Here, now.

17 May

Just when I felt like things were finally moving, I find myself tired from not doing much, still wilting in the heat and wondering what magic potion I can take to get me going again. Even though I’m plodding along, trying hard to stick with my plan and ticking of little steps along the way, I long for someone to take over and just direct me, so I can do as I’m told.

As much as I like my time alone and the space and liberty it gives me to plan and work around things the way I want to, I have realised this works best when I am doing self-motivated, personal projects. When it comes to doing something that I need to put out there, I am horribly un-self-managed. I am and always have been a soldier, rather than a leader. So recently, I’ve wished that I belonged to a team of worker ants. Or even just having that one other work partner, who is as enthusiastic as me. I would probably get things done much faster, without feeling the energy flailing.

I do well when directed. And going on this way sometimes makes me feel a bit frustrated. Especially when the going is slow, which it is, because so much depends on me and my energy to get things done. Which would be great if I had nothing else to do but power through my life like it were a list of to-dos. But on the flip side of the to-dos, is life. And all the things I like to pack into it.

You see this stay-at-home-and-wear-many-different-hats business is (believe it or not!) sometimes tiring. When you’re one person trying to juggle keeping a home, cooking two healthy meals a day, handling three different projects at any given point of time (the third one being a personal project that seems to always get shoved on to the back burner), also trying to squeeze in time to work out, read, spend time with the husband, meet friends and like that wasn’t enough go and resurrect your facebook page (still unsure about this move, more on that soon) too, things tend to, er how shall I put it — stretch a bit.

It has a lot to do with my innate need to do many things all at once. I recently found myself explaining to some friends, that even though I am at home all day, for many days, and while I do revel in the occasional day where I allow myself the luxury of doing nothing at all, I am mostly packed to the brim with activity. Rarely does a moment go by empty, bored, uninterested. My head is bursting with ideas for things to go myself, for the home, the kitchen, the blog, I can barely keep up. My to-do lists (yes, there are multiple ones in multiple locations) are running on faster than I can keep up with them. Between meeting my work deadlines, making time manage both blogs over-enthusiastically, cooking, planning more cooking, having people over, socialising, trying to keep the reading and writing going, and I feel exhausted.

So this is the worker ant me, trying to do it all. Some times failing, reminding myself, sometimes unsuccessfully, that I have to prioritise and settle for what I can get. That I have to make my peace with fewer, small victories. Especially because earlier this year I consciously decided to pare down my life, down to the things I most wanted to do. Somewhere I have let my ambitious dreams take over.

It’s time to spring clean my head a bit, realign priorities, not get sucked into internet-hyped marketing crap, and remind myself that this sabbatical has and always should be about simplicity. About staying true and letting things happen in their own time. About staying active, but not letting the pace of things tire me out. About staying honest to my intentions and letting the rest happen if it must. About doing one thing at a time, but doing it well.

So its good that yesterdays mindles internet meandering lead me to another very epiphanic discovery. Allow me to share with you, exhibit A:

here-now

I am usually torn between feeling stupid for having such unimaginatively simple, cheesy, Pinteresyt-packaged words get me to sit up and take notice; and feeling obviously stirred up and grateful that the jolt, simple as it may be, came at the right time.

Now is as good a time as any to be reminded that I need to do what I can do best, with what I have. While hopes and plans and dreams are good, I need to re-hash what I have on hand so I can do it well, treading one careful step at a time, rather than taking over-ambitious strides that actually lead me nowhere. This is where I need to focus on. Because there’s really no better way to enjoy the here and the now, than to be in the here and the now.

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Coke gets me high

14 May

No powdery white contraband substances for me. No vile, dark liquids passed off as cola either. The only kind of Coke that gets me really high is Coke Studio. The Pakistani variety, to be really specific.

This post has been a long time coming, ever since I promised here that I list my top 5 reccos from the beauty that is Coke Studio Pakistan. I dilly-dallied over it for the longest time because I couldn’t commit to just 5 tracks. I had a horrible time choosing from my favourites. Every time I made a list, I felt like I was letting the excluded tracks down. I even consulted with friends, fellow Coke Studio junkies, and everyone agreed — top 5 was just not enough. I would be doing the show and the musicians an injustice, given the hundreds of hours of intoxication, entertainment and emotion I have enjoyed thanks to the show.

