It Is Wedding Time, Folks!!!

Choti Mata’s Note: Wedding season. Biological clock. And Choti Mata is so not married at the moment. Or planning to. Do I need to say more?

Tick Tock Tick Tock.

Hear that! That is a biological clock ticking. My biological clock.

Never mind that I am still hovering around my mid-twenties—side notwithstanding. Never mind that the general consensus is that I have very well regressed to my mid-teens. Or that I never actually left my mid teens behind. The consensus is not sure.

For some not so weird reason, the decibel levels of this ticking are raised exponentially during the wedding season. Like right now. Probably because everyone on my FB wall is getting married. And that is just a minor exaggeration.

To be honest, I feel absolutely happy for all of them. They are taking the big leap towards their ‘happily ever after’, assuming that something like that exists. Also, pigs fly.

Anyway, weddings mean good wedding food to hog on and I don’t see anything to complain about. Except of course if I am totally ignoring the comparative magnification of my single status in the season—strictly for the clock hearing crowd that is. Following the ideal of 'ignorance is bliss' is an actual art—and I am getting pretty good at it.

Just to clarify, there is nothing wrong with the idea of getting married. And since I have always been a huge critique of bigotry in every form, I think it is as inappropriate to judge people for getting married as it is to judge them for not getting married. Everyone operates within his or her own comfort zone and is totally entitled to live out their idea of a good life. And for the record, quite a few of my friends got married pretty early and seem to be doing great. The relevant point here is not the timing. It is the fact that they got married not because some stupid clock said they had to. They got married because they wanted to—were ready for it. 

Which is the bottomline that everyone seems to be totally missing.

In any case, as far as I am concerned, in my limited understanding, there is actually no reason for the clock to panic. There is still time. I guess the clock is pretty much aware of this. It is the people who can ‘hear it’ tick that seem to have a problem.

Contrary to the popular belief, I totally understand the importance of this so called clock as much as I understand the relevance of the idea of doing everything at the right time. I do realize that it is indeed a colossal stupidity to consciously 'tempt the clock' and invite health risks for yourself as well as any other poor being that you just might have been assigned to bring into the World. I understand this fact. I respect this fact.

What I don’t understand is the need to transcend all reasonableness and sense of purpose to give this clock the absolute supremacy. Especially when it concerns what I presume is the literal make or break decision of our lives. To rush into alliances or be rushed into it, just because you got a damn timeline to meet. I presumed it would be a no-brainer that one doesn’t play the stakes of life on deadlines or panic attacks.

Apparently, in this country, they do.

In this country where getting every single woman of marriageable age in the vicinity married is a national obsession. I sometimes really want to know what part of ‘my’ in ‘my marriage’ is so incomprehensible for everyone.  

You walk on two legs. You are not an ape. You are above 21. Get married.

You walk on two legs. You are not an ape. You are above 18. You have female parts. Get the hell married right now!

The fact that you might not be financially, emotionally or psychologically ready for it is irrelevant. That you may not be ready or willing to take up the challenges and responsibilities that entail marital life is pointless. That you, God forbid, may not want to marry at all is sacrilegious and inconceivable.

The point is I am not getting all moony eyed about my knight on a horse—which is obvious because (a) the chances of that much touted knight turning out to be a chauvinist jackass are quiet high—after all he is the figment of a chauvinist imagination which involves damsel in distress. Definitely not designed for damsels causing distress and (b) I am an educated, liberated woman, thank you very much. Chances are I find a man with a pen much sexier than one with the horse…or that white ginny from Honey Singh’s video. Not that I have anything against Lamborghinis…but its owner’s intellect still takes precedence in my list of preference.

So, I do not harbor impossible romantic fantasies. But I do have a fair idea of what I want from my life and from the one I intend to share it with, if at all. The marriage fanatics out there need to wrap their heads around the idea of choice and understand that if I or for that matter anyone in the marriageable age bracket is single, it is because either they are not ready to exercise this choice or they haven’t been able to find someone to exercise it for. And in doing so, they are neither being unreasonable nor immature. Even if they are, it is their life—I think they have the right to ruin it. That would any day be better than having it ruined because they married under pressure for all the wrong reasons and earned a life time of regret—all because they did not get to exercise their choice or intuition or anything else for that matter.

