Vodka Shot Numero Dos

Have you ever thought about dreams? Not our dreams of life, but the dreams we dream when we are asleep. It’s a world in its own, don’t you think? Whatever explanations I’ve heard on them never satisfied me. Dreams are intriguing, sometimes troubling, excruciating, intricate yet magnificent, beautiful, hopeful, significant. Where do they come from? From our thoughts but how does something we see, while we are asleep, recreate the feeling of touch. So much so that you can even feel the other person breathe in your dream. And not just of anybody, it is that of the exact same person you’ve been dreaming about. How do locations change? What do these dreams mean? Should they be taken as signs?

They’re so colorful yet so sad because we can never truly interpret it rightly. But maybe, it is better if, in this world of so many not desired meanings and unwanted answers, some things are left to our own personal imagination… 

An Affair with Bollywood – Commas but No Full Stops

It started as a beauty, still is but now it has become like the moon – a beauty with a little more than required marks on her face. 2012 marks its 100 years – the Cinema of India, better known as Bollywood. 

When I was asked to do an assignment on it (the joys of journalism!), I realized that it was impossible to capture all the aspects of this hundred-year-old huge, majestic empire ruled by the actors, the singers, the versatile and these days, the skin-showers. The first movie I watched in a theater was Hum Aapke Hain Kaun at the age of 5. And since then, I’ve been in an on and off relationship with it. I was never a huge, die-hard fan of Bollywood. I just liked movies in theaters, something to pass time and an exclusive luxury because my parents were never great fans.  I lost faith in Bollywood when I switched to Star Movies, HBO and the likes. Each movie, however big a hit, disappointed me. It was only Lage Raho Munnabhai, Bheja Fry, Khosla Ka Ghosla (comedies all of them, I now realize) that kept a bit of hope alive. Now, when I came to college, I started understanding a bit more. And thanks to Shreya Katuri, a friend and an AC (quite a cliché, but that’s what she is!) of Bollywood, I was back in tune with Bolly again.

The history made me realize that this nation has had ample supply of great cinema. I’m not in any position to review any of Dada Sahib Phalke’s or Save Dada’s works but they gave the shape to Indian cinema, as it is now. The evergreens have given it an augmented definition. And the new comers are, well, distorting and making and distorting again and re-making.

Sadly, no movie can recreate the history of Raj Kapoor’s magnificence or Guru Dutt’s delineation of the tragic mood in his films. There can’t be something as grand as Mughal-e-Azam or something as simplistic as Shree 420. These movies were carved with perfection. Even a comedy like Choti Si Baat or Golmaal displayed excellence. They were not movies which were built around one-liners or funny dialogues like Ready, Damadamm or Bheja Fry-II.

Today, Bollywood is more about who is the highest paid or who has had more relationships etcetera, things which should be of least importance. A bit of fault here is of the audience too who cannot appreciate Sahib, Biwi aur Gangster, Dev D or That Girl in Yellow Boots. They want movies like Bodyguard and Wanted, a supply of which is uninterrupted thanks to Salman Khan. With Ra.One, Shahrukh seems to have disappointed many, but that doesn’t dent the popularity of action movies with really animated fight scenes.

Another audience accepted, at least most of them, formula is sleaze. Saw the hype around The Dirty Picture or Love, Sex aur Dhoka? I watched just the former one and it gave me a headache. Sleaze makes the movie sparkling, no doubt and I’m not a conservative bitch, but right amounts and right portrayal is quite important. And also, the new trend of whorish names with a slutty adjective/activity which you know is here to stay, for bad, when Karan Johar has “Chikni Chameli’.

There is so much more I want to say about Bollywood. But this post can cover only this much or you’ll stop reading. I wish Bollywood has a better class. Nonetheless, I love it. For the music, the colors and entertainment, entertainment and entertainment.

I Want You - Like Crazy - But Baby You're So Far Away.