If you’ve been reading this blog for long enough you might think I’m being a stuck record with the Coke Studio Pakistan love, when I lay it thick as I usually do. My love for the Pakistani original increased many times over when the lame Indian imitation hit MTV. I was overcome with a feeling of anger and frustration that a so called music channel can pander to the incestuous, you-scratch-your-back-I’ll-scratch-yours melting pot of mediocre music that forms the majority of the Indi-pop and Bollywood scene these days. Leslie Lewis doesn’t know his elbow from his arse, when it comes to composing and producing a show like this, and I felt outraged at the sham that he put up, two seasons in a row. I felt like it went against the philosophy that is at the heart of a show like this one.

I can’t think of a single day that has gone by without listening to at least one Coke Studio Pakistan track. I have gone through highs, and seriously obsessive phases of listening to a single or a couple of tracks on loop, all day, for days on end. And even in the lows, when my interest shifts, I still play a track or two every now and then. But the love came rushing back this past weekend when we plugged in out iPods at the shack in Arambol, and I realised that both Shashank and I had playlists that were almost 70-80% Coke Studio led. That is some serious love, I think. And now I feel compelled to share the love.

Because it was impossible to drill down this list to just 5 tracks, I have cheated a bit and plugged in a few extra tracks. I’m sure you won’t mind.

1) Chori Chori – Meesha Shafi, Season 3

This was the track that introduced me to Coke Studio, in 2007 and I remember being completely bowled over Meesha Shafi. For her voice, her poise, her confidence and for pulling off that illegally gorgeous shade of red lipstick. This is one of the songs I listen to only on youtube, because the video adds to the intoxication. I have harboured a serious crush on her ever since, sometimes listening to her tracks into the night, dreaming about her and discussing the nitti-gritties of the Meesha Phenomenon with the boys.

If you find her as lusciously beautiful, check out Alif Allah and Dasht-e-tanhai also featuring her. Strong contenders that almost made the list too.

2) Chal Diyay – Zeb & Haniya and Javed Bashir, Season 3

Sometimes music inspires instant love and this track did that for me. Javed Bashir’s grainy, raw unbridled vocals perfectly complemented by Zeb’s supple, sweet voice make this track so laden with emotion. It gives me goosebumps. Every. Single. Time.

I was charmed by Zeb and Haniya for the longest time after I first heard them and was introduced to how upbeat and rock-y Persian music could be, with so little effort. Bibi Sanam and Nazar Eyle are some of my other Zeb and Haniya favourites.

3) Rang Laaga – Sajjad Ali and Sanam Marvi, Season 4

Coke Studio hits are definitely women-heavy, with the sheer variety and spectrum in female voices rocking the series. Sanam Marvi and Sajjad Ali are another duo that work like a charm. There is a certain inexplicable beauty that comes through when a duo fall in sync so perfectly and completely, this is one track that really brings that to life for me. I wish more Indian female singers in the commercial realm would aim for a voice with such body. I’m so sick fo the Shreya Ghoshals and the Sunidhi Chauhans of the world. Its time to bring some bass back to our music.

I have always applauded Rohail Hyatt’s sense of balance. In using the right blends for the most appropriate tracks. Rockifying only those tracks that lend themselves to heavy instrumentation, knowing when to cut back and keep things simple, letting the words shine through in lyric-led tracks, using the brightest and best voices for those tracks that need range and emotion. Rang Laaga has the right blend of rock influences, getting heavier as the song ends, yet without leaving you wanting to shut the music off. Neray Aah and Saari Raat are two of my other favourites from this category.

4) Seher – Farhan Rais Khan, Season 5

I was tempted to exclude this one from the list because I have already posted it as one of my favourites. Cheeky way to free up a spot for another track I’m dying to squeeze in. But this list would be sorely incomplete. So here is Seher again, bringing you the Sitar like you have probably never heard it before.

Season 5 was the best season by far, with every episode having at least 2 tracks worth remembering and turning into earworms. It was also the season with some really intense/heavy (lyrics-wise and music-wise) tracks, like Rung and Wah Wah Jhulara.

