Lost in context

Blessed be the forefathers who gave us the English language to communicate with the world’s population. However, it is unfortunate to see how the vocabulary is often not used in its proper context.

Yesterday, a video was doing rounds on social media with a group of women strongly confronting an older Delhi woman who purportedly humiliated them for wearing short dresses. As per the video posted online, the older woman accused the girls of wrongdoing by wearing garments of a certain length, and shamelessly invites the men in the room to rape them for the attire they wore. I understand that the older woman used the word rape knowingly and in all its literal sense, yet it is appalling to see how the word rape has lost its taboo that once overshadowed it, now making it a colloquial verb.

A quick listen to the conversations around us and one would start to notice the number of times the word rape and the like, are being used in all the wrong contexts.

There was a time I overheard a boy gloating to his friends on how he raped his opponent in a certain video game tournament.

A show that I watched recently on Netflix, aired an episode about a phone conversation between a boss and his lady employee, wherein the boss asserts that he would shamelessly rape her in her heals if she fails to meet the deadline.

It has only been a few years since an Indian celebrity used the word rape to describe his gruelling work schedule.

Come to think about it, the language used in Game of Thrones, a much celebrated series done with a backdrop of incest, rape and murder, is seen normal in our society.

But then again the words f**k, b*******d, and of course m********r have become so common that we use them as often as it rhymes or fits at the beginning or ending of a sentence.

With much inputs from Urban dictionary, it has become more easier for the world to find words that would seem cooler and an acceptable cuss word which is almost always used out of its context.

As time progresses, when more and better applications are being programmed by great minds, when grammarly and autocorrect, edits what we type on our laptop or phone, it is unfortunate to see how the human mouth still spews unrefined words to describe an emotion. It is discomforting to know how the mind ceases to act wisely and filter the words on our lips. It is sad to understand that our vocabulary needs a thorough cleansing.

A verse in the Bible reads, ‘The mouth of the righteous utter wisdom, and their tongues speak justice,’ however in spite of being the most advanced species on the planet, we still  prefer not to process what comes out of our mouths. Perhaps it would only mean that as humans, we have a penchant for sinfulness than righteousness.

 

 

When she conned me..

It was yet another beautiful day here in Seattle. The sun, bright and sunny, although winter is around the corner, there is a chill in the air that makes anyone clench to one’s comfort jackets before stepping out.

Yesterday morning, while I was contemplating on making a cup of warm soup, and in between charging my phone before tottering into the kitchen, I received the call.

The phone displayed ‘DHS’ (Department of Homeland Security) on the screen and I didn’t want my soup to keep me from the call made from a federal office.

Previously, there were times in my life I vowed not to answer certain calls only because I knew it would maintain peace in my life, but almost always failed because I hate making people wait. But perhaps, I should listen to myself more often.

This call from the supposedly federal officer from the DHS was four hours and a few minutes long. That’s longer than I’ve spent on the phone talking with my husband.

As I think about this eventful incident, I feel rather exposed to a certain level of a surety I had on my own sense of judgment for situations. Perhaps, these can be seen as moments for a wakeup call; lessons taught the hard way.

Nevertheless, it is true, the talent for deception can be a powerful tool.

As I recall vividly, the person at the other end of the call made strong opening lines of being a federal officer from the DHS, and for some unknown reason, I was being spoken to as if I am an illegal immigrant.

The words, harsh undertone to each statement, and the assertion were very similar to the kind I had listened to earlier this year; when I had attended my interview for the U.S. visa.

As soon as the lady said I had violated a federal offense while being on U.S soil, there was an unknown urge from inside of me that made me immediately open the laptop and verify the contact number on my phone with the one on the DHS website.

Oh boy, they were good, because the con artists had spoofed the contact number of a federal office and hacked the system of the Department of Homeland Security to use their operator number. (Man, if they are caught, they are in big trouble.)

However, at that very moment, I was convinced that I was on a call with the DHS. My judgment was wrong for the next four hours because I had made up my mind to be obliged to be on call for an interrogation with a bunch of con artists. I’m sure they had a huge laugh when I apologized to the lady for having a terrible reception at my locality. But in my defense, I was on a call with a federal officer, and my mind was being merely respectful.