Biological clock is important. Trust me, it may not look like it, but most of us are trying really hard to abide by it. If for some reason we don’t, there is a good chance that it is because we are trying to avoid a disaster which at least we think is bigger than busting a clock. We may be wrong, but you must know that we have the best intentions. It is our life after all. It is better this way. Our life, our choice, our consequences.

In the end, however, reasoning is rarely an option. So my Mother, who by the way, is extremely cool and is the reason why my unmarried life so far has been happy and incident free, actually came up with an interesting strategy. A brilliant tactical masterstroke, if you ask me. So for anyone who pesters her about my marriage, she has a standard response, *ominous tone alert* “A panditji said, do not marry her early…not okay according to her Kundali!”

See, brilliant!

Because in India, a good wedding reception dinner is worth messing up with a couple of human lives. But God forbid, if those planets are involved. Humans lives, after all, are dispensable. But astrology—that is sacred. No wonder, Mother manages to shut them up every single time.

The final word however is from another really cool member of my family, my brother. This is what he has to say on the matter, “If you get married tomorrow, I support you. If you get married at 30, I support you. If you get married at 40, I support you. You plan on not getting married, I support you”

With awesome brother like that around, who cares for the clock…or for that matter, anything else!

Dear Society, watch and learn. This is how it is done!

Of Symbolisms And Sanskar; Of Kejriwal And Alok Nath!

Choti Mata’s Note: Given the enthrallingly happening weeks that rang in this New Year, there were multiple contenders for the topic of this post. But ultimately, Arvind Kejriwal and Alok Nath emerged as the top contenders. Well, them and Devyani Khobragade. But, then this is Choti Mata’s space and is all about ‘good’ life lessons—lessons that were hard to find in a diplomatic mess replete with feet stomping nations, underpaying diplomats and cavity searches. So, in the end it was a coin toss between Kejriwal and Alok Nath. Only the coin did a Sholay (Remember the one time when that wretched coin stands on its edge. Yeah! That one) and the following is what…well followed.

Arvind Kejriwal is the new Nayak of the real world. Alok Nath is the new Rajnikanth of the virtual world. This is the latest world order. And it is, quite frankly, disturbing.

A whole lot of this disturbing for me is because every single time I think Nayak, my mind automatically replays that iconic mud fighting scene from the movie. Now, it may be just me but there is something about naked men in mud that is a total turn off for me. Even when the man in the mud is John Abraham (Remember Dhoom’s Tata Young video?). Replace John Abraham with Anil Kapoor and it’s a total power grid shutdown. Replace him with Arvind Kejriwal and I’d rather switch to solar power.

But of course I know that mud fighting skills were definitely not in the list of credentials that make Arvind Kejriwal who he is. His preliminary credentials are in fact way more impressive than his fictional counterpart could ever boast of. Nayak’s hero got lucky. Kejriwal, on the other hand has actually worked pretty hard for it. Which is exactly why I find Kejriwal’s Nayak comparisons so wrong and belittling. Apart from the weirdly disturbing imagery of course.

Validity of these comparisons apart, Kejriwal was as much of a sensation online as he was offline. He had captured imaginations…and the webspace. Which was obvious and understandable.

But then something happened. Something that was neither obvious nor understandable. Something called Alok Nath.

Out of the wild, unknown blue…or sanskari saffron, as the memes would have us believe, he came. He saw. He conquered. And became an internet phenomenon. Everyone went for a piece of it…him…well, the phenomena I mean. The social media was flooded with memes and jokes and everything else that the netizens thought was necessary to fulfill their sacrosanct duty towards this holy internet sensation.

Kejriwal had needed strategy, hard work and genuine intentions. But Alok Nath…he needed nothing except to be his awesome ‘sanskari’ self. Well that and couple of Hindi movie channels armed with way too many Sooraj Barjatya movies than can be deemed healthy for any society.

Juxtaposition of Arvind Kejriwal and Alok Nath is, however, in fact much more than a clever blog post device. It is a telling sign of our times—times where our contemporary virtual world is characterized by the incredible co-existence of idiocy with intellect. The virtual world where Kamaal R Khan is as iconic as Shah Rukh Khan and no one as much as squirms in discomfort. No one except, I presume, Shah Rukh Khan.