5) Aik Alif – Noori and Saieen Zahoor, Season 2

I have always been a sucker for rustic, unrestrained throw that folks singers are blessed with. The way that they effortlessly toss their voices around, hitting every note perfectly and making it look like child’s play, gets me every time. Saeen Zahoor is one such voice. He performed in Goa in 2011 and I still kick myself for not finding a way to crash the gig. Noori has a vocalist who manages to do the same, but with some degree of rock-refinement. Listen to the track and you’ll know what I mean. He has a polished, yet effortless throw and knows how to use it well.

In my next life, I want to marry a singer. Because when men sing like this, its very easy to fall in love. Aaj Latha Naeeo and Hor Ve Neevan further reinforce this thought for me.

I wish there was a way to get you to listen to each one of these tracks, without tiring. But I’ll just have to settle with hoping that I can pass on the love. I am lucky to have a bunch of friends who share my obsession. From the time I was introduced to Coke Studio in 2007, to date, I have been fortunate to meet friends who are equally or more obsessed too. Long distance exchange of files, sharing, obsessing, discussing these tracks to death, to screening the videos late into rainy monsoon nights, I think we have more than done this show justice and I cannot wait for the next season to hit us.

As I patiently, I go back to listening to these favourites on loop. As the seasons progressed, Coke Studio only kept raising the bar and beating their own benchmarks. Season 5 was the peak, for me. Even though some of my most loved tracks are from seasons 2, 3 and 4, season 5 was consistently stupendous. And for that reason alone, I think the Pakistani original knocked the pants off the Indian imitation. Evidently, I am not the only one who thinks so.

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Sea-ing is believing

13 May

You know you are just a step short of turning irreversibly Goan when you get that annual itch to re-embrace the joys of living in a place the whole world comes to holiday in. When you spend the whole season avoiding the hardcore tourist-y areas because you can’t stand the onslaught of outsiders. And then just when it is all about to close, you feel that unbearable urge to have a little taste of what you now consider your own. So you brave the heat, the humidity, the possibility of getting a sunstroke, and make that annual before-the-season-ends trip to the beach.

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When you live in Goa, things like the beach, cheap booze, nightclubs and parties, sunbeds and massages become passe. Normal life takes over, and you forget that all these holiday pleasures exist just a stone’s throw from anywhere you might be in Goa. And like everyone else here, we mostly take these luxuries for granted. People think living in Goa means that we exist in a permanent bubble of inebriation and when the weekend rolls along, we obviously find ourselves collapsed in a drunken stupor, on some beach or the other.

The truth however, is far from it. When you live in Goa, holidaying by the beach takes effort. It takes planning, it takes scouting out untouched beaches, it takes hoping and praying that the secluded spot you once discovered still remains beyond the ever-increasing reach of the growing multitudes of tourists. And most often, it takes a whole lot of motivation to break out of normal life and get going.

But invariably, trips like that end up like no other. Despite the best efforts to plan bring people together, pick a place and head out at a mutually agreeable time, we found ourselves heading out over an hour later than we had planned, short of one man in the army, with no destination in mind.

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All we knew is that we wanted to get away for a day and a night, relax by the sea and have a good time. There is usually no better time to do this than in the wonderful twilight zone between the thick of season and the start of the torrential rains. It is in that in limbo zone that there is a lull in the air, the shacks are half torn apart, the beaches desolate and you cannot ignore the mild ache in your heart when you realise that its that time of year again, when Goa says goodbye to a blistering summer, and begins to prepare to get totally washed out by the monsoon.

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We were lucky to find a rather empty spot of beach on Arambol, with just enough beach-hut-acco options, a couple of decent looking restaurants and a roaring sea, within a hundred meters of where we finally decided to stay. Right on the beach.

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Plans work best when there are no plans, I think. And a weekend of meandering relaxation was just what all of us needed. The highlights of which were:

- A chatty shack-owner who was excited that he had some, as he described us “dhang ke log“, to keep him company after a long hiatus of boring tourists. He was a tad too chatty for our liking, but we couldn’t complain though because he shared his Goan goodies with us and kept the beer flowing.