Apart from the contact number on my phone, I was also taken aback by the information they were verifying with me. It is one thing when spammers like fake insurance companies and telebankers request details such as the social security number and date of birth. Well, those living in the U.S. might not know much about the country’s law, but they do a decent job keeping their personal information, personal.

However, when you have a person on the other end, spelling out even the smallest piece of information such as the alien registration number, (which only my lawyer, my husband, and the U.S. immigration office know about), the date of birth, personal address, along with the questions and replies I gave at the interview back in India, things get real.

I had more reasons to believe it was the DHS calling out a human error I might have made while filing the papers.

The process of conning began with a caveat; including demanding I maintain absolute discretion. I was asked not to discuss anything with my in-laws or my husband. They claimed that I was not on a dependent visa and that it was my own responsibility to make things right by answering the questions correctly.

From there on the line of questioning was rather consistent and inching towards a criminal offense from my end, with claims that I made attempts to bluff my way into the U.S., while on the contrary Albert and I, had made sure we followed the rules laid down by the United States of America to the last dot.

However, I also considered the possibility of making a human error in the process for which I repeatedly apologized dearly. (Well, must have been another hearty laugh.)

Yes, they harassed me and bullied me. The conn artists made my wonderful future on U.S. soil seem bleak and hopeless, which comes to my third lesson. In life, I had always thought loneliness is the worst thing that can happen to someone. But I stand corrected, it is helplessness.

The multiple ways of being interrogated for making a mistake with U.S. law and with immigrants and immigration laws still a threatening reality in this country, I had no choice but to get the problem rectified by myself.

The gang, repeatedly quoted the DS-230, the application, that I had filed with the U.S. government, and usage of technical terms from them, only made my fears worse.

Two hours into the phone conversation, the lady on the phone, asked me to drive down to the nearest USCIS office (U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services) at Tukwila in Seattle.

Meanwhile, I had informed my husband bits and pieces of the conversation, via What’s App web, in spite of getting multiple warnings of breaking the protocol. Honestly, I was under the gun with two options in front of me, either get the papers sorted or go to prison and be deported. (Yup, I believed them because she was reading out from the ‘terms and conditions’ that I had signed back in India. It has my signature on it. Lol, they were good.)

On the other side of the story, it was only a few days back I had received my U.S. drivers license yet never gone on a solo drive. However, sometimes in life, the prayers we say for our own protection, simply start to act at the right time.

With a rosary in my right hand, passport and drivers license in my left, and my lips tightly shut, I stepped out of my bedroom and stomped my way down in search of my car keys.

A question might pop in the reader’s mind as to why I was being obedient to the lady on the phone, and why I didn’t break the rules, a skill I have mastered over the years. Well, I couldn’t break the rules because she was on the phone with me without hanging up. When the call dropped, they’d call back immediately asking for reasons for dropping the call. They were listening to my every move and conversation. Again, I assert, helplessness is the worst thing that can happen to someone.

As soon as I got into the car, she had asked me to navigate to the USCIS office in Seattle. With Google maps directing me to Tukwila, I was ready for a good, long and nervous road trip.

But then something happened; a mistake from their end that made all their efforts futile. The mistake that I would refer to as ‘God’s invisible hand.’

On the way, the lady asked me if I have a safety voucher with me; a sort of bail bond for $500. I didn’t have one, didn’t know about one nor where to get one; her last move that went wrong, bringing their house of cards toppling down.

The lady asked me to drive down to the nearest Safeway(a grocery store) and buy a ‘Google Play’ gift card for the same amount.

Having dealt with myriad applications, and written cheques for the visa applications, it only required less than common sense to figure out ‘Google Play’ was meant for entertainment and not immigration purposes.

By then, I had changed my soft-spoken tone, and demanded answers from her; however, all this while I was in the middle of a parking lot of the grocery store.

By then, I had pinged my husband telling him about the Google Play card, in between forcing answers out of the ‘federal officer.’ She had by then spent a lot of time and energy to execute the con and was at the last move when I started questioning her about the need to use an entertainment card for federal purposes.