Just saw the movie Like Crazy. Halfway through it, I’d almost lost faith in long distance relationships. Thankfully, the end was slightly positive though highly ambiguous. Did they no longer love each other like the way they used to? I almost cried. The way they hugged when they met after a long time, the way she stared at empty metros where they’d travelled together. I am a sort of an emotional fool, but you have to see it to feel it. It is heartbreaking to know that they probably separated after the shower. For my satisfaction, I believe they lived happily ever after. But after their encounters with other partners in each others’ absence, I don’t know. It’s more heartbreaking than ever.

I don’t know why everyone makes such hype about long distance relationships. Why can’t they work out? The bracelet Jacob gifts Anna, indeed, what was written on it was the key – patience. Who knows whether you’re meant to be? Who knows if you will separate forever? What you do know is that you’re one, not physically, but in love, in thoughts.

With patience, comes trust. You have to be patient enough to understand that nothing can go on in their life in your absence because you mean the world to them. You trust them, they trust you and that is where you establish the root of your long distance relationship.

You can’t get involved with someone else. Because if that works out, then there wouldn’t have been a long distance in the first place. You decide on something when you say Okay let’s how it works out but in your hearts of heart, you believe in it truly. So you wouldn’t be seen dead with someone else. 

Need I mention this? It’s love. It binds you and it is the reason why you’re here in the first place. Nurture it, preserve it, cherish it and believe in it. And it will get you through and make you happier than ever.

Stop whining about how you’re the only one who calls them. It’s okay to keep making the effort. After all, what counts is whether you talked and not who initiated the conversation – unless you’ve fought of course. The important thing is to keep the conversations going even if you have run out of things to talk about. As a matter of fact, if you’re in love, you can have a conversation with having nothing to talk about.

In today’s world, when there is ample access to internet and other devices that keep you connected 24/7, there is no reason why long distance relationships should be so difficult to take and hard to maintain – unless, of course, you’re incompatible. There are only so many things that you need to keep a relationship going but maybe if you just believe in yourselves and love with all your heart, you’ll have that world you’ve been dreaming of.

When you know that the answer of what have you been doing is waiting for them, you know there’s nothing such as long distance.

Cheers to love!

Vodka Shot Numero Uno

Life is not as complicated as it seems. Okay, maybe it is but you need to understand that it doesn’t wait for you. It will never wait in happy moments, never rush through your sad moments, won’t care if you miss someone. Life goes on. You will have to wait for the moment, grab it when you have it, let go of regrets, shoo the tears of sadness.

Live the oddity, create the randomness and breathe life!

Over A Cup of Coffee and Paneer Tikka - Part 3

“Max? Who is he, Mish?” her eyes glinted.

“Max Hospital, Lipika. Hospital,” she said the last word through gritted teeth, trying very hard to suppress a scream.

“But Mish--” Lipika began.

“I know you’ve been stopping me since morning. But it isn’t right. I know it isn’t. I love him and that’s all that matters. I’ll forgive him, this one time. He deserves forgiveness. For all the love he ever gave me,” she could sense tears in her eyes but she didn’t want to cover them now. She hadn’t cried for a month. Now, she could. Now, she could release the hurt, the pain, the anger. She knew it wasn’t entirely Lipika’s fault, who’d kept her from Ansh all through this month, but she just couldn’t take it any longer. Her mind had given up, lost to her heart.

“He hasn’t even told you her name, Mish,” Lipika said in a last-ditch effort.

“I DON’T CARE. JUST GO,” she shouted and then broke into sobs. “Just take me there.”

Lipika turned the car to the direction of the hospital. Nervous breakdown was not her thing to handle, she was sure as hell.

Now, Mishka could feel the taste of coffee and paneer tikka in her mouth. It was almost as if she was coming back to life. She had kept all her memories at bay by working overtime. Every time a memory surfaced, she blocked it with anger. She took sleeping pills so she didn’t have to think before sleeping. But since the past week, her mother had hidden them. And now she thought. Hard. She thought how much she missed him, how much she loved him. She thought if that was how petty her love was that it could not forgive. She remembered how they shared coffee and paneer tikka during the cold nights, how he had hugged her to sleep. How he loved her. Really loved her. Her mind kept racing to the memories of the past and she had realized what she was stopping. Now, nothing could stop her.

