www.electronicencounters.com

He was relieved. Glad, even. They were finally going to leave. His mom was finally ready to attend the party, and dad had already been honking for the past five minutes. He’d now have the house to himself, for at least five hours. He had always loved being alone, away from the crowd, and sometimes far, far away from his parents too. He was never too much of a sportsperson; he preferred activities that stimulated the intellect. While other sixteen year olds would’ve spent such home-alone nights partying with their friends, probably even drinking, Rustom would read, or play his viola (if only he had a penny each time people called it the violin!). He was mature beyond his years (or so, everyone said, but that was possibly because they had never considered the possibility of other sixteen year olds not being as mature as they should be!), and a loner. Not surprisingly, he had plenty of friends online. Lonely people make the best chat room friends. He was especially excited tonight. He couldn’t wait to check out the newest site he had read about in a journal. It asked you for your hobbies, your likes and dislikes; and connected you to someone with the same interests, and let you both chat. The only condition was that you weren’t allowed to upload your images. And you’d never be connected to the same person again. The site ensured that.

The element of mystery appealed to him, and he felt particularly excited as he put his headphones on.  It was a gamble, he thought to himself, and he loved taking chances. He typed in the url, and was very soon filling in his name, and his hobbies- surfing the net, reading, art. That was about it. Oh, and yes, watching movies. He waited with bated breath as the site found him a suitable ‘friend’.  He secretly hoped it would be a boy, so that he could have an interesting conversation about fighter planes and Star Wars. What did girls know about such stuff anyways?

Too bad when within two minutes (thank God it didn’t take longer- he was getting rather impatient!), he heard a slight rustle on his headsets, it was a rather mature sounding female voice (the internet sometimes did that to your voice).

“Hi!” the girl said softly, almost whispering.

“Hello, Rustom here”, he replied quickly.

“Hi Rustom, I’m Alisha.”

“Alisha? That’s a rather pretty name! So tell me Alisha, what do you like doing?”

“Oh, plenty of things! But I’m not allowed to do most of them! You know, I recently fractured my hip!  So I’m confined to the bed, doing nothing much, except surf the net, watch television, and paint a little. Even that has gotten so difficult these days. So I’ve started reading- a lot. I’ve always been a big reader, but now that love has strengthened! And I have my blog. I write in it, a lot”

“Oh, that could get kind of sad, I understand! But if you look at the brighter side, you’d realize that you have plenty of time to spend with your family! How cool is that?” Ha-ha, look who’s talking about family time, thought Rustom! He barely knew his parents. As in, the kind of people they were. He did not know.

Alisha chuckled. But he sensed a tinge of sadness in her laughter and her voice, as she said, “Barely anyone at home has time for me. Nobody like spending quality time with an invalid, you know! The conversations are mainly limited to them ordering me around, telling me what to do and what not to do. Sometimes, to be honest with you, Rustom, I feel like running away from home... to just break free!”

“Wow!” remarked Rustom to himself. He did feel bad for Alisha, but he was relieved, glad even, that there was at least one more lonely person in the world. He tried to recollect the number of times he himself had contemplated running away from home.  “Forget them’, he continued chatting with Alisha, “and tell me what kind of movies do you like to watch? Romcoms?”

“Haha no! I’m sorry, Rustom, I’m more into the “Star Wars” series!”

“Really? It is rather unusual to find a girl who likes “Star Wars”. And what kind of books do you like to read?”

The conversation went on for more than an hour. The spoke about many things- Billy Joel, their painting styles (both of them pursued painting as a hobby, but they both admitted they kind of sucked at it! In fact, his mother had called his latest masterpiece ‘Squiggles’), their mutual dislike of Harry Potter, and their fascination for Frank Sinatra. They had a little quiz in which they asked each other the toughest questions about Sinatra. Alisha won (‘but very narrowly’, Rustom consoled himself). “The most brilliant hour of my life”, Rustom thought to himself later on.

They then recited dialogues from Star Wars, and they laughed themselves silly as the discussed the antics of Tom and Jerry (you can never be too old for cartoons).  He expressed his disappointment in finding out that her favourite cartoon was the Powerpuff Girls simply because it was a display of flower power! They had a very philosophical interaction about the hidden meanings in Lewis Carol’s humorous writings. And they finished off with a debate about whether Macbeth was Shakespeare’s best work, or was it Julius Caesar.