And truth be told, she didn’t give up. Her last threat was to have me send to prison for violating a federal offense and recording me under ‘provision 20’ of the U.S. government. By then Albert had pinged me several times, attempting to reach out to me, to convince me that I am being conned. But what can I say, I am an obedient child and respect this land and its rules.

As I sit down today to key a figment of the mental exhaustion and agony I had gone through, I must say, the strength from within to decide to go to prison instead of making a payment for $500 was perhaps not the boldest decision, but at that moment, I was really tired of an open fight.

By then I was ready for some lone prison time as well. I confirmed and told the lady I wasn’t making any payment and I prefer prison. She hung up with the last threat saying cops were on the way and would pick me up from where I was.

The only person who picked me up was my husband who by then took an emergency day-off from work and reached where I was. My eyes had welled up with tears, I could barely see him. But I remember running into his arms and crying my heart out.

Perhaps, this was not a testimony of how cruel people can be. But only a record on how situations can break people miserably for the first few moments and then put them together to make one solid human.

Soon afterward, Albert and I made consequent calls to the same number, which was directed to the real DHS office in Washington DC. Apparently, they had received several complaints on the same lines, confirmed that their system was hacked and that the investigation was underway.

After I had discussed the incident with my family, they reiterated that it is unfortunate for the real federal officials who work hard to uphold the value of this nation. But honestly, I wouldn’t use the word unfortunate. Perhaps, my gold fish dying is unfortunate. This, however, is downright wrong and unfair to them.

I don’t think this was a life lesson for me, but truth be told, I wouldn’t forget this incident even if I wanted to.

How a blossomed bosom still grabs attention in all the wrong ways

(Courtesy: Grihalakshmi)

The cover page of the magazine Grihalakshmi has invited waves of comments on social media. Clearly, the intention or the unintention, if any, behind the campaign, ‘Accept breastfeeding in public- Do not stare at my bosom,’ has worked.

While going through a couple of such posts, I came across men and women, suggesting that this cover picture is a circulation gimmick. A few have mentioned that the model on the cover page, doesn’t have the emotion of a mother and that she is looking straight at the camera with a salacious expression. Indeed these are observations.

I have a few observations that I’d like to share as well mainly because you have shared your train of thoughts on how a woman on the magazine cover, sitting with a baby, a partially exposed bosom, posing as a mother breastfeeding the child, is, in turn, marring the act in itself.

True! All of the above are indeeed observations.

However, have you ever “observed” the feeding cubicles at a hospital premise, and also at water-theme parks? I bet you have. But have you also seen the lactation rooms at a hotel, a theatre, a public park, or the nursing stations at an auditorium meant for ceremonies or functions or any other public space in the city or at least the state where a mother can feed her baby without being self-conscious? You haven’t? That’s right. Because there aren’t any.

Here are a few of my observations.

I have observed a mother hiding behind a wooden door at a bus station, feeding her baby, because there was nowhere else to go. She had to stand for 20 to 30 minutes, holding the five-plus kilogram weighing baby; her both hands trembling from the weight. Tired and weak from the labour, the sleepless nights, now aching arms from holding the child, legs weary from standing for the stretch of time, what perhaps would have felt like hours for her. I saw, for once, that when the mother walked back with the now sleeping baby, she had no place to sit while awaiting her bus. And there she continued to stand with the child in her arms on the crowded platform.

I have observed a mother who was feeding her baby inside a washroom. She was leaning on the basin. I am sure, she did not want to feel self-conscious by sitting on one of the chairs in the waiting room (And no, I do not know why she prefered to sit in the common room and not the ladies waiting room at the railway station.)But I don’t think you can fathom the image of a baby having his meal in a stinking washroom. When was the last time any of us had our meal in the bathroom?

Have you observed mothers feeding their babies after covering one side of their body with a thick duppatta or stawl? I am sure you have. Except, minutes later, the heat and excess warmth from the stawl makes the baby more cranky and disturbes both the baby and the mother. There we can see a hungry child, and a helpless mother.