“We are here, Mishka. Go.” Lipika announced as they reached Max hospital.

“Thanks, Lipika,” Mishka was still crying. Then she ran.

Lipika was only whimpering. She didn’t cry that easily. But she was saying it again and again. “The girl was me. I am sorry, Mishka.” She knew once Ansh told her, she wouldn’t have her back. She didn’t want to have her back. She had her eyes set on Ansh and when she found out that he liked Mishka, she couldn’t believe her life took a turn like that- like some movie. And then she gave him up. But a month back, when she got the opportunity, she couldn’t resist it. She couldn’t believe it either. That she could still like him. Mishka was out and there was nothing better than alcohol in the world. And Mishka was the best excuse to invite Ansh over. She’d planned it all out, now she thought, like a vamp in some silly serial. But strong will power was never her forte. And she did it. She knew Mishka wouldn’t forgive but what she had forgotten was how much they loved each other. She drove back, knowing no one would come back looking for her.

In Room 413, Mishka held Ansh’s hand. He couldn’t speak through the oxygen mask. It only fogged when he tried. But she knew what he was saying. She knew he was sorry.

“I am sorry, too. I love you very much, Ansh. More than anything else. I don’t know what would’ve happened if I wouldn’t have come here, Ansh. Stay with me. Just stay.”

They both cried for the rest of the night. Held hands in each others’ and cried.

The nurse found both of them asleep the next morning. She was sleeping by the side of the bed, kneeled down on the floor and head resting on his palm and he lay peacefully on the bed, his other hand on her head. The nurse smiled and went on to call the doctor. The doctor had to be told, after all, that Ansh was normal again. 

Over A Cup of Coffee and Paneer Tikka - Part 2

Memories..

It was a rainy afternoon when he had told her what he told her. It was just one day, Mishka, he was saying, just one day. I know it hurts, but you have no idea how terribly guilty I feel, Mish. She knew she believed him, her heart knew it. But her logical mind refused him outright. There’s was no world where she would forgive a lying, cheating bastard. A one-day stand, huh? That’s what it was? she’d smirked. She got up and left. Without goodbyes, without a last look. She didn’t even say she didn’t want him anymore. It was implied. She didn’t want him to say sorry. That would’ve eased his burden and guilt. He didn’t shout or stop her. He sat with his head hung. She’d walked, walked as long, as far as she could. Even though she knew every nook and corner of Delhi, she didn’t know at that point where she was. Then her phone had buzzed. It was her mother. She had seen her walk past their home and was worried. She cried in her mother’s lap that day. Told her everything. Her mother had suggested forgiveness but she denied it vehemently. It does no good, ma, she had screamed. Her mother had patted her all night and she had cried all night, saying just two words, why me?

“There’s another party at Swarovski. What about there?”

“What?” Mishka sounded like she had been woken up from a deep sleep. Lipika grimaced. “Party. Swarovski.”

“Hmm. No. I don’t want to. Anywhere. I don’t want to go anywhere,” she constructed her sentences with difficulty, carefully choosing the words, afraid she would give away her thoughts.

“I want you to meet someone. He---”

“I DO NOT want to meet any new guy, LIPIKA. How HARD is  THAT to UNDERSTAND?” She realized she was shouting and thumping the table and gave a look of apology to all the people sitting. Then she glared at Lipika.

Lipika continued calmly. “He is the Head of the Creative Department of Femina. Its Delhi office.” She had lighted a cigarette by now. That was the only way she knew to not retort to anyone who snapped at her.

“Oh.” Mishka was embarrassed now. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. They were quiet for some time.

“Are you still getting the roses, Mish?”