When they had both gone offline, Rustom was a happy young man. He wished the world had more sensible people like Alisha. He also wished that he could talk to her again. But he did not have her phone number. He did not know why he did not ask for it. Neither of them had brought it up, and so neither of them had asked for the other’s contact details. Perhaps this is how it was meant to be. Perhaps if their friendship had gone beyond that day, they’d realize they did not really like each other as much as they thought they did on the first day. Alisha was an extremely wonderful girl, and it was probably best to remember this evening in the sweetest possible way, without further conversation to spoil it. Rustom switched off the lights and went to sleep, hoping to have a memorable dream about his encounter with Alisha.

Miles away, in another continent altogether, Alisha nursed her broken hip. A fracture at the age of fifty three was very difficult to handle. Especially since she had lost her husband, her pillar of strength of thirty years, in the same accident six months back. The mishap had completely broken her, and she thought she’d never be happy again. So she had decided to completely drown her grief in caring for her infant granddaughter- the only beacon of light in her otherwise dark world. She had forgotten how to smile; her tears did not stop flowing.

Until tonight, that is. It seemed like aeons ago that she had seen on her face the creases that accompanied a smile. This ‘www.electronicencounters.com’ was an amazing site, and this man Rustom was an absolute sweetheart. How old was he? Forty, forty five? Younger than her for sure, but he had managed to bring back that spark back into her life that had been consumed in the flames that had engulfed her husband’s pyre. Silly, it may sound, but in this one hour she had connected with him in a way she had not connected to in a very long time.

She felt rejuvenated. She thought she’d write about this man in her blog. And title it, ‘www.electronicencounters.com’!

My best Friend

We sat in my room, enveloped in the aroma that emanated from our mugs of steaming hot green tea, doing some catching up. Our dose of heart to heart conversations was over six months overdue. I was home for a day, and I was afraid the hours were just not long enough. True, we spoke over the phone everyday; I pinged her by the hour, and sent her close to fifty text messages a day. But none of those could provide me the warmth of her touch as she held my hand, and as long as I just called, texted, or pinged her, my daily migraine pestered me, for she couldn’t massage my head over the phone or the computer. So, while we knew of each other’s experiences, we had not dissected them. As we discussed my brother’s apathy towards his upcoming exams, her latest adventure in the kitchen, my latest project and my boyfriend troubles, I leaned back into my bed and wondered, “She was always my mother, but when did she become my best friend?”

As far back as I can recollect mom has been the first one I had run to with every tear, and every joy. When I first hit a guy in school and when the same guy asked me out a couple of years later, my mom had been my confidant; my friend, philosopher and guide in the true sense of the term. When I first broke a tooth and when I made a new friend, she has always been there for me. Whether it was to teach by example, or to silently support be from behind the stage, mom has never judged me; she let me set my own expectations. She was proud of me when I surpassed those, and encourage me to improve when I fell short. She is the best listener I know and a mind reader too. She instinctively knew when I was asking her for advice, and when I just needed her shoulder to cry on. She multiplied my joys with her enthusiasm, and divided my frustrations with her empathy and good advice.

Yet, for many years, to me, she was just ‘mom’. Back in my school days, when she picked me up everyday, she asked my how my day was.  I remember asking about her day once. I was surprised by the amount she had to say. We rarely had late night conversations (I slept early), and our days were very busy, but those precious forty five minutes every morning  when I got ready for school, were spent chatting about every topic under the sun. We slowly found the time to fill each others’ ears with stories, and our hearts with love. We shared our experiences and hopes, our frustrations and fears. When I heard that she had stumbled at the same blocks when she was my age I became stronger; when I learnt of her romance with dad, I was no longer scared to tell her about my latest love. She never made my opinion seem inconsequential, and my ideas were ‘difficult to implement’, but never impossible. She had immense confidence in her daughter, and her goodnight kisses always came with the message that tomorrow was a brand new day, a day to revel in.

And so when she had her hysterectomy, I told her it was okay, she’d be fine; just like she had calmed me down every time I went through PMS.  When grandma passed away, it was from mom’s lessons to me that I found the wisdom to let her cry. She always told me, tears were not a sign of weakness, they were a stress buster.