Vagaries of our fickle virtual spaces aside, there is something else which ties Arvind Kejriwal and Alok Nath—something that is slightly more meaningful and in deference to the spirit of this blog, you know lesson-ish.

The thing that ties them both up—is of course Sanskar. Only that Alok Nath, ostensibly, subscribes to the kind where one is required to touch elders’ feet while Kejriwal subscribes to the version where one is required to pull the rug from under elders’ feet…if they are corrupt that is. The point is, both are high on symbolism; both stand for (different) values that we had long presumed to have been buried in books and fed off to the railway rats (Those rats practically spend their entire life-spans between the rails. They still manage to be awfully fat. There has to be a reason!); both look better with a moustache.

Okay, you can ignore the last point.

There is, however, a difference. Alok Nath doesn’t thrive on the symbolism. Kejriwal does. And so, after his sanskari image went viral, he went on record to actually claim that he had a *ahem* wild young life complete with drunk outings and crazy girlfriends. The fans of his sankar, however, chose to ignore this. Possibly because they were incredulous. Imagining Alok Nath as a wild child might need a (un)healthy dose of creativity and quite a few rewatches of Bol Radha Bol. I doubt if anyone was up for it.

But there is another possible reason. It was ignored because it was convenient—because sustaining a symbolism is easier than actually questioning it. A human socio-intellectual inertia that is bound to replicate itself in case of Arvind Kejriwal. Not that he is going to do anything to damage the symbolism that defines his position. Quite the contrary. But there are others. There are always others. The others that will be ignored…for now.

The trouble with symbolism, however, is not these others. The trouble is that it has a short shelf life, presence or absence of others notwithstanding. It needs to be backed up—with substance…plenty of substance.

Because sooner or later, people will get bored with Alok Nath. Not because they are offended by his drunken romps and anti-sanskari past life. But because that is what people do. They get bored. And go back to Rajnikanth. And CID.

Kejriwal will need to remember this.

  

Yenna Rascala From A UP Waala Bhaiya--What We Really Need To Know About Stereotypes!

Choti Mata’s Note: Stereotypes suck donkey balls. But the whole idea of sucking donkey balls—so long as it is someone or something else that is doing it—is funny. In a disgusting, disturbing sort of a way. But it is. Which is kind of the point of this post. And there is a moral too…if you last long enough!

Yenna Rascala!

SRK is a genius. He does nothing in half measures. Including acting. Lesser enlightened mortals mistake it for over-acting. Alas, poor souls! What do they know?

SRK’s pervading awesomeness is, however, not the point of this post. He is here because, well, he is SRK. And because a stroke of his genius offers the most apt starting point to this post.

SRK is a genius. He does nothing is half measures. And so, when he resorted to a stereotype, it inevitably turned out to be the most perfect stereotype in the history of stereotypes. Which means that it summarized every single thing that is wrong with every single stereotype in the World. Factually wrong. Mostly a lie—or a truth exaggerated beyond recognition and fit to qualify as a blatant lie. Excuse for lame humor, lamer judgments. Recognizably wrong. Still resorted to by everyone who can afford to—meaning everyone minus the section that is being stereotyped. In this case South Indians (not just Madrassis mind you!) who obviously did not see the joke.

See, I told you, SRK is a genius.

For anyone looking for an in-depth understanding of the Yenna Rascala phenomena, I direct you to this absolutely brilliant piece on Heartranjan’s blog that summarizes all that is wrong with every single South Indian stereotype.

But South Indians are hardly the only ones in the league of extraordinary stereotypes. They are of course most vocal in their protests. Protests that do not shy away from employing the exact same stereotype fuelled bigotry that they are purportedly protesting against, only in reverse. Case in point is this now iconic open letter by Madrassan to a Delhi Boy which had multiple knickers in proverbial twist. After all, the stereotype of a cleavage baring, man-boob flaunting, SUV wielding, forever lecherous, loud mouthed, abusive Delhi boy with questionable educational background (Alternatively, direct your attention to Yo Yo Honey Singh’s latest ‘musical’ outing. Although I am very sure that this exercise is counterproductive to the point I am trying to make here) is about as true as noodle with curd eating Madrassi immortalized by SRK.