Roses. They’d started to come in from the next morning after the night she’d cried in her mother’s arms. They increased with the number of days. First day there was one, then two the next and so on. Every rose had a note. Notes of apology, notes asking for another chance, noted about how he still loved her. Her mother took the roses, read out the note to her and kept the roses in her books. Books. Ansh had never liked reading books. He thought they took too long to finish. She’d discovered that when she had gifted him ‘Three Men In A Boat’ on their 6 month anniversary. It was a nice, light read and she was certain he would like it. But he had only given an apologetic smile and put the book away. When she’d visited him the next time, the book was right where he’d kept it then. When he saw that she had noticed, he had explained his aversion to books. She had laughed and said that he could’ve told her earlier. Then, they didn’t know that they’d be celebrating their 5 years anniversary soon, which would be followed by pain. But what is love without some pain…

“Let’s go, Mish. You can decide on the way if you want to come to the party or not,” Lipika got up. She glanced at Mishka and saw she hadn’t got up. So she lifted her by the elbow.

“I am getting up. Relax,” Mishka revolted.

On their way, Lipika was briefing Mishka about Parth.

“Parth. The Femina guy, Mish.”

“Oh.” She realized suddenly that she might’ve missed on a lot of what she had been told. Memories were still swarming her head, clouding her thoughts, making her dizzy. She wanted sleep but she knew it wouldn’t come. She closed her eyes, trying to register what Lipika was saying but all she could hear was Ansh. The way was he said he loved her, the way recited cheesy Bollywood dialogues, the way he cried when they couldn’t meet for days, the way he came running after her when she was angry with him, the way he was. Every word she heard connected to him. She’d spent 5 years of her life with him. There was no way she could forget him. There was a possibility of forgiveness, easier. Not very easy, but easier than forgetting which was almost impossible.

“Let’s go to Max, Lipika,” Mishka said. She didn’t know where the words came from. She just spoke them.

Over A Cup of Coffee and Paneer Tikka - Part 1

“I am trying to get over it,” Mishka said in a weak voice.

“Sure as hell you are. Really, now. He didn’t even deserve you,” Lipika retorted.

“All best friends say the same thing, Lipika,” Mishka spoke again, her voice stronger now.

“Ah! It is the right thing to say! What should I tell you? You are wrong and he is right?” Mishka began saying something. Lipika interrupted, “No no. I get it now,” she waved her hand, “that’s what you actually want to hear. He can’t be wrong, you think. He’s no god, Mishka. Stop obsessing over him. We have coffee here. What else do you want? Let me see. Paneer tikka. That’s your favorite.”

Again Mishka began to say something. “No more talking about Ansh, okay?” Lipika ended the conversation.

Mishka’s mind wandered. She was shut up. She couldn’t talk about him, she could think about him. She could still feel him everywhere. Near the fence of this roof-top café, under the umbrella tables, she could she him smiling. Smiling like he used to when he looked at her for long time. And then he would say how lucky he was to have her. She saw him beside the waiter who brought Paneer Tikka. Paneer tikka was his favorite too, you know, she wanted to say, so please don’t order it. We had it with coffee. Don’t. No use now. She knew not a morsel would go down her neck. It would be difficult to even pick one. But Lipika was adamant.

“Let’s go party tonight,” Lipika snapped her out of her thoughts.

“I don’t want to,” Mishka’s voice had gone weak again.

“Sure as hell you don’t want to. Come on now. Ansh won’t be around. You’ll have fun,” Lipika insisted. 

“It’s at Blue-O Lounge.” She spoke the name like it was a casual word to be carelessly tossed around between one’s sentences.