It was then that I realised, she had always been my best friend. She had given me her heart in its entirety, right from day one. It was her soul that she divulged to me in instalments, as and when she realized I was ready.

As I sat across her, looking jot down the recipe for my favourite chicken dish so that I’d never miss it when I was alone, I couldn't help wondering what she felt. Was I her best friend too? I was looking at the woman who had given me life and then shared hers with me. It was time for me to get going if I wanted to get beck to college on time.  Our mugs were by now empty, but our hearts were filled with a kind of warmth I never knew existed. We both knew that by tomorrow she’d be busy being the perfect wife to dad, and the perfect mother to my brother. I’d be immersed in my project, and if I had some time in the evening, I’d go for a party at a friend’s. Yet, we’d both be growing and learning – about life, about the world, and most importantly about each other. Our relationship was like the chicken in the marinade of the recipe she’d given me- the longer it soaked, the better it tasted!

She still believes what his eyes say....

He could make her deliriously happy, or uncontrollably angry, quicker than anyone she’d ever known. When he looked at her, everything else disappeared, and he became her whole universe. She could not help but smile. His eyes were just perfect- kind and assertive, knowing and doubtful, playful and sensitive- all at once.  It was paradoxical. Just like their relationship.  They made her laugh when she was low, forgiving when she was angry, and believing even when she knew he was lying. Those eyes were more than enough to make her fall head over heels in love with him- and that was something she had always tried to steer clear of.

They had hit it off on the wrong note. Her first memory of him was an awkward encounter in a party thrown by a common friend. She found his silence intimidating, yet when she felt his eyes on her- even on that first day, she had felt beautiful, inside out. He looked like a cold sort of person, the kind she had never planned on falling for. But as their friendship deepened, when she found herself slipping, she realized, when has Fate ever been kind enough to let you follow your plans?

He was the first guy she ever really loved. She was surprised too. He was just the opposite of what she had wanted from life.  Yet when he held her, her head resting on his shoulder, she knew he could hear her deepest, darkest thoughts. She had always been talkative- she’d needed plenty of words to convey her thoughts to the world, yet she did not call it a miracle when she felt him read everything she had ever wanted to tell him, in the silence that often enveloped them when they were together. She called it love. When he spoke, it was mostly to tell her that she was never the kind of woman he thought he would settle for either, to tell her that despite that, he loved her and only her. She knew he was lying for she felt somebody else in his heartbeat, in every throb of his pulse; but those eyes – they always made her trust him.

From the time he first held her hand, he dominated her thoughts. She tried hard to focus on college, on her painting, on her family, and even on a God she never believed in, but with each passing day she felt weaker and weaker. She felt reckless, afraid and excited. Her days began with the thought of meeting him, the afternoons she spent with him became evenings before she’d even realized it, and her nights were spent texting him. When she met him the next day, she often had dark circles, but he made her feel beautiful. Every time he looked at her with those eyes.

Her instincts were at loggerheads with each other. “Trust him”. “Trusting him will easily be your biggest blunder”. “Reach out for his hand”. “Be at peace with returning the pressure when he squeezes your fingers”. “Ask him about her; find out if he still loves her”. “No, he’s totally into you now”!! She was confused. The love in his eyes overshadowed his lies; their warmth was more than the doubt in hers.

She occasionally saw the deception, the insecurity very clearly in his eyes. She was sure his loving words were for her, but she wondered if his heart was too. Like the rest of his emotions, she could never tell with surety how much was an act for her benefit, and how much he really felt for her. She stared into his jet black eyes and wondered if he knew how much control he had over her every sense, and if he knew how devastated she’d be when the break would ultimately happen.

Then one day, a fortnight later, it all came crashing down around her. As abruptly as he had walked into her life, he walked out. He was gone, and as she hurt alone, she wondered if he had ever really loved her, even for a moment; or if it was all a charade. She had so many questions for him, and so much to tell to him. But the alarm clock had gone off too soon, and now the dream was over, leaving her lonely and cold. All that she had, to remind her of the best fifteen days of her life were some text messages that she’d immediately deleted, and some notes he’d made for her homework. She tore it into pieces as her tears washed the ink out of those assignment sheets. She was too proud to dwell on those memories, to wait for him to come back. Her heart wanted to cry out, but her mind had decided to move on. In the end, that is what she did.

