They have no say of their own in this matter. So once again to keep the property within the family another disgusting custom is born.
Loss of a spouse whether through death or divorce, emotionally cripples a person. Let not the society physically disable them as well. Times are changing and with more and more nuclear families in the society. The plight of the widow is not so bad. Yet they’re not good enough. Let a woman be free to make her own choices about the way to dress, to eat and live her life.
Please allow a widow to put a bindi on her forehead and be a complete woman.
I woke up with a heavy heart day before yesterday. Did not know what was wrong, could not shake the depressed feeling either. Went to work and as per habit, opened the BBC news website. There it was on the front page. Sankat Mochan temple in Varanasi had been bombed.
Images of the dead and injured devotees were splashed all over the website. Pictures of dazed, wounded men, women and children. The news and the pictures shook me to the core. I read Hanuman Chalisa everyday; have great faith in him as my savior and protector. That day and today I could not.
Is god nothing but a marble sculpture with no powers? The devotees who were clamoring for Hanuman’s darshan surely did not go there to ask for death. Their hopes and dreams must be about jobs, children, health and happy life. They would not have asked Hanuman ji to rip them apart to pieces.
How come a great protector like you Lord Hanuman, you were incapable of protecting your own abode? Why is it that we humans your most beautiful and intelligent creation; were successful in destroying not only your temple but also other fellow human beings? If you work in mysterious ways, then what mystery lies in allowing such death and destruction? Or are you simply a myth? A mirage created by weaklings, to hide during times of distress.
GOD are you truly nothing but an anagram for DOG? I used to say this because I felt you lived in all creations including DOG. But now my faith lay shaken, and I feel a dog is better than you. At least a dog is capable of protecting himself and his master.
Yes I took one step forward. Got out of my ivory tower and stopped being a Rapunzel. I finally let my hair down and danced the night away. It felt good, no in fact great to be with friends.
I knew deep in my heart that I looked and felt great too. Of course the various second glances from men did boost my ego (Gosh am shameless). I met lots of new people, and was given a few phone numbers as well.
That was when the panic set in. I turned away and ran from the dance floor. Hid myself in a corner and did not come out till my friends came looking for me. I did go back to the dance floor. Danced by myself till the wee hours of the morning. I danced so much that I had cramps in my legs. Really had a marvelous time.
But then I started to think, why did I run away? What was I scared of? Am I scared of myself? Or am I scared of meeting other people?
Since then I received invitations for dinner and other outings. I have refused every single one of them. I have made it very clear that I will only go out in a group and no one-to-one dates.
Was my first step on the dance floor my last? Did I take one step forward only to fall back two steps?
(Gosh am shameless). I met lots of new people, and was given a few phone numbers as well.