Blue-O Lounge. Mishka tried hard not to think about it. That was where she had met Ansh. He did not have blue eyes or six-pack. He was just ordinary, a sheepish smile always on his face which grew wider the moment he saw Mishka. It was almost love at first fight. Mishka had been mad at him for being a careless bartender. He let the boys mix Vodka with Lipika’s Strawberry Crush. Ansh hung his head in shame. Guilty for the crime he didn’t commit. He saw the way she moved her lips and it made him want to kiss her. He knew it was a very bad idea. He didn’t even know what she was saying. He could only see her lips making patterns. She had slammed hard at the table and announced that he was the worst bartender ever. And that she was never going to come back there again. But she came, again and again and a lot of times. And by the time she caught him staring at her for the fifth time, she knew it was inevitable. The next morning, he had woken up beside her and told her for the nth time, Mishka, you’re so gorgeous, I don’t have words. And then he said for the first time, I think I love you. Mishka had sat up straight on the bed. She almost couldn’t believe it. It was too good to be true. But it was. She’d pinched herself, she remembered now, and it had turned so red that Ansh had to kiss it over and over again for the rest of the day which they’d spent together. She didn’t know how to heal his wounds, so much bigger than hers, as he lay dying. His wounds were physical and emotional. She had known him so well that she wouldn’t have let him suffer. But that was earlier. Now, she didn’t know…

“EAT, MISHKA,” Lipika’s voice sounded like thunderbolt, shaking Mishka out of her sweetly melancholic memories. She put a piece in her mouth, unmindful of the fact that she hadn’t finished the one she had kept inside her mouth 10 minutes earlier. Lipika was saying something. “Need time out…good boy…Prakhar…no-nonsense…meet him…Blue-O Lounge…” Mishka knew what she was saying, but she blocked half the words from her speech and the rest, that she had caught, from her memory.

A Little Too Dirty

Ever since I’d heard about Milan Luthria's The Dirty Picture (TDP), I was a little more than excited. Of course the name was attractive but when I Google-d Silk Smitha and got to know about her story, I was thrilled that a movie with such a subject will be made. Then came the promos and the movie had me on the first line of ‘Ooh La La’. The skin show on television was slightly funny but then came the reviews. I mostly relied on The Hindu and the Crest edition of Times Of India and I was mesmerized. I knew I had to watch this movie in a theater.

Very honestly, I was quite disappointed.

I missed the first 10 minutes of the movie – and came to realize later that I wouldn’t have minded very much had I missed whole of the first part. The minute I sat on my seat, I encountered the first heavily punned dialogue. Ignored. As the movie progressed, Vidya’s struggle attracted me. It was impressive to see her dressed like a South Indian but with the boldness of god-knows-where. She looked the enthusiastic, young kid who’d do just about anything to get herself in the industry. Then came her first shot. It was mind blowing, literally. And I still haven’t forgotten the really tacky way in which her tongue moved around. But I ignored that too, thinking that would one just one instance. But what the hell, the first part of the entire movie was filled with the same moves, moans of different pitches and the awkward tongue. She herself had said that this movie doesn’t get vulgar. If you talk about dressing style, well maybe but the moves – downright vulgar. By the intermission, my head was throbbing and I had half a mind to leave the theater right away. But I wasn’t going to waste my money. After the interval, began the story of her downfall. She was definitely affected by the men in her life – Nasseruddin Shah, as ‘Smashing Surya’ and Tushar Kapoor his brother. Love finds her in her biggest hater Emraan Hashmi but he was a little too late. The double standards of these men force her to take an arrogant stand against the world and completely kill her after the face-off of with the newbie Shalaka. Her production venture fails, she has nothing to live for and the last offer she gets is from an adult movie maker. She realizes that Reshma was lost somewhere in Silk’s extremities and commits suicide.

There are no conversations in the movie. Every actor has a set of lines which are double entendres and sound more like dialogue-baazi. Full of innuendos, every line, every move is suggestive. Nasseruddin Shah comes off well as the chauvinist superstar who could make an actress his heroine and his mother at the same time. Tushar Kapoor is the vulnerable male living under the shadow of his brother and has to pay heed to him more than Silk. Emraan Hashmi is the director who hates sleaze but ultimately ends up making a film with a lot of it. As an autobiography, it is probably worth watching but as an independent movie, it pretty much fails. Questions like is this the fate of women who bare all are rendered useless since this movie is primarily based in the 80s. Vidya Balan is a wonderful actress but she overdid it. Her belly was attractive only for the first few minutes and soon became a bag of flesh. Too much cleavage, too much vulgarity makes Vidya fail. The only part where I felt a bit of remorse was when she dies without meeting her mother.