Well, slightly more true. But not entirely true. And that is the whole point. There is a reason why kettle does not have the locus to call the teapot black. That they continue to do so is a different story…and is the reason why this post has to exist in the wilderness of the blogosphere.

Stereotypes are all pervading. Everyone, I repeat, everyone at some point of time or other resorts to them. By extension, everyone is subjected to them. Being a Bengali, for instance, has to entail that you are a fish eating maniac whose life revolves around the letter ‘O’. Being a Sardar means Bhangra is the only thing you care for in life. That and butter chicken. Being a Gujarati means you will tie your purse strings tighter than your underwear strings—which in turn implies that you wear an underwear with strings. And of course, you would break into Garba everytime something remotely remarkable happens in vicinity.

My personal favorite, however, is the one about us UPites. We all are Bhaiyas, completely discounting the fact that over one third of the population of this state is female. Actually, the range for us is pretty extensive—talking in a sing-song, being generously lecherous, paan chewing, angocha (desi towel cloth, if you don’t know) wielding pre-dominantly Bhojpuri dude. That Bhojpuri is a language shared between UP and Bihar does not seem to matter. That less than one fourth of the population of UP actually has anything to do with Bhojpuri is irrelevant. That UP and Bihar are two different states with significant cultural difference, however subtle, and not conjoint twins that they are made out to be, is obviously pointless.

Forget UP and Bihar, East UP and West UP have such a vast difference in terms of cultural calibrations; they can as well be two completely different states. But then, it would be over-expectation and a tad bit nit picky. Especially for a general understanding that refuses to recognize the massive distinction that mark various territories down South. They are all Madrassis. Period.

Illustrations are countless and stereotypes based on regions, are the tip of the tip of the iceberg. And that was not a typo.

Stereotypes exist because we are different. And since this is a fact that is not going to change, stereotypes too are here to stay. Not just because majority of us are petty, judgmental, knuckleheads—but also because that is how we cope—with the mind boggling variety that characterizes human species. Stereotypes are our attempt to rationalize the differences. Not in a completely healthy way. But it is. Which is the reason why it is not a phenomenon that is going to die anytime soon.

Protesting against stereotypes is fine. Losing sleep…or self esteem over it, not so much. Recognizing that we all do it helps. The enormity of how wrong it is seems to strike us only when we are at the receiving end of it. Recognizing this helps too.

But what helps the most is to be able to laugh. At your own expense, not just others. The first part needs conscious effort, the latter already pretty good at. And all those looking for a lesson in laughing at themselves, should turn to the inimitable Sidin Vadukut  who teaches us how it is done, in style.

Like everything in life that cannot be cured—stereotypes too need to be endured, with humor of course. In any case, if you can’t win them, laugh with them. Or at them. Whatever works. It is a masterstroke that changes the dynamics. And it is essential. In riotous times that we live in, there is enough intolerance around to wipe a couple of generations off the face of this earth. The least we can do is not add to it. And the least here is pretty simple—not take stereotypes seriously, irrespective of which end of it you are situated.

The conclusive moral of this post however lies in a true story of my neighborhood back in Lucknow. A Bengali neighbor once jabbed a finger in general vicinity and proclaimed—tum UP waala, sab saala chor—uttered with adorable guts considering that this guy had spent his entire life in Lucknow and had visited his beloved Kolkata about one and half times in his entire life time. The neighborhood laughed, clucked and laughed some more. Two days later, his vintage scooter went missing from his courtyard.

Stereotypes, sometimes, are self fulfilling prophecies. I hope you will remember that.

Yenna Rascala! Mind It!

How Kantaben Swooned, Got Marooned And Did Not Get A Life--All By An Anti-Homosexuality Verdict!

Choti Mata’s Note: Homosexuality has been recriminalized in India. A huge majority of the country has gone insane with outrage. 377 is on its way to beat ‘selfie’ as the word of the year. But Choti Mata is all about finding a silver lining everywhere—even in idiotic murk that is the latest Supreme Court verdict.  And here, she talks the silver lining. Or rather, the silver Kantaben!