He taught her many lessons. Lessons on life, on love and on circumstances. She has finally made herself collect the fragments of those days, ensconce them in a special part of her heart, and live life like she ought to. She thinks of him less often. Yet, I’m sure her mind sometimes drifts back to her past, to the sweet dream of her first love. And at those times, she remembers his eyes... and she still believes what they say. 

Not mine...

By my sixteenth birthday, I was chic, witty and convivial, the envy of most girls I knew. I excelled at school, played soccer for the club and was a volunteer at an NGO. If someone would have told me back then that I’d be pregnant in two months’ time, I’d have laughed it away. Yet, I did. Get pregnant, that is.

My world came crashing down as I realized my mistake and panicked. I’d heard of teenage pregnancies, but hey, who was so foolish? Well, looks like I was. I had no confidant as my boyfriend deserted me. My parents had immense faith in my sense of responsibility, and that did not do anything to encourage me to tell them about the mess I was in. Alone, left to fend for myself, I went through horrible mood swings. There were days I contemplated suicide, fearful of my tough life ahead. On other days, maternal feelings enveloped me as I felt unconditional love for the nameless human form growing within me- unknown, yet so well-known.

My first word, when I had learned of my pregnancy,was, “abortion” -practical, and discreet. I decided I would not let my child see the light of the day. Everyone made mistakes, and this was one of mine. But Fate had different plans. I was well acquainted with the dangers involved, if an abortion was conducted in an unhygienic manner. The safer places demanded money that I definitely could not afford. And so, I had to cross out abortion from my list of possible solutions. Now, the only solution left was giving my baby up for adoption.

Suppressing all my motherly love, I walked into an adoption agency one bright February morning, all alone. I told the woman at the counter my story, and she gave me a comforting smile as she assured me that my baby would be in safe hands. She gave me a list of couples who had applied for adoption, and asked me who I’d choose as the parents of my child. “Me, of course”, I almost said, but then that was just my heart talking. My head told me that my pregnancy was MY fault, and my child shouldn’t be made to pay for it. It deserved a loving family, a good education, and a secure future- things I was far from being able to provide it with. Inside of me, though, I still hoped I would not find a suitable couple, so that I could keep my baby for myself.

Of late, things had stopped going my way. And it happened again. I found a suitable couple, and zeroed in on them. Over the next two months, I got to know them well, and there was not one moment I regretted my decision. They’d give my child immense love. They would be perfect parents. I lied to my parents, told them I was going on a vacation, as I spent the last three months of my term with them, in their house- the place my child would call home.

One morning I wondered, what if my child was born deformed? What if it was impaired in some way? Would they take it as it was? Or would I have to creep into some orphanage and drop my innocent baby there? Possibilities of rejection by the chosen couple bombarded me, ate away at my mind till the morning my daughter was born.

One look at her cherubic face, looking up at me, was enough for me to almost back off, to want to bury her in my coat and run away to some place where no one would see us. She was perfect in every way. As I held her in my arms, she gave me a smile so beautiful, I cried. Were those happy tears? Sad ones? I still don’t know. Two days later, my daughter’s new parents officially adopted her, as I came back home after my ‘vacation’. Nothing was amiss at home, I was still the model young woman in my community. Things moved on, and even though I missed my daughter, I did not try to reconnect with her new family. I did not want my dark past to eclipse her beautifully sunny life.

It’s my wedding day today. And it’s also my daughter’s twelfth birthday. With every passing day in the past twelve years, I’ve learnt a new lesson- lessons not taught in school or in Sunday school. Those were lessons that one learns every time they stumble and fall on life’s pathway. I do not know what they’ve named my daughter. But I do know that today, when she reaches out for her mamma, it’s not me whom she’s calling. Her life is unrelated to mine, yet deeply intertwined. I do not know if one day her family will tell her about me, if she’ll ever know the mamma that bore her. Yet hope does not die within this breast. Her reentry in my life will cause another storm in my life, but I will fight fiercely next time, spurred by the thought of that first smile of hers...

OF MAKEUP, COCKROACHES, MUSIC AND FOOD...

Tragedy:

I define tragedy as the condition I am in when my stick of kohl gets exhausted, and I’ve forgotten to buy a new one already.