The movie only deserves two stars.

Get A Room

Maintaining The Distance - In Public

Returning from Ansal Plaza the other day, I used the garden path. It’s quick and short though not all that safe. Anyway, things that save time are the best. But one step into the garden and I was reminded why I had been avoiding it since so many days. In every nook and corner and open space, there was this scene: Boy on top of girl, sucking the bloody life out of her or the other way round or both ways round. Now I’m not voyeuristic so I was quick to turn my eyes away from one sight only to be confronted with another. I had to finally keep my eyes glued to the ground in order to avoid such gross and sights (and also lewd remarks from boys who were at the moment deprived of such pleasure). Apart from cursing them, I was yelling three words in my mind: GET A ROOM.

It’s embarrassing. More than you can imagine specially when your mom is around and instead of casually walking, she’ll stare at you expecting you to say something so that she’s reassured that you’ll never do something of that kind. With your friends, well it’s pretty easy to avoid but when you’re alone you just can’t help cursing. I made sure I didn’t use that path again for weeks.

A week later, while I was still brooding about it on Facebook and Twitter, I read an article in the TOI (which invariably highlights such news item with extra ‘masala’) about ‘Operation Majnu’ in Ghaziabad. While such a news item gave me sense of joy that these sights might be done away with, I was also a bit offended when I realized that these ‘moral’ policemen were actually infringing on people’s Right to Personal Life and Liberty (Article 21, Part 4 of the Constitution. Some Political Science knowledge). Now, why exactly should they be doing that? Someone said that Public Display of Affection or PDA is an offence punishable by law. Okay. Agreed. But most of these policemen do it in the name of culture. Forget that, they say they're trying to "save innocent girls from boys with evil motives". That's more of my problem. You can shoo them away from public places, okay. But punishing them- unless they don't listen at all- is beyond my understanding. The girl's parents are there to look after her. They cannot make boys do sit-ups or flog them in public in the name of 'moral duty' towards the girl. And why do the 'moral police' get media with it?

More importantly, how come they are concerned about implementing the law here but not where it is required the most? Go on, punish the law makers who make the law to benefit themselves in some way or the other. Or those who are corrupt to the core or those whose rape cases have been pending in court for years now.

There’s only so much that the police needs to do. They should get over ‘Operation Majnu’ and moral policing the people. Moreover, people should themselves have the sense of what they are doing and where. Can’t get a room? Wait. And if you don’t want to wait, then you don’t deserve the other person. But save yourselves the humiliation. Get a room.

Not Just Love, Ambition, Corruption. Sacrifice too.

I liked Revolution 2020. And all those creepy critics/non-critics-just-messing-around, trying to analyze the terrific book – write one yourself and sell at least 500 copies. Then talk about it.

In one word, yes, it was TERRIFIC. It made me cry. Call me an emotional fool but I think if a book can induce highs of senstivity in even one person, that author is awesome. I admit the initial pages bored me a little. They kind of dragged too. But as it progressed, it didn’t fail to stun me (except the corruption part - happens everywhere, doesn’t it?).

The story revolves around three friends Gopal, Aarti and Raghav. It is mostly Gopal in the picture and the story has been written from his point of view. Aarti makes considerable appearences while Raghav – and this even disappointed me – in spite of his being Gopal’s best friend, is known only through Aarti and makes few appearances. The story is indeed about love, corruption and ambition. But one more thing – sacrifice. The power to give up what you wanted the most. Gopal is a twice-failed engineering aspirant and has love yet doesn’t have it because the girl he loves calls it ‘best friendship’, the most dreadful word ever used by a girl. So, this failed student decides to start an engineering college without a degree and with corruption – lots of it. What follows is his ambition to get the girl he loves, money and power – so that he can rise above the tag of ‘loser’ that was automatically attached to him after his best friend Raghav got an IIT rank in the 1100s.