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- Being the only people in the shack that night and getting a free reign with the music. In went out ipods and out came a never-ending loop of our kind of music. And that is the biggest boon one can ask for on a beach in Goa. To spend the entire time without suffering through copious amounts of Akon, Pitbull, Rihanna and the like.

- Having a random private scene in a shack that is otherwise open to public. A few other regulars showed up, and it turned into one big gathering of people sharing the music, conversation and laughter. In the amber glow that dotted the shack I realised, this almost never happens to us in our daily lives. Back home in Panjim, we step back into the routine, get on track with life. But it is on a beach in Goa where the shack owner who wants to retire at the age of 35, an Iranian didgeridoo player who has lived in India for nine years, and us non-Goans feeling as Goan as ever, can actually bond and be one.

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- Getting unabashedly overwhelmed by life lessons on how to make the most of a cheaper living expenses in Goa for some, realising that I must crack on with my “plans” quickly, lest they remain just that — plans, and some of us were given pearls of wisdom at the hands of a foreigner meting out simple truths quite unthinkingly.

- Laughing uncontrollably at one of us hallucinating poles holding a thatched roof where there wasn’t one, one of us confessing to being Deepika Padukone’s hang-out-buddy in his dreams, one of us having an epiphany and realising all he really wants to do is “be a hippe, man” and one of us choosing to suddenly start listening to David Guetta, in private. Yeah, it was that kind of night.

- Realising that Fellini’s was shut, and landing up in 21 Coconuts Inn (yes, you can laugh. we did too.), spotting things like peppAr chicken and hOmOs and pita bread on the menu. Way too much giggling, dubious videos filming, over-enthusiastic dog feeding, and more giggling followed by chilling on deck chairs even though all of us really just wanted to crash. Its quite a trip to be on a deathly quiet beach, with no light in sight for miles ahead, and just the sound of the waves crashing on. It lulled me to sleep and I yanked myself away before the whole night passed by, with me on a deck chair, in the open.

- Breakfast with chatty shack owner and random profusely drunk Frenchman who gave us all fist bumps, made himself at home at our table and told us his life story in a very vehement and bordering-on-violent manner. He then went across the whole shack, making himself at home at every occupied table. In Arambol, it works, apparently.

- A long and lazy morning that featured some swimming, some serious sun soaking, more beer downing, some idiotic dancing, some more film-making and finally when the hunger pangs struck, we packed up and left. Making our way back home, and grabbing lunch en route.

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It was a short, but extremely relaxing and fun-filled getaway. I know I speak for the husband too, when I say this. As usual it reminded us how we ought to take advantage of the beach in our vicinity more often. As usual we pledged to do it again. At least once a month. And as usual, we came away rather full of beans, happiness and some of us, wisdom too.

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As usual I realised that there is really no better way to rejuvenate myself than having the damp sea-air in my face, the wind in my hair and the atmosphere pregnant with a languid relaxed vibe to drench myself in. Its funny how this fact escapes me every now and then, until I go back to the sea, and it hits me like an epiphany all over again.

It seems some people travel the world to find it and fill themselves with life again. Thankfully, for some of us, its just a matter of wandering into our backyards, before we find peace again.

Post title inspired by my very own Bhaisaab, without whose enthu, the weekend away might not have ever happened.

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A day like any another day

10 May

NOT.

There are some days that you know, right from the start, won’t go the way you’d like them to. From the moment go, feel things are amiss. Yet you cannot put a finger on it. But you push every ounce of confusion and and that cloud of unsettledness away and power on.

Yesterday was one such day. For one, we had rain the previous night. Just when the heat peaked and I was making peace with surrendering to the forces that be (and that are hell bent on seeing me suffer), it had to go and rain. It was cool-ish when I woke up, and realised I had slept right through it. But you know what a spell of pissy rain does, in the midst of otherwise oppressive heat, right? It makes it hotter.

Cue: more sweat. And now, the beginnings of prickly heat. Oh well.

There was some solace to be had in the crazy breeze. Or so I told myself, until it knocked a massive paper lamp down, which I had to then gingerly put back together.