Even the most previledged mothers who attend ceremonies and functions, with new-born kids in their arms, are a good case for observation. Except, they are away at the parking lot, inside their car, with the air conditioning on full blast, making sure that she keeps the baby happy, only hours later when she gets back, everyone would have finished their meal and now she will have to sit alone and have her meal like a beggar.

The unfortunate aspect of this recurring scenario is that these mothers are feeding their babies; a deed and an act seen with absolute divinity. But for some reason, our society appreciates it more when done in secrecy. Everybody wants women to do the job of a mother to the best of her ability, however, expected to be done with invisibility; a job that comes with terms and conditions in fine print.

An inquisitive mind might ask as to why one would have an emotional outburst to a few opinions on social media. Warriors on this platform might also want to indulge in a keyboard war here with me. However, as earlier stated, this post is to merely state a few observations.

Let us remain to be those men and women who appreciated that one Australian lady MP who breastfed her baby in the parliament chambers and not be the Joey who says “I know that it is the most natural and beautiful thing in the world and there is a baby sucking on it.”

I rest my case.

Show Some Chutzpah!

(This story short was listed along with five other stories from across the nation as a part of  a Short Story Contest.)

http://www.caleidoscope.in/nostalgiphilia/short-story-contest-show-some-chutzpah)

I walk away quietly, holding back my tears. I am hurt. My eyes have welled up, my vision is blurry. Even when I hear it now, having heard it many times, it hurts deep inside. Only if I had a son and not a daughter, these words keep ringing in my ears.

Everyone calls me Ria. My digital signature is ‘Ria-lity’ because the reality is that my papa always wanted a son and not a daughter.

April 14, 2003.

It was the days of the state level competitions being held at Ernakulam. I was among the top three finalists for the extempore event. Every single thought of going up to the stage gave me jitters, my knees felt weak, and I had a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Two hours and fifty-two minutes felt like decades. It could have been a concern about disappointment if I did not win, or it could have been a worry of what my papa would feel if I did not go back home with the medal.

I hurriedly walked closer to the stage before my allotted number was even announced. I stood in front of the eager judges and the anxious crowd, my heart beating to the rhythm of the drums at the adjacent competition. I kept a convincingly confident look on my face while breathing deeply to calm my nerves. ‘Equality for women in our society,’ was the topic of my speech. I began with a rather bold introduction. More than the time, the next 3 minutes were about my frozen palms, the sweat on my upper lip and forehead, and my lungs gasping for air. At the end of my speech, I exhaled as a rather static emotion. The applause and cheers that followed were but mere noise to my ears.

My head was hanging low and my eyes gazing at the dry sand and cracked earth. I stared one last time, at the other girl who had won the extempore competition. There was only one thing left for me to do, call papa. Continually fidgeting, I reached into my bag for my phone. I could barely see the alphabets because of my teary eyes. The phone rang, although secretly I hoped that the line would not go through. I tried to mumble because I did not even want him to hear the disappointing result. There was a long pause and then a deep sigh like papa had been holding his breath for too long.

“Now, come back home,” he said.

“If only I had a son,” though feeble, I heard him spill it out as he kept the receiver down.

September 20, 2007.

Uncle Jacob and Aunt Kiran had come home to invite our family to their son’s wedding. I stepped into the living room in my casuals. Papa gave me the look, although by now, I had learned to ignore his accusing stares.

“So tell me Ria, what are your plans after finishing your 12th grade,” inquired Jacob uncle.

“I am going to be a journalist,” was my quick answer.

Their wide-eyed looks made it obvious that they found my ambition quite impressive. Yet, I am sure Jacob uncle noticed the awkward silence and papa’s cold expression after I revealed my plan.

“I am sure Papa is very proud of you Ria. You are after all his only heir,” Jacob uncle said in an attempt to break the silence.

“Oh, I am not his heir, uncle. I am his spare,” I quipped and immediately walked back to my room.

After Jacob uncle and his family left, I could hear papa from the other room. He said he would give anything to get a son like Jacob uncle’s boy.

July 27, 2013.