Kohl is one absolute essential in my life. I don’t think I’ve passed even one day in the past seven years without the application of this particular cosmetic. I vividly remember dragging myself out of bed, a little more than three years back, when I was down with typhoid, just to wear kajal- people were coming over to visit me, and I could not afford to let them see me minus kohl.

Diamonds are said to be a girl’s best friend, but mine is my stick of kohl, without which I can’t think of stepping out of my room. I can’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror, plain-eyed, even at midnight. Ask Sabrina Tauro with whom I shared a room when I was on a trip recently. Shocked at seeing me apply kajal at about 11.30pm, she asked me if I knew I was going to bed soon!

And so, when last month, I realized one morning when I was getting ready for college, that my kohl stick was over, and my reserves were empty, I decided to bunk- until I hit upon the novel idea of lining my eyes with non-toxic felt pen- an emergency measure only!

Fear:

Yeah, we all have one thing we’re mortally scared of! I thought until recently, that my weak point was pain- but then I happened to spy a cockroach- and SCREAMED! The ugliest creatures on earth (my personal opinion, of course, with which I’m sure many people would conform)- roaches- dark brown, with their disgustingly bristled legs, and creepy feelers, have the capacity to elicit from me a scream so piercing, so scary, it would put a heroine from a horror movie to shame! Having to dissect a cockroach in my Biology laboratory was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do, and hopefully, I ever will! I’m sure my classmates remember me running around the lab when one of the specimen roaches escaped from the jar in which he was stored. Bless the lab assistant and my teacher for not reporting my antics to the HOD!

My classic question of all time: Why didn’t Noah kill those two roaches when he let two of all God’s creatures into his ark?????

Embarrassment:

Recently- just last week, to be precise, my good friend Vidya Ramamorthy and I embarked one of our frequent karaoke sessions- the kind that we have 9 out of 10 times we meet. Both of us are Bollywood music enthusiasts, and we start belting out our favorite tracks, rather, MY favorite tracks during such times. Vidya (who, BTW, is the ONLY person on the face of the planet, who thinks I’m a decent enough singer to join in with), is one docile lady, and gives in to my insistence when it comes to choosing songs!

And so just imagine my embarrassment, when after all my insistence, I screw up, midway through a song! Be it forgetting the lyrics, losing my voice at the high notes, missing the beats, or messing up the tune- you name it, and I’ve done it!

My cheeks tend to take on a rosy hue, and my head hangs with shame as I hear Vids say, “Maine kaha tha Arpi, yeh gana nahin.... mera wala aasan toh tha kam se kam - ho jata, without any interruptions!”

To top it all, if we’ve been (un)fortunate enough to have an audience when this disaster happens, my shame knows no boundaries as my reputation as a good singer goes down the drain! But mind you, I haven’t yet learnt my lesson, as I keep pretending I’m a broken juke box for about forty minutes everyday!

Bliss:

When I get to eat what I want to, without counting the calories! Yes, I know, healthy is in! Kareena had to gain some kilos before Saif fell in love with her butt all over again! Yet, irrespective of what every girl says about the futility of ‘the size zero fad’, and how she says her boyfriend likes her curvy, secretly, she’d love to be counted in that list of stick thin ‘hotties’ , who’ve ‘achieved it’! Every thin woman loves rubbing in the fact that she’s got the body that makes her the envy of the rest of us! And as far as the feminist who goes on about how it’s only the inside that matters, is concerned, it’s just a classic case of the fox believing that the grapes were sour anyways! In fact, I think this was the feeling that mothered feminism in the first place!

And so, the ‘pleasantly plump’, and ‘well rounded’ girls like me have two options:

a) to stop eating our favorite foods (which invariably are fries, chips, pizza, burgers- anything mayonnaise based), and pretend like food anyways was the last thing we cared about, and that it hardly ever made a difference to our lives (like hell it didn’t!!)

b) to give a shit to what people say about our figures, to be super-comfortable in XL sized clothes; to be able to convince that well-meaning aunt not to worry, some guy would surely see what jewels we were, and marry us, despite the fact that we might not be able to accommodate our bottoms on their bikes- and to continue eating what we love eating! (Kudos to Mahi of Mahi Way!! for celebrating the lives and desires of such women!)

I, unfortunately, am of the former kind! Good food, honestly, far from exciting me, now freaks me out! A platter of my once favorite food now makes me run away!