Turning on my computer revealed that one mini cloudburst is enough to bring all connectivity to a standstill in the boondocks where I live. The internet was down. Only for the 3894783th time this month. Something the wonderful folks at Hathway prefer to push under the carpet. And worse, try and provide remote tech-support to fix. Rather than get their tushies down here to fix it. Last I heard, fixing a broken service was also part of the service. Instead all I get, every time I call is a string of unintelligible prompts that I never quite know what to make of.

“Madam, you need to ping your device.”

“Can you connect your device from the back and check for a ping?”

“We will have to come there and ping your device.”

If I didn’t know better, I might have taken offense. And called the husband to come sit at home with me, lest someone tries to accost me and “ping my device”. Many frustrated calls later, I decide to give up and move on to the other important chore of the day. Replacing an exhausted gas cylinder. Yes folks. I never thought I’d see the day when I tweet this:

“Gas ran out while I was half way through frying pooris. #FML”

I am now that variety of aunty whose morning can get ruined by untimely interruptions in poori-making. And then takes heart in the fact that “at least the sabji got made in time”.

So I lug the damn empty cylinder four floors down, drive myself to the agency, where I have to pay, pick up a receipt, proceed to the godown and exchange cylinders. All this because unlike the rest of the country, where you call and book a cylinder, in Panjim I have to wait for the weekly (yes, it only happens once a week) gas rounds to happen, in the hope that my cylinder will time its running out really well. So that it can be replaced seamlessly.

Haha, of course that never happens. So I now indulge myself in self-service. And before you applaud me for me heroic gas cylinder acrobatics down four floors, hold your horses. I have to tell you its easy when you’re going down and the cylinder is empty. Its lugging a full one up that is the bitch. So I get some help. And we share the load 50-50. Now you can applaud my lower back and upper arm strength.

However, I had no such luck yesterday. I lugged that damn cylinder down for nothing. Because apparently the godown was shut. And it “may or may not open for two days”. And as of today, we are pushing day three of gaslessness, microwaved green tea and no breakfast. Now this is a truly #FML moment. Anywho, I argue a bit and try and push for a quick replacement, but the guy is adamant so I leave before I pop a blood vessel thanks to the slowly building pressure in my temples. But on the drive back I call him back to ask how long it might take for them to deliver a cylinder.

“Oh by tomorrow evening,” he says chirpily.

And I lose it again. “Why didn’t you give me that option then??!”

“Because you didn’t ask medam. You wanted to go to the godown.”

See what I mean? #FML.

So I make the booking. Trying to impress on the intelligent fellow that the reason I wanted to go to the godown was to get a freaking new cylinder. And that any other option available would have been fine by me. ERGO, just replace the goddamn cylinder, one way or another!

With no food at home, I decided to drive by my favourite biryani joint to pick some lunch up. This place is literally a joint, where one walks in pays and walks out with neatly packed dum biryani in aluminium foil cartons. Quick and painless, I thought. Perfect for the kind of morning I was having. I could almost taste it. I get there at 12 and ask for two biryanis parcelled.

“12.30 ke baad aao.” (Come back after 12.30!)

Having already skipped breakfast, indulged in some heavy-lifting and exhausted much energy being angry and frustrated, I was ravenous. Also, my mind was set on the biryani and given how the morning was going I was determined to take control and make at least one thing go my way. I wasn’t going to let Murphy win this one. So I walked back to my car, my black car parked in the scorching sun. I got back inside and sat in it, toasting away for the next twenty minutes until it was biryani o’ clock.

Biryani in hand, I drive home. Hot, irritable and rather peeved, but rather pleased that I can rest in peace. The internet would hopefully be fixed. The gas cylinder would be delivered to my doorstep. And I can finally turn the ac on, have my lunch and get some work done. Yessssss!

Except, on the way up to my home, I stubbed my toe.

Cue: some wincing, blinding pain and a prickly feeling behind my eyes as I blink baack a few tears.

You win this round Murphy.