After exhaustive training and exams, I passed out with flying colours in Journalism from a reputed college. My family and even Jacob uncle’s family had come for the passing-out ceremony of my batch. I walked up to Papa and the others expecting loads of wishes and praises. Yet, the only words I heard were from papa.

“She is never going to make it as a war reporter. Now, that is a man’s job,” he added.

I walked away quietly because no more can personal feelings hurt me. I scuffled to the washroom and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes, though of a 23-year-old girl, seemed to have the experience, pain and grief of an old woman.

While stomping back I overheard Jacob uncle.

“She looks all grown-up,” he said while pointing at me.

“That’s because I know the inevitable is coming,” I retorted with a bold and pleasant smile and walked back to the group with my head held high.

 

Dear Caregiver

Today afternoon I got an interesting phone call from a caregiver who found the pleasure of creating jokes on those who ran the Spice Coast Marathon held in Kochi, yesterday.

This person had some very interesting theories about how runners from his friends list consistently posted pictures of the miles they cover on a daily basis and how his newsfeed is spammed with such pictures. He wrongly concluded and said that all those who post pictures of their work-out routines are doing so for either attention, or they are depressed or lonely. Also, those who pay to go to someplace, register for a race and just run on the roads for 42 kilometres, are mad.

The phone conversation ended with a couple of questions that he posed. “Why do people run so much? Aren’t ‘girls like you’ doing so to show how good your legs are by wearing long tights or shorts?”

Dear Caregiver,

I’m not hoping that this post would be a moment of revelation nor would be an epiphany for you. I am also not posting this on my wall for the number of likes, shares and comments, and no, unlike you, I do not go back and count the number of hearts and thumbs I have got, nor do I check the names of those who did so for my post. I am writing this just to make a few points clear to all those like-minded people like you who do not have a clear picture as to why girls like me, run.

PS: I will be refraining from opinionating on your first question as to why people run so much because I don’t know. I am not other people. But I am that other ‘girl like me’ who runs. Hence my opinion.

Firstly, we live in the most interconnected world, yet life has never become lonelier. The time away from the Internet is now a new luxury. We ‘like’ posts on FB and double-tap pictures on Instagram to maintain our relationships. Damned, we are if we miss a post or wrath will be unleashed on us being labelled as the other jealous friend on social media. We zoom-in on pictures to see how photoshopped they are or how lives of other people look like, through the window in our hands that we have the most loyal relationship with. We connect with people through WhatsApp groups, judge people based on their profile pictures and the content they choose to share on their FB feed. Our lives have been formed and stooped down to a new low that a phone call from someone is a daunted call for a favour. We have tuned our antennas to the frequency of our phones vibrating or ringing in the tallest room in the highest tower. Had Darwin been alive, he would have used human beings and the ways our senses have adapted to technology instead of finches and their beaks.

Girls like me, run because we like to meet people from different walks of life, who come together for one common interest, running. We go to pre-run expos to meet people because they inspire us. Girls like me, never care about the timings of some elite or ultra runner. We only admire the dedication and hard work these runners have to put in to achieve their goals. We meet people who are Boston Marathon runners, to those who have become an Iron Man. Their posts on social media inspire us not because of the medals they have received but because of the discipline they follow to achieve it.

Girls like me, run because we also get to embrace and come across those runners (or slow runner girls as you termed them as) who take more time to finish. They might take 7 or more hours to reach the 42Km finish line, my friend, but they inspire us with the hours they spend and endurance they show to beat the hot sun right above their heads, with no food in their stomach and legs that probably would have used cuss words, had those limbs been given the ability to talk.

Hence, my dear friend, ‘girls like me’ who run whatever distance we run, in whatever time we run, in whichever city, do so because we like to meet such inspiring men and lady runners, those exuberant elite-runners and extremely enduring slow-runners, humbling aged runners and eye-opening differently-abled runners.

Girls like me run because one can only meet such people when we keep our phones away for just those few hours and lift our heads up from the screen that is at the tip of our nose.

To you my friend who also said, ‘girls like you’ who run only to look leaner, cannot be an ultra runner or an Ironwoman; I just have one thing to say, just try and keep up.