Choti Mata is a lawyer. Which is old news. Which is also a fact that is definitely not going to reflect in the rest of this post. If you are looking for intelligent legal critique of the Naz judgment, you can stop right here. There are plenty of absolutely awesome pieces out there that have ripped the judgment apart for the absolutely untenable bullshit it is—on grounds both legal and otherwise. But, this is not one of them.

This piece is about something which may be not as intelligent or analytical—but has a huge psycho-social symbolism that has surprisingly been grossly overlooked.

This post is about Kantaben.

Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as the movie where SRK went the Anand way, albeit via Love Guru path. Kal Ho Na Ho will also be remembered as a movie that had two uber metrosexual men bonding over wooing an uber nerdy turned uber hot woman in most uber metrosexual (read: impossible and strictly imaginary) ways possible. Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie where Preity Zinta qualified as uber hot.

Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie where Saif Ali Khan was still (thankfully) urban—miles away from tamancha if not disco.

But above everything else, Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie that talked gay way before John Abraham became the poster-boy of talking gay and made it the hottest thing around.

Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie that introduced Kantaben.

Kantaben—the stout, wide eyed woman that swooned every time she saw SRK in vicinity of Saif Ali Khan. Normally, we wouldn’t have blamed her—not at that point of time, considering that at least then both the men in question were indisputably hot. But Kantaben did not faint due to sudden rise in temperatures. She fainted because she suspected…nay…believed something 'sinister' was going on.

Kantaben was funny in ways only Kantaben could be—without doing absolutely anything except make eyes as wide as a football ground and fall. Now, that is talent.

But Kantaben was much more than a comic plot device and an excuse for Karan Johar to talk gay. She was actually the most unintentionally deep and symbolic character ever created in the history of Indian cinema. Pity nobody noticed it.

Kantaben was us—us as in the society back when the movie was released. Kantaben was us in so much as refusing to even believe that something like homosexuality existed and promptly resorting to a reaction pretty much similar to her swooning every time the knowledge of its existence was thrust upon us.  Which is actually a pretty mild and censored way of putting it—the real range of reactions were pretty diverse ranging from minor indignation to major ostracism to full blown violence.

Cut to 2013. Talking about homosexuality has been largely cool. Has been for a long period of time.  This is not a majority—not by a long shot. We are still talking urban, educated, mostly young populace. But still, they are significant enough to count. And that is saying something in a society where honor killings are carried on with impunity and love marriages—the heterosexual ones—are still a big deal for a large section.

And this is where the Supreme Court’s Naz judgement has done the greatest good. In messing up with the basic rights of equality, freedom, privacy and life in general—the court has actually generated an outrage that had pushed detractors to a figurative back-foot. In a  strangely reverse psychological sort of a way, that I am sure was totally unintended, the judgment has achieved exactly what it had not set out to do—grant legitimacy (however forced) to the existence of homosexuality, in terms of perception if not hard law.

Homosexuality was never exactly a dinner table discussion issue. But this judgment, together with the outpour of outrage from all corners (including surprisingly the political ones) has pushed this issue out in open like never before (God bless Arnab Goswami and his creed). Even more than the time when Delhi HC came out with its historically progressive stance. Then with all the liberalism in air, culture, as it is perceived in the narrow minded sense, was wronged. This time the issue of homosexuality is. And history is witness to the fact that nothing unites and strengthens public opinion than a well timed outrage in support of the wronged.

People are talking—loud and clear. People are listening. They don’t really have a choice. If they don’t like it, a stoic, indignant silence is all they can afford—or be ripped apart by the pro-homosexuality wave. Being an intolerant douchebag is not cool…and I know several out there would not want to run that risk. Being tolerant is in…and considering how important public opinion is for human self esteem in general—this is something that is bound to make a difference, however minuscule.

For the first time, the casual detractors are thinking twice. And self appointed moral police is thinking once…well, trying to think as much as possible with their one and a half brain cells.  BJP and its clan, meanwhile, are trying to figure what thinking actually implies.

Kantabens still exist. But have been pushed into the closets previously occupied by the LGBT community. They can’t swoon, not anymore. Again, does not apply to all of them. Not even majority of them. But still in numbers large enough to warrant attention.