So, occasionally, like during Pujo, when I let myself forget the fat, and focus on the feast, I binge; and for me, on those rare days, binging=BLISS! Pure, unadulterated bliss!

God has made human beings special... He’s given us myriad feelings!! My favorite four are up there, and you have just wasted some of your time reading about them. But if you’re a girl, you’ll probably know what I’ve been meaning to say. A breakup with your boyfriend might appear to be the most intense feeling you’ve ever felt; but a little thing like shopping goes a long way in alleviating that pain... Sometimes feelings are not defined by the flowery language we see in greeting cards, but by the tiny instances that remind us of who we really are... look out, you just might be surprised!

It’s a different ‘picture’

"Cigarette toh shudhu phushphush ke jalaye, ami amar hridoy jaliyechi” (Akrosh, early 2000s). Boss, these dialogues just ain’t gonna work anymore! ‘Protibaad’, ‘Protishodh’ newowa hoye geche, and the ‘Boro bou’, ‘Mejo bou’, ‘Choto bou’ series is over, as all the ‘Choudhuri Porbar’s and “Sonar Sansar’s have been pushed into oblivion. The Bengali movies of the 1990s and early 2000s- very much like a deep fried, heavily spiced, indigestible kochuri- are not being accepted by the newer audiences. Today’s youth, calorie- conscious, yet a lover of excellent taste, expects the same when it comes to cinema. Commercial chobir oto tel moshla ar hojom hoye na! And hence, breaking into Tollywood, is a new breed of directors and scriptwriters, catering to our altered preferences- the masala is just right- giving ‘too much’ a run for all it’s worth! This is what we bongs have gotten around to calling, the ‘multiplex movie’.

Ekhonkar bacchagulo bohut paka! They know everything! Gonjakhuri goppo diy oder mon jeta jabe na, sir! The ‘hero’ of the commercial movie- larger than life- is someone none of us have ever seen in our lives. He jumps off a cliff, and descends on his feet, all his bones intact! He’s shot, six or eight times (depending on what pistol the ’villain’ could afford) - and then he smashes the ‘villain’s’ head on a rock, unhurt... There’s a long list of movies from the 1990s, where the hero tells the villain in a thunderous voice, ‘Mayer dudh kheye thakle bero, haramjada! lorey dekha amaar shathey’.

Sad part is, none of us have had the archetypal older brother who rode an auto rickshaw in order to ensure we got an education. And if one in a million of us have indeed been fortunate enough to have had one, I’m sure we would not have turned him out of the house once we were independent. I haven’t seen too many real life brides eloping with their boyfriends on their wedding day; they know that running around in a 15kg benarasi sari, wearing a king’s ransom worth of gold, is not an easy feat... they’d escape beforehand. But a commoner approach we’d follow is to refuse the proposal outright and tell our parents we’ve made our choice. ‘Cause in real life, a girl’s brother generally does not hire goons to behead her boyfriend.

And therein lies the factor that differentiates class from crass... Today’s movies tell us the story of us. It could be a glimpse of your life, or mine, that we catch in them. The passions we followed, the sins we committed, the little pleasures we indulged in... they’re the basis of a multiplex movie. Set in one of the houses we’ve grown up in, not the palatial mansion that looked more like a bejeweled continent- so gaudy and so huge! The protagonists wear the clothes and makeup we wear, they don’t go to bed looking like they’re going for a wedding! They’re the story of the girl next door, or that boy in class... or even of that transgender we openly ridiculed until a couple of years back, but have now accepted, giving them the dignity they deserve. The characters are neither completely black, nor totally white. They have shades of grey in them, just like we do. And that is why we relate to them. And that is why we love them. They’re bits of us on celluloid.

Be it two strangers falling in love online (Antoheen), or the fingers pointed to a woman’s character when a male friend of hers dies while on a holiday with her (Anuranan), we’ve been there, done that. We genuinely sympathize with Mitthi, yet we don’t blame her fiancée Joydeep Roy for backing out of the wedding (15, Park Avenue) when she suddenly turns schizophrenic, days before the nuptials. Seriously, how many of us would actually go ahead with the wedding? We understand the mixed sentiments of Pablo and Taniya (Madly Bangalee), best friends who end up falling in love, yet deciding to go their own ways when they realized their paths would never converge. They were band members who had clashes with their co-members- religious, academic, and about authority. Now tell me, how many of us haven’t gone through that? Thousands of girls worldwide related to Sri (Autograph), who parted ways with her boyfriend of many years when he illegally used her photographs to promote his directorial début. She was not the Sati Savitri type Indian woman who’d have forgiven her man, irrespective of what he’d have done. Neither am I. Nor are most other girls I know.