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Summery shenanigans

8 May

April passed me by in a blur. Quite frankly, I can’t remember one noteworthy or memorable thing that happened. I don’t know if you could tell, but I was largely unhappy and irritable right through the month and I feel like the whole time was spent procrastinating, cribbing, feeling generally low on energy, sweaty and rather turd-like. It started with the unbelievable heat (which by the way, I am not done whining about), and then the botched holiday, several failed attempts at finding the kind of work I want to do, one too many meetings with the average idiot looking to hire a “content writer”, that weird PMS like feeling that refused to go away, then the procrastination and the need to just stay in bed and never get out. And somewhere down the line it just slid further down until all I wanted to do was go home for the weekend that I had planned to be away, and come back to a fresh start.

Which is just what happened. I’ve realised that when some part of my life is out of whack, either my routine, or my work, or my state of mind, or my exercise schedule, or my ability to stay on top of multiple things, it has a ripple effect on most other things. So even if most parts are working alright, if just one thing is amiss, chances are everything will snowball into a giant mass of misery.

I know, its wretched. I am a creature of habit and like things to move a certain way. A little off here and there is okay, but any major, unexpected changes throw me completely off track. In that respect, April was top-class fuckery at its best. It was the month the aliens abducted me and sneaked in a grouchy person in my place. A month I wish I could wipe out and re-do, and do well. But the good news is May has been like hitting reboot.

Things are moving. Small changes and their ripple effects. Work has fallen into a rhythm. A couple of small, but new projects have reared their heads. I’m hopeful about finding more work up my alley, and I am also drawing out plans for newer things. Even better, I’m acting on them.

In April, I cooked to survive. I was uninspired and it showed. This month I already feel a renewed sense of energy. I am thinking about my meals, as opposed to wandering into the kitchen and thoughtlessly putting things together, to just get it done. Yes, its still hot as hell. My bum is still sweaty all the time. The kitchen is not a fun place to be. And yes, I’m not done cribbing about it. But I have been cooking! A fair bit of shenanigans have ensued and I am now officially counting down days till the monsoon hits us.

What have I been up to? A lot actually, I cooked a fair bit…

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But I didn’t have the energy or the enthusiasm to blog about it all. What I did write about though, are these things…

The last thing I baked, over ten days ago OMG, was a loaf of mint and coriander masala bread to take home for my lovelies in Bangalore. Yes, its the same original masala bread recipe, repurposed with mint and coriander this time. Specks of caramelized onion take this up a notch and it was devoured with gusto in Bangalore, despite being refrigerated and turning a bit dense by the time it got to them.

VC cooked himself some fancy fish thingies when I was away, and greeted me with brand new enthusiasm, when I got back. “I want to cook more often,” he said. And so we have decided to make it a more regular feature on weekends. This past weekend we made this veggie lasagne with aubergines, mushrooms and babycorn and it was fa-ha-bu-lous!

When the heat got totally unbearable a few nights ago, I abandoned all plans to “cook” and whipped up some aamras and pooris in no time at all. I think the mango OD has officially peaked in this household. So help us God.

I’m also still turning to yoghurt in all its forms to calm and cool me down. Lassi done, smoothies done, raitas are done over and over, buttermilk is a permanent fixture. And then I made this cold yoghurt curry for lunch yesterday and I just know it will be oft-repeated here on.

Summery shenanigans have commenced after a month of wretchedness. I just thought I’d let you know.

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Thinking like a feminist

7 May

I always thought the term “Feminist” was dodgy because it invariably conjured baseless stereotypes of man-hating, bra-burning, equality-demanding, brow-beating women who have way too many shrill opinions. I had a problem with being put into that slot, if I called myself as a feminist. But it didn’t take away from the fact that I did and continue to think like a feminist. I believe in equal choice, equal opportunity and equal rights for both men and women. And at its most basic level, even with my rudimentary knowledge of the movement, I know thats what it comes down to. To my mind, it means that as a woman, I should enjoy all the opportunities and benefits that society has to offer any man. It means that I should have the freedom to make any choices that I see fit for myself, and live with them, just as a man would. Choices about my sexuality, marriage, financial independence, religion, lineage and the like. It means that I have a choice. Period.

But what happens if, given all the choice in the world, I choose not to take the so called liberated path? What happens, if despite my liberal upbringing in an oestrogen-heavy family (my mother, sister and I clearly outnumbered my father, the only male in the house), where nobody ever told me that girls must only be seen and never heard, and despite my rather wild and free growing up years, I suddenly make a turn to choose a path that is seen to go against everything that my feminist mind tells me is right?