Homosexuals in India are small but distinct section of population with…gasp…rights! And now everyone and their grandmothers are forced to purse their lips and listen to this fact being reiterated a couple of billion times on national television…and well every other media space they have inadvertent access to.  You may not like it. You may not agree with it…which means you are an absolute douchebag and should not be here lest you contaminate Choti Mata’s space. But, you have to live with it. It is a fact that is now out and is not going anywhere, not soon, not ever. Legal and judicial battles are merely a part of a larger narrative that has already been set in motion. This is a point of no return.

Now, Kantaben, you can go get a lifetime supply of smelling salts.

Romance, Mishti Doi Ishtyle! Lessons In Life And Love From A Bengali Wedding!

                        

Choti Mata's Note: This is a departure from what usually goes up here primarily because it was written two years ago, around the time Choti Mata had not really discovered herself and was still prone to taking herself and everything else a bit too seriously. That being said, it is still extremely heartfelt and I endorse everything in there--except that if I had written it today, it may or may not have said stuff (all in good humour of course) that could have potentially jeopardized my next trip to beloved Kolkata. 

Thank God for small mercies!

We should have known. We really should have.

She was the uber romantic, quintessential Bong for whom Amit Ray continued to be a realistic expectation even as rest of us had given up hope of finding our Darcy. She reveled in every relationship she came across, every affair that was gossiped of, every love story she perceived in making. She read love stories, hummed old romantic melodies and justified every cliché that ever was associated with romance.

But marriage! Isn’t marriage the end of all romance? Isn’t marriage the violent whirlpool that sucks in all the fantasies, leaving behind the rut of marital responsibilities? Isn’t marriage the ultimate suicide for all romantics; a second life one chooses to take on only when every possible avenue of the first is exhausted?

We were fresh out of college, well paid professional. Marriage at this point was an insult to our liberalization. Ironically, she, the most liberated of us all, had chosen to tread this path of cardinal sin.

It was as if she had skipped several steps in the flight of life and landed straight on the ground floor.

“Are you mad?”, her laughter rung on the phone, “ I know it is early, but I am very happy. Also, nothing is going to change, I am not giving up on life, stupid; just stepping into the next phase.”

I was not convinced.

The plane landed in the Kolkata airport.  The constant chatter at the airport had a familiar ring to it. Five years with a Bengali are sufficient to acquaint anybody with the sound if not the meaning of the language.

Kolkata’s famous old world charm is the obvious first impression for any stranger. What is remarkable is the enticing expression that the city lends to the old times. While rest of the country is in a mad rush to multiply the latest models on the streets, Kolkata delightfully flaunts its multitudes of now otherwise extinct ambassadors with a charming pride. It is not a customary tribute; it is a celebration of the era gone by with a sincerity that tugs the heartstrings. The attempt is not artificial; it is the very nature of the city to preserve the old while the new flourishes. It is this harmony which has made Kolkata an eternal muse for countless poets, authors and artists.

Kolkata and its people do not alienate strangers; their spirit embraces everyone with an affable and reckless abandon. The narrow lanes of this city have the warmth of an old friend’s hug. The old constructions exude character and invite imagination to weave stories around them. The settlements are dense but their claustrophobia is poetic. Kolkata evidently nurtures romance in every form. Once in Kolkata, it was not difficult to guess the roots and reasons of her undying romanticism.

Her house was teaming with guests. The chaos and babble, however, was remarkably subdued in tenor. Unlike North India where weddings are the God sent license to sing, dance and make as much noise as possible; Bengali weddings are quiet, intellectualized affairs.  

I tried finding the proverbial glow on her face; locate some sort of difference that might have been triggered by impending marriage--I could find none. She was the same old girl who had sauntered on the college lane in a pair of jeans with us. The idea of her marriage refused to sink in even more.

It was ritual time. She came down dressed in a splendid red sari. Dressed to kill was a phrase obviously inspired by Indian brides. She looked resplendent in the perfectly balanced Bong bride make-up, designed to multiply beauty zillion times.

The photographer instructed her to pose variously for her album. After all, even memories for the eternity have to be planted. Her family was busy with the rituals amidst the loud sound of the ulu and conk shells.