The Bong Connection; Cholo, Let’s Go; Cross Connetion; Bo Barracks Forever, Cholo Paltai, Iti Mrinalini... they all depict our love-hate relationship with life, our daily struggles and victories, our laughs and tears. They’r OUR story!

Brinda of Antoheen might have been killed, and with her Abhik might have lost his first love; Preeti of Anuranan lost her reputation of being a ‘nice’ woman, Mitthi lost her sanity and her fiancée; but their movies won. Madly Bangalee, the band, might have disintegrated, but Madly Bangalee, the movie lingers on in our minds for months.

These movies have no heroes and villains. They just have characters- like us! And hence, we know what they’re dealing with. Their tears, their smiles, their worries and their joys become ours. They seem to be our friends, and not aliens from some distant planet. No wonder, we’ve taken to them like a fish to water!

Dual....

Looking good. Check. Packed the kids’ lunch boxes after having supervised their bath and breakfast. Check. Made badam milk for the in-laws. Check. Getting that fat paycheque this evening. Check. That’s the ideal Indian woman of today for you. She’s the ultimate blend of tradition and modernity, juggling work and home with perfect dexterity. Be it ironing the creases out of her ever-so-busy husband’s blazer, to check if mom-in-law has had her medicines, to helping the kids with the homework- multitasking seems to be such an integral part of her identity, you’d hardly call it a skill anymore- it’s just something she was born with. As we go on and on today about women’s lib, and how she’s stepped out of the purdah, we seem to have completely overlooked the fact that she has probably had to jump from the frying pan into the fire, as she has begun living an almost dual life.

A lot has been said of how today’s Indian woman looks at her male counterpart in the eyes –she is as well-qualified, educationally as well as professionally, as him. Today’s Indian urban woman has stormed into, and conquered territories that were previously ruled by men- and how!

Yet, amidst all this fanfare, the little fact that has probably been lost upon by us, is that though she shares office space with her man, he does not seem to be willing to share her responsibilities at home. And so, what we have today is a breed of exhausted “superwomen.” Society uses that term to spur her to slog harder, fulfilling its own selfish desires; while the superwoman herself loves the tag- it’s an ‘honor’ that has been bestowed upon her, and she tries hard to fill the bottomless pit of expectations they have from her- not living upto which seems like sacrilege, thus making her feel guilty. Remember Radhika Jha form ‘One Night in a Call Center’?

The modern Indian woman is so pressurized; sometimes it looks like stepping out of the confines of her home was probably her worst mistake. Today, not only is she expected to study and earn as much as men, but also to cook, clean and feed the family- traditional wifely duties. Her husband feels no guilt while helping himself to half her salary to pay for his gaming CDs, but finds it derogatory to his ‘image’ if he helped her with her chores.

At the end of the day, drained of the last ounce of energy in her body, when she tries to relax, she is often accused of not taking enough care of herself- contributing to her shabby appearance, for traditionally, ‘looks maketh a woman’! Worse, after the herculean jobs of the day are done to perfection, she still has to be that demure, quiet woman, flashes of whom we’ve grown up seen in our mothers. She can’t afford to be irritated, despite the hard work taking a toll on her, for who has ever heard a good Indian woman shout, or seen her being irritable? She’s second probably only to Jesus Christ when it came to patience and forgiveness. She’s sweet-natured by default, and has never been known to raise her voice. The very qualities that men use to assert their ‘masculinity’ sound the death knell of a woman’s ‘perfection’.

But what can she be, if not shabby and irritated, dear guardians of society? As she tries hard to strike that perfect balance in her dual life, a little appreciation is the least she deserves. If we take her for granted and make it look like letting her stand on her own two feet is something she owed society one for, we’re way too wrong! We’re not doing her favor by giving he her independence, her right to a good life. She’s the ‘ardhangini’ – one of the two halves of a home. Man is the other. In every aspect. And it’s about time he lived up to that wedding vow!