What happens, for example when I score more than acceptable grades in 10th grade and go on to choose art, music and history in my +2?

What happens, for example, if I realise early in life that I have met the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and that it doesn’t matter if that happened at 18, 32, 40 or 24 (as it did with me), and I choose to marry early?

What happens if I move in with him, to live with a joint family in a rather traditional home, where for the first time in my life I experience the differences? Between the women I have known all my life and the other kind of women that populate this country? Between men and women? Between women with children and those without?

What happens if I, in the midst of one of the best jobs I had (one that could have gone on to make a rather fulfilling and very sound career), decide to suddenly throw it all away because my husband wants to move cities for his work? And I decide to follow.

What happens if I suddenly realise that I love the domestic life. That I love building a cosy home, cooking hot meals and baking cake?

What happens if I like doing chores? If I find out quite accidentally that ironing clothes and washing dishes are therapeutic?

What happens when I chuck a career I have invested a good number of years in, to be a stay at home wife? To be the one that willingly cooks the meals and does the laundry, feeding off of her husbands salary?

What happens if I, in these days of DINK families, decide that I want to stay home, not have children and yet be okay with sharing my husbands income?

Does it make me any less liberal? Some would say it does. Some might even say I have regressed back to the dark ages where women were resources for housekeeping, baby-making and nthing more. I have often been scoffed at for choosing the un-feminist route in life. For cutting short a life of free sex and merrymaking, to settle down with the man I wanted to. For choosing to adjust living with the in-laws as opposed to throwing a fit and having my husband move out. For chucking a perfectly good job opportunity in favour of my husbands. And more recently for choosing an “purposeless” homey life.

This is precisely the reason the term feminist irks me. Because despite having all the choice, and the freedom to pick, it still left me feeling like I had to conform to all the women breathing down my neck, telling me how that was none of that was the feminist thing to do. Or that was not how a feminist should think.

The trouble is, I never really had to make myself think like a feminist. It wasn’t that invisible cloak I needed to put on, right before I made a decision, in order to help me choose the feminist thing to do. I didn’t have to step out of my shoes, and into my feminist shoes to know what I had to do in any given situation.

With what some people call a semi-hippie upbringing, where both my sister and I were pretty much brought up like boys, I really didn’t know the difference. Nobody told me I had to choose science because good grades = engineer/doctor = emancipated girl child. I was told to follow my heart and do whatever I wanted, even if I wanted to crochet doilies for all my life, as long as it made me happy. As a teenager, my mother would ask me to pitch in in the kitchen, not because someday I would get married off and my in laws and my husband would expect it of me. I was told to cook because it was a life skill that I would need when I lived on my own and had to fend for myself. When I turned 18, my parents forced me to learn to drive, because it was just another thing all adults needed to know to do — be independent. When I graduated from college, they urged me to apply to jobs outside of Bangalore, because it was important to live outside ones comfort zone they told me. Then came the big M word and when I sprang the news on them that I had been dating a Sindhi boy and now wanted to marry him, they asked me to get engaged to him if it made me happy, but to take a few years to get to know each other better, before I settled down on my choice.

The irony is, that despite all that, I did exactly what I pleased. Chose humanities over science. Got married at 24. Lived with the in-laws. Said goodbye to a lucrative career. Chose to stay at home. Became fully domesticated and loved every moment of it. All through it, I was acutely aware of all my choices, of all that was possible. And my greatest strength was always in the comfort of knowing that I could pick the one that suited me best. Not because someone forced it on me, or because someone said it was the right thing to do or because I was afraid of being typecast as that hardcore feminist or that meek spineless girl. But because it’s what sits best with me.

To me, that’s what being a feminist is. To have the right to choose. Whichever way I please. And so it made (and continues to make) me very uncomfortable when some purists end up polarising this creature that is The Feminist as a certain type of person only defined by her need to be economically independent, single and fancy-free, rebellious and undomesticated. I have a problem with slotting the feminist into that small little cubbyhole. Because isn’t that going against what fundamentally feminists sought to do? Liberate women from stereotypes? Enable greater choice? Allow freedom to do what feels right and what suits them best?