My friend said it was a filmy end. Well, sacrifice, as long as it is not you who’s doing it, sounds filmy. And yeah, it might be taken as very dramatic but it managed to break my heart. Don’t we have enough writers to write about sad endings and sacrifices? I recently read The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns, both by Khaleid Hosseini. I was expecting lighter work from Chetan Bhagat; that’s what the best part is: the climax totally flips you over. One moment you’re smiling for their future and the next, you’re almost devastated.

Each book by Chetan Bhagat has a different story to tell. Even though Five Point Someone remains a favorite, this one hasn't failed to amaze me either. It’s Chetan Bhagat as usual – peppy, cheesy at places and fun. His writing style is casual. He writes as though one would speak. It’s almost the language the young people of today use and I’m sure a lot of us also relate to his use of words a lot. And no, I’m not talking about the swear words here. Stop comparing him to classics and you will get the feel of emotions. To each his own, right?

Read it for fun and read it with your heart.

No Cure, Not Ever

If charity begins at home, then so does everything else- bias, stereotyping.

I am not advocating women rights here. Even though this might turn out be another feminist article but that is not exactly what I mean to put across. Because I feel I’m not qualified to do so.

For the 19 years that I have lived, I have seen my mother follow the same routine like a ritual. From 5 in the morning to 10 in the night, she took care of our food, our sleep, our homework, our studies, us. One might frown and say that hey look, my mother does the same. I agree. All mothers follow more or less the same routine with the same objective of taking care of the family. But what happens when they decide to change their lifestyles and live for themselves?

Picture this: a woman, who has worked for more than a decade, is suddenly forced to leave her job one day, moves to a different city where she has no social life and her only companion is the idiot box. How does her family treat her now? Now that she is not working, she has nothing to do all day. The children come home and pester her as to why doesn’t she make tasty lunch. “Mom, you’re free all day!” The husband comes home to find faults in random things. “What have you been doing all day?!” Well, the tiffins were ready, the water for bathing was warm enough, the lunch was served hot, there were snacks for the evening and dinner would’ve been ready in sometime. So, what was she doing all day? Nothing, yet everything.

Why is it that we can’t tolerate a woman sitting in front of the television, enjoying herself, without worrying about what chore she has to do next? Does she always have to be doing something to show that she does something? If she has a maid cooking for her, everyone will grant her even more free and then if she assigns any work to any other member of the family, there is wave of reaction. “You are not doing anything! Why don’t you do this yourself?” If she’s going to shop for herself, then the family has an objection. “Why herself? She should buy me something first!” If she’s looking for clothes for herself and needs assistance, everyone shakes their heads and moves on but if she does the same, then she’s selfish. In any case, there’s no respite for her because she is a woman. One tiny mistake in taking care of something trivial is a cause for havoc in the house. I have seen this scenario and unfortunately, have been a part of it. All of us, who study, advocate and fight for feminism, who live in 21st Century boasting in social gatherings of how our women have become independent, somewhere or the other are a part of what we are fighting against.

We can have a 2^nd Wave of Feminism and maybe a 20^th Wave many years down the line, what’s deep rooted cannot go out with education, awareness, protests- nothing. It’s hereditary, genetic, and even epidemic. While real diseases maybe cured, this one can never be.

This Door Swings Both Ways

                                                                                                                                                            Cross dresser. When I asked a few people what came to their mind when they hear this word, loud makeup, attention seeker, cheap accessories, fantasy, dual identity, gay were the predominant emotions. In fact, a lot of people believe that cross dressing is a feature of homosexual people in particular. If he’s a cross dresser, he’s gay. So is this all their lives are about? Would no one bother to know what really goes on in their lives? Is that all the recognition they deserve?

