Pens and Pages

I just had a beautiful body massage in my Bangalore home booked via Urban Clap and it brought back memories of a dirty yet thoughtful experience I had in 2019. I should have written this in 2019 but I was only a girl then, afraid what would people say when they read it. These days, I guess I have stopped giving a damn (well, almost).  I did talk about it with a few acquaintances (because I have no friends) and kind of worried I'd come across as naïve (read: stupid). But it is what it is. So it was a cold December of 2019 and I had just arrived in Delhi then for some work-related meeting. Our travel desk booked me a hotel near the airport because the preferred hotels near Gurgaon (where my office was) were unavailable. I was supposed to go attend a friend's wedding near Ghaziabad that night but a recent news of rape in the outskirts of NCR ticked me off. I decided to spend the rest of the evening in the hotel itself.  In the evening I decided to just walk around, exploring the ...

It’s been more than a year now since I have joined my first organization after MBA. However, the days have gone by pretty swiftly especially during the second-half my year-long tenure in the organization. Having previously worked in cities like Hyderabad, Mumbai and Bangalore I had never actually pondered about the meagre ratio of females in organizations. Having worked as the only female ASM, a ratio of 1:9, in the unit, in a Tier II city now, for a sales-driven organization, for more than 7 months, I do realize all the challenges and the changes involved. For a change, no one has made fun of my accent yet- or at least not in front of me. I remember how in my previous organization or in college, my accent was pretty much imitated and laughed at; often, I would laugh along. When in Mumbai, the Assamese accent of mine was identified as “Fake British Accent”- something that often annoyed me when discussed in extent. People working in Bhubaneswar cannot be fooled that e...

Related Post - Atrocity in a Metro City - Hyderabad   I haven’t had a decent cup of tea in a long time – the kind that refreshes you within seconds. Bhubaneswar has no dearth of tea stalls that do not shy in putting enough milk in the cup. However, the hot weather doesn’t allow one to drink as many cups of tea as one would have while living in Guwahati. After the third cup of the day, I feel nauseas. And when tea isn’t there to sweep you off your worries, everything else starts bothering you. When I first landed in the city last year in September I was impressed by how the cabs arrive just minutes after you’ve booked one, how the roads are free of potholes in the major parts of the city, how the highway helps me travel anywhere in twenty minutes even when I live a little outside of the main city. Perceptions do not take long to change and I am now often reminded of the quote in Sanskrit that says दूरस्थाः पर्वताः रम्याः – the hills look lovely but only from a ...

"You'll always be late for the previous train, a nd always on time for the next.”  ― Piet Hein I rejoice whenever I get a window seat on Indian trains whenever it’s a chair car (otherwise Upper Berth would be my spot), more so when it is the last seat near the door, usually marked 4. There’s always more legroom for those who get the last seat. The TTE (Train Ticket Examiner) sits in the same seat on the other column, marked 1, which feels quite safe for a single woman traveller. When I need to leave my seat for a short break, it’s the TT (in short for TTE) who would watch over my luggage. When I need to ask how delayed the train was, it was again the TT, my neighbour for the journey. However, sitting near the TT comes with other experiences too apart from the sense of security. There would be travellers without a ticket, looking for a vacant seat, who would sit on the TT’s seat itself pretending it’s theirs and later being laughed at, when busted. There would be peop...

A tribute to the Nirbhayas of this world, to those who did not get justice, to Jyoti #IndiaFailsNirbhaya They were my sisters- Those two poor daughters of an Indian village, Clad in what they call decent clothing for women, Found one morbid morning, Dead and hanging from the branches of the tree, The same tree around which you and I had played once. Yesterday I saw my mother, with tears in her eyes, When she said she saw no hope Of justice in this nation where once I lived. “Avenge my death,” I had once said to my friends, To the people who once loved me; Maybe they still do And fate must have silenced them. Maybe the sticks they were beaten with While protesting against what was wrong, Have put lashes on their hearts, and locks on their mouths. The same juvenile lad who had once Watched me writhing in pain, Probably, with a smile on his face, as I moaned, I heard he is now going to start working soon. And have a “career”, I heard t...

It’s difficult to cope up with new words being added on to our dictionaries as we grow up – some we use, some we do not, some we understand, some we ignore. It was in 2009, when I started my B.E., that a new word was added to my vocabulary – “Maal”. To reach the bus-stop, that was only around 500m away from the College building, you need to walk past the boys’ hostels lined up on the way adjacent to the building. And if you’re alone (provided, you’re a girl) or with a bunch of other girls, your ears are sure to echo with the chants of the word “maal” coming from those hostels. It was scary on the first few days, so scary that you feel like running to the bus stop as fast as you can. After a few days it became more embarrassing than scary – you feel like you’re being noticed, you feel conscious about yourself, you wonder if your clothes are revealing your contours, you cover yourself well with your dupatta and walk on. Eventually, we started taking a “Tempo” (sort...