When I read Caitlin Moran’s How to be a Woman, my confusion was suddenly starkly clear. And I realised that this is why I was never quite able to unpack the term Feminist in my head and call myself one. This is why it made me squirm. I was afraid of falling into a slot. Into a cubbyhole that gave me no space to breathe. Then I read this awesome post by GB, a blogger I have silently lurked around and loved oh-so-much, for so long now. And again, I realised that the reason I was never quite sure of calling myself a feminist out loud was because I was never made to think that feminism was a special way of life that one had to adapt to. It wasn’t something one had to step into at some stage in life when one chose to be emancipated. As far as we were concerned, it was the only way to be.

It is only in recent times, that I have realised that perhaps I am what you can call a feminist. I owe it all to my parents, for bringing us up the way they did. The focus was always on being aware, eyes-wide, pro-choice, always seeking equality, and never settling for anything less than that which makes us happy.

As a result its how I think. Its how my parents and sister think too. Its how we see the world. Its what we have grown up with. Its the only way we know. We just never labelled it. If that makes me a feminist, so be it.

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Before the moment has gone

6 May

Bright ideas. They creep up on me tauntingly, at the oddest time of day. Like the other day, when that genius thought that’s been dodging me for weeks now, finally decided to strike home, at exactly the same moment I had my fingers soaked in sticky bread dough goop. Or the time I wanted to suddenly eat BR’s new Belgian chocolate flavour and decided to have it delivered home. Except, it was past midnight. Then there was the time I suddenly wanted to wear the new dress that’s been stowed away in a corner of my cupboard for weeks now. But for the tiny part about my legs sporting a neat little two-week stubble mini forest, the kind even my boho self couldn’t bear to ignore, it was a super idea. Just badly timed. Also, the day I decided I would make palak paneer for dinner because I had two bunches of the freshest palak. I proceeded with alacrity and went through the prep at top speed, only to realise at the very end that the brightly coloured packet in the back of my freezer was actually frozen corn and not paneer.

Multiple self-face-palm moments are becoming quite the norm here. It is like my head has a life of its own. I have to then swat various ideas, before they take on the gargantuan proportions of that Monster in my Head, occupying every inch of bandwidth in my tiny brain, leaving no room for some real, productive thinking.

I have to push it far into the rear end of my priorities, for fear of it turning into a stuck record that cannot move forward until I’ve banged out that idea that was bursting in my mind. Or I’ve gone waxing and worn that damned dress. Or gotten a brain freeze from that delicious ice cream. Or I’ve re-made that palak paneer. Ahem, with the paneer, this time. Exhausting. So a couple of nights ago when the thoughts of that Vietnamese Iced Coffee came to me late one night, as I lay thinking up new ways to cool off, because the AC is just not cutting it anymore, I knew I was doomed. I knew that the thoughts of tiny globules of condensed milk laced with dark coffee shooting upwards out of a straw, into my mouth would haunt me until I actually went to said cafe and got myself some.

The upside is one serving of that coffee was bound to shake me out of this summer lethargy. One drink would calm and cool me down for a few hours at least. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. Just when I am beginning to tear my hair out wondering just how much hotter it can possibly get. But there’s nothing I could do about the idea then. When all of Panjim around me was fast asleep.

Once again the thought hangs around, floating about at the fringes of my mind, at a time when I really needed not to think about what I cannot have. . Hogging mindspace, like a constant reminder of a wish unfulfilled. A craving unsatiated. A summer-harassed body deprived. An overheated mind, un-caffeinated.

Sometimes though, at the most opportune moment thoughts like this leap forth from the back of your mind, and turn into large impossible-to-ignore ideas that cannot be pushed away any longer. I wait for those moments, the most. At 4 pm one afternoon last week. I took off and went back to an old haunt. Because there’s nothing like a thought that’s acted upon immediately. Like giving into a craving, unthinkingly.

Iced coffee, check.

cafe

Almost-forgotten idea now put down on paper, check.

paper

Bright ideas. Some times, creep up on me tauntingly, at the oddest time of day. And sometimes, the timing just couldn’t be more perfect.

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