 

Source: Google

The answer is no- to all questions. Cross dressers have a life- a great life at times- beyond their clothes. And, as a matter of fact, cross dressers are not gay. They have wives and children like any other normally dressing man. Says Mattie, author of the blog ‘The Girl Inside’ “Less than 10% of cross dressers consider themselves as bisexual or homosexual. The stereotype that cross dressers must be gay, comes from the false assumption that femininity exists to serve masculinity...the vast majority of the time women dress is to look nice for themselves, to feel better about themselves, or to impress each other. Cross dressers are the same; they dress up because it feels nice, not necessarily to attract the attention of men.” We don’t make an effort to know the reality. For many of us, they are a laughing stock while others condemn it as ‘kalyug’ and the rest don’t care.

Cross dressing has been written about and recorded in history. There are instances in Greek, Norse and Hindu mythology while literature, folklore, theatre and music contain a rich history of it. In Hindu Mythology, in Mahabharata, Arjuna crossdressed as Brihannala and became a dance teacher during his term of exile. In Greek Mythology, in punishment for his murder of Iphitus, Heracles/Hercules was given to Omphale as a slave. Many variants of this story say that she not only compelled him to do women's work, but compelled him to dress as a woman whiles her slave.

Cross dressing is not just a male attribute. History has a record of females dressed as fully fledged males. In Norse Mythology, when Hervor (from Hervarar saga) learnt that her father had been the infamous Swedish berserker Angantyr, she dressed as a man, called herself Hjörvard and lived for a long time as a Viking. George Sand is the pseudonym of Amandine-Aurore-Lucile Dupin, an early 19th century French novelist who preferred to wear men's clothing exclusively. In her autobiography, she explains in length the various aspects of how she experienced cross-dressing. Dorothy Lawrence was an English war reporter who disguised herself as a man so she could become a soldier in World War I.

Unfortunately, a female dressing as a male has become more or less a fashion statement with entire fashion ranges modeled on the basic structure of male clothes, while males dressing as females are either entertainers or a topic of mockery. A cross dresser has actually started a blog to ‘out’ himself as a cross dresser. He has a wife and child but they don’t know it yet. He thinks doing so through a blog is going to make his wife trust him. But no, that might not happen because she was lied to. That lying comes from the fear of not being accepted. That is how bad the situation is. And everyone’s shouting and advocating feminism.

Another site, in fact a lot of sites, busts various myths about cross dressing. One is surprised to find that our stereotyped thinking is actually wrong. What surprised me was what all could people think! Cross dressing is not only regarded as a feature of homosexuality, myth says it is also a mental disease which cannot be cured! Things like ‘it is a sin’; ‘if my children come in front of one, they too will become so’ are also on the list. A friend quips, “What opinion on cross dressers? I like gaming, you like BlackBerry, someone likes chocolate, some like sports! It’s a lifestyle choice. In fact, why name them at all? Why call them cross dressers? They are people, like any one of us. We should all just get a life and let them live their own!”

A lot of people believe that cross dressing in males comes from the feeling of being an underachiever and they do it to attract attention to themselves. Mattie says, “Nothing could be further from the truth!” About himself he says, “In my case throughout college I was near the top of my class. I was a DJ on a radio station that covered most of a major metropolitan area, served as president of both my high school and college class – and was in the honors society of my area of study. I’ve since attained a Masters degree in my field and again graduated near the top of my class.”

The society has assigned clothes to a specific gender; clothes haven’t been made like that. No body’s making fun of femininity by dressing up like a woman- except comedians who intend it to be a part of their act. It is a beautiful act, not at the materialistic level but at an emotional level. All that the cross dressers are trying to do is expressing their love for femininity. That doesn’t make them retards or sinners. This attitude leads to severe depression among them which might be dangerous to the people around them or fatal to themselves.

Cross dressing is more than just fashion and loud makeup. If one does it, it is to make one feel good about oneself. Cross dressing is as legal and as much a fundamental right as is right to life and personal liberty. Accept them, include them and let them live like any other person.