#GoLong

Today, four years back, I ran my first 5K. From there on, there was no looking back. The miles I covered, the shops and houses I ran past almost every day, the streets and roads that became mere tracks for my run, all of it made me conquer my strong head, the grace of my body, my stubborn heart and my deep conscience soul.

Recently, I’ve been receiving personal messages on Facebook from younger girls and older women who have been seeking suggestions about running, ways of losing weight and being fitter. Although, I do tell them at first that they are barking up the wrong tree and that on a mass poll I am still not considered the fittest runner. I also confessed to them that I have not been able to carve out my washboard ab yet nor have I run an ultra. In fact, I made it a point to suggest a few good ultra lady runners, who could give them much more insight into running.

However, the honest fact was these girls and women who reached out to me wanted to know how I run alone without feeling embarrassed or being self-conscious. They reached out to me to know more on long distance running, yet they did not care about finishing a full marathon nor do they want to be part of a running group. All they preferred were suggestions on how to run without the feeling of being judged, the kind of workout dress to be worn without grabbing much attention and most importantly running without being body shamed.

It’s true; they feared being body shamed while running on the roads and mostly being tormented by their peers. They fear, as to what people would say if they did not lose weight rapidly. They were apprehensive about not looking leaner with every run. They wanted me to help them conquer this fear for the effort they were putting in.

To all those who know me and those whom I know as fitness freaks, to those who run, bike, swim, and the few haters I’ll be making today with this post, I couldn’t care less, but I’m speaking for these women today.

For her at my gym who told me she does not like to workout because she is unable to hold a plank for more than 30 secs or for taking longer time to complete the floor exercise or for not getting faster results on the scale; For her who told me that she prefers to run around the compound of her house because stepping out of the gate would make her look like a girl who isn’t aware of how obese she looks; For her who told me that every time she meets up with her friends, they make a comment about how she hasn’t lost weight and looks FAT, in spite of dieting and literally starving.

To all these women who reached out to me, and to anyone who is dying a slow death when you deserve to be living it, lend me your ears:

Remember, as soon as you accept and expect such body shaming from whomever you meet, you are one step closer to getting fitter. To the girl who asked me how I do what I do, two words to you, perseverance and consistency.

Accept that when you run wearing a large size tee-shirt, you will have to listen to words that cut through to your bone. Body shaming is a part and parcel in your fitness journey to be the size and shape you want to be.

When they shame you, rise above them and run long, when they insult you, rise above them and bike faster, when they mock you, rise above them and swim further, when they use words to judge the way you are, rise above them and pick up those dumb bells and give yourself a 300. When they still haunt you, you keep running, biking, and swimming, further, until their words start to fade away. You go long until they are far behind you, that they seem like a speck from where you are standing. Keep running and run further away from the clout, keep biking and bike further away from the harsh words, keep swimming and swim further away from the comments and opinions that you never asked from them in the first place. Do it for yourself.

And all you supposedly fit people or those who think they are so, just stop talking and close your mouth. Let girls and women, run, jump, swim, fly, eat, put on weight, lose weight, work out, or laze around and do whatever they want to do. People come in different shapes and sizes and they are all beautiful. All those ‘fit’ people or who are body analysers and have an opinion about every person and their shape, just take a hike, will ‘ya.

And hey girls, be the person to whom they say, because of you and seeing you, I never gave up. Cheers. Happy Running. #Golong.

Within her !!

“Sometimes you are like a nine-year-old girl on a sugar rush who is absolutely incapable of controlling herself. But then you change to this guarded mysterious independent woman. Which is the fake and which one is the real?” he asked gazing deep into her eyes. “Whom should I trust, the girl or the woman,” he quipped.

She smiled at him. There was a gleam of hope in her smile, almost like, throbbing to tell him how much he means to her.

“Whom do you like,” she eagerly asked. “The silly girl,” he retorted without giving it a second thought.

“The little girl it is,” she said with a cute yet peevish smile.

He exhaled, like he had been holding the breath for too long, gets up and walks to the coffee counter.