It was when I was returning home today from office that an abrupt desire to protest erupted in me and I ended up shedding a tiny teardrop. I wasn’t in a difficult situation; I was just alone and thinking. I have often found myself uttering words of protest ceaselessly when people have mocked homosexuals in front of me. I have often found myself talking over phone or discussing about the miseries of being a woman (or man, at times), of ill-treatment towards women/men/children, etc. What disturbed me today was my realization that my concept of an “egalitarian” society didn’t have the third gender in it? Even when I wrote the article Are you a lesbian? (Published in the Good Times of the North-East), transsexualism didn’t even cross my mind. I was a little ashamed, a little broken and a little angry when I realized this fact while reading a recent article on the e-magazine Fried Eye about the third gender and their ways of life. Thinking “Probably, writing this blogpost wou...

“Are you a lesbian?” A friend of mine once asked me mockingly when we were discussing about my aversion from some (“some” not “all”) kind of men. “No. But does it matter?” I asked her scornfully. No, I wasn’t bothered that I was asked a question about my sexuality. But what I didn’t understand was that is being a lesbian a matter to be jeered about? What if I was one? Wouldn’t I be hurt and embarrassed that my sexuality was just mocked at? Why are the words “gay” or “lesbian” used as slangs? Another incident, that took place a couple of years back, was when I was teasing two girl friends of mine, accusing them of having an affair. I considered it as normal as teasing a guy and a girl. One of them found it so disrespectful that she, instead of simply denying the fact, chided that she isn’t of such “third class” standard. I later discussed the small argument that we had, with her, trying to make my point that being a lesbian or a transgender doesn’t define anyone’s cla...

A huge fan I am of the actor Salman Khan, but as asked by my friends for an unbiased review (i.e. assuming it was just another actor and not THE Salman Khan) here it goes: 5 stars is what I would give it just after recalling Salman's face once, but "committing" to my promise as stated above, I am giving it somewhere between 4 and 4.5 stars. Now, I know that many critics have given it 3 stars but ignoring every other review or the star's charisma I give it a 4 that goes solely to the movie. One star I have deducted because the dialogues at the very first scene did not live up-to my expectations. Nor was Salman looking his very best (I felt like he was having a cold or the likes of that).  The action scenes were not over shown or dramatic like that of Bodyguard’s (albeit it came as a nice surprise to me). But the unexpected twists and turns after the interval of the movie are what made the movie one of a kind. You would expect something to happen while the oppo...

This entry is written for a contest of Indiblogger  http://www.indiblogger.in/getpublished/ I was just wandering on the corridors of the school after my geography class with my fellow IXth grade classmates. And there was he, crossing our aisle smiling at one of my friends. Awestruck, I took a moment to regain my consciousness. ;) Clever me, I did not waste a minute and asked my friend who was he. And within seconds I gathered as much information about him as possible. "Teddy bear" was the first word that came to my mind (and also to my lips) after recalling him once more. A silly name it was to give to a handsome and yet cute guy christened Rahul. But for the next two years he spent at our school, this became his nickname. Ovations to me :). But he was not someone who would sit quietly after learning that I gave him a nickname just after a few days of him joining class XIth. Just the day after we got introduced to each other by our mutual friend priyanka, he star...

[ The poem is written as a tribute and encouragement to the unfortunate rape victims of the society who are fighting every day to live with dignity.  This poem is published in  Read In Park ] Never had known pain, As I do now… Never knew what grief is, But I do now… When the morning sun knocks on my window, I weep silently recalling that loathsome night, When the rays fall on my wet pillow, I wail in self pity ending another sleepless night. Every morning I look into the mirror To see the detested face, Robbed, touched, raped, I now loathe my every single trace. I had begged for help, Had cried for mercy, But no one took a single step, That night to rescue me     They jeered at my pain, Laughed at my plight, “Men” they called themselves Those beasts of that night The fear that arouse in me, I fear it may bring my death Growing day by day, It questions my each breath The bruises on my face will heal, ...

                       “Madam ji, gulab le lo, sirf dus rupaiye ”, saying this a hand clutching a pair of red roses sneaked in through the window of the auto-rickshaw I was sitting in.  It was a traffic signal at Hauz Khas (Delhi) which just turned red when the auto I took had to pass the lane. Damn it. I had to reach Katwaria Sarai positively at 10:00 am and it was already five minutes to ten while the journey takes at least fifteen long minutes.  It seemed like thirty seconds of the wee tot time I had to reach my destination, was wasted by the traffic light. Indeed, this was in accordance with the lyrics of the song christened “Ironic” which said “traffic jam, when you’re already late”. I let out a sigh at the thought of this while another hand came in through the same window, to bring me back to consciousness, importuning me to buy a toy airplane, which I was sure I do not need. I shook my head, in a stringen...