“You have no idea what you are missing out,” she thought quickly glancing at him when he brought her a cup of hot cocoa.

Friends of Kochi

I have always been busy trying to participate… So if this means to write the last post while in Kochi, I just want you to know that I was a small girl when I started off as a reporter for a national newspaper and you have helped me, dear ‘friends of Kochi’. Even if you didn’t know what I was talking about or even if I roared loudly on my FB page or whined incessantly for heads to turn, you made me not feel alone. I know that people who say ‘we will have your back’, or ‘we were right next to you all along’ don’t happen instantaneously. There are people who might forget what it was to begin running when they finish their nth full marathon, I know there might be people who will forget what it was like to drink a cup of hot chocolate while reading a book when they are worrying about their kids tuition fees, I know there might be people who would forget what it was like to go on long drives or enjoy Tamil movies (while jabbering away in Tamil) when they are worrying about their month-end appraisals.. I know that this will all be stories one day and our pictures will be old photographs, I know we all will be someone’s mom and dad … But right now this is not the past but these are those moments that made my days in this city worth living and loving.

And of the several days of mental execution in the past few weeks, though I sat through hours with nothing but a handful of hope, though I was shadowed by masks of holiness, fair-minded, yet false hearted, though I was entertained by the stubborn and those who judged without a reason, though I went through perilous times, fore-told, abandoned by closed disguised justly accounted as Chiefs, which caused and brought wrath upon some great minds and legends who were shamed and insulated, I can’t thank enough my ‘friends of kochi’ who gave me so many good memories that one day when I write a few pages I will be able to add these words ‘Those were the days’ and mean it.

I have seen it all; moments when you know that you are not just some story. My dear ‘friends of Kochi’, you are such a story that everybody must live .. If not your life would never be infinite like mine ..

I’m leaving because there are more rivers to cross, more mountains to climb and more mother Teresas to meet.

Thank you, Kochi. It’s been a pleasure working with you.

Take care and good luck.

Tale as old as time..

Books and movies had and still influence us in the most fictitious ways possible.

Isn’t it amazing? Every page you turn, or scene you watch, there is something sweet and loving and magical. The parts or pages wherein a knight rides all day and all night to meet his lady-love stuck in the highest room in the tallest tower, or how a lovingly innocent girl meets her prince charming whilst taking a stroll in an enchanted forest. Every moment, there is always something that there wasn’t there before.

A fun fact is, apparently, fairy tales that we all read while growing up, were influenced from true stories and real life incidents. Couldn’t it mean that Alice did, in fact, find a wonderland or a girl did come back to life with true love’s kiss, or a simple village book-worm did after all fall in love with a beast?

Either way, these books have always beautifully corrupted our minds and pleasurably scarred our childhood with ideas that, there is a prince charming in every beast and there is always a wonderland worth travelling, or the lost glass-shoes would be, in the end, be the right fit.

I for one, most funnily prefer to live in this delusional and fictitious world even if it means to go back to my real self when the clock strikes 12o clock. 🙂

Wind in our hair and sand on our feet

It is great when women are voicing out their opinion about equality and rights on March 8. Respect for that. But I personally have huge reverence for women from our previous generations and today ought to be a day to remember all that they did.

I’m not talking about Marie Curie or Rani of Jhansi. But all those women who aced exams without Google, who fell in love without Whats App, who cooked food without YouTube tutorials, who shopped without a computer screen, who had to commute on crowded trains and buses, who walked miles from home to go to school, who cried and begged to be allowed to go to college, growing up wise and beautiful without whining and brooding about a broken heart or playing the role of a damsel in distress, who taught us how to live safely without travelling around the world, who did not become size zero six-months after a delivery, who did not want validation about their responsibilities or happiness based on likes on Fb or double taps on Instagram.

May be I am over-reacting, may be this is an emotional outburst because I miss mom, may be I am born in the wrong era or I am an old soul already.

Either way, respect for all those women who took the high road not because you were born with nerves of steel or souls of platinum but because you knew and realised being strong was your only option left.

(Image for representational purpose only. :P)