A tear shone in her eyes as she smiled for a snap with her parents.

Everything suddenly fell into place. The rituals made sense just as the joy of her face as she gave borderline ridiculous poses for the photographer. The glow on her face I had been searching for was suddenly as evident as the satisfaction in her parent’s eyes. Their indecipherable pain of giving up their precious daughter to a stranger mingled with the satisfaction of securing her future, the hopes of her happiness. I could see the spring in her feet and the twinkle in her eyes when she talked about him- the lucky one who was to wed this precious being. Her excitement for the wedding trousseau made sense just as her disappointment at yet to darken mehndi in her hands. The conviction that led to her quitting her hard earned job was understandable just as the hopes for a happy future that awaited her.

She lowered the paan leaves for the first auspicious gaze on the bridegroom. Every romantic fantasy in the World culminated into one glorious moment. Her eyes fluttered. His gaze softened as he intently gazed at her.  

It was the moment when I realized that Amit Rays and Darcys of the World do not exist; they are created by the romance of women like her. In this corner of Tagore’s Kolkata, amidst the festivities and chants, quietly and discreetly, when nobody noticed, her very own Amit Ray was born.

What A House Hunt In Mumbai Taught Me About Life And Living!

Choti Mata’s Note: It is a truth universally recognized that a person in need of online recognition must be regular in posting content. I spent an entire year of my life in a brilliant startup that thrived on this very idea. I still needed to traumatize Jane Austen fans to remind myself of this basic tenet. I hope the irony is not lost on you. While I don’t admit to be in need of online recognition…or well in need of anything in general (this is Choti Mata speaking remember!), I have resolved to get more regular. Well, resolved to try to get more regular. I can think of a grand total of 3 people who would be extremely happy with this development.

Choti Mata loves her personal cheerleading squad.

Who would have thought that an insane, nearly pointless and absolutely harrowing real estate hunt in Mumbai could whip up some serious life lessons?

Last few months of my life have been a blur of random images. Oddball brokers, expensive flats, inhabitable properties—punctuated by a whole lot of taxi chasing and hair pulling. It was all my fault really.  I was first trying to rent a flat. Then the family back home decided they needed to throw some serious cash around and decided they will buy a property instead. The only trouble was that all the serious cash magically transformed into peanuts the moment Mumbai made its appearance in the transactions.

Hence, I was trying to buy a flat. And then rent one. And eventually at some point during this self inflicted confusion induced real estate torture, I found myself accommodation-less—rented or bought.

Long story short, I did succeed in renting a place. I am definitely closer to an impending hypertension than I was a few months ago. But I did rent a place. And from what I can make out of the constant commotion in the house these days, the family seems to have managed to almost buy one too.

But this piece is not about mine or the family’s real estate conquest. This is not about the heart attack I almost did get but then didn’t. This is about something slightly more significant; slightly more meaningful.

This is about the illusion of control. And the idea of letting go.

In one of those paradoxes that seem to be a product of some sort of cosmic joke on Choti Mata, the property I eventually rented was the one I had seen in the very first hour of the very first day of my house hunt. I rejected it. Not that there was something gravely wrong with the apartment. It was actually pretty decent by Mumbai standards. It just did not fit my ‘vision’.

Then began my quest for a house. I ran around the lanes of Mumbai like a headless chicken. I cursed. And then ran some more. On account some strange, fancy (Sigh! human foibles) and frankly rather stupid whim, I made into a sort of personal ego issue to not take up that house—the one I had seen in the first instance. This despite the fact that there was nothing majorly wrong with the house and even more importantly, it fit into my budget perfectly.

It was personal. I did not want that house.

Driven by this sense of challenge , I pushed myself beyond limits of any reasonable sense. And looked. And looked. And looked.

Obviously, I failed. It was as if the entire Universe had conspired against me to make sure this was challenge I did not win.

By the time I was done, my aforementioned ‘vision’ had dissolved so well and proper, I could not recall what it looked like. And my ego had taken a beating so bad, I was surprised my identity responded to my own name.

 I had lost. To a house. To a damn house!

It was much later that I actually registered the larger lessons that were far more important than my ego-bruises. It was a trivial house hunt—but the resulting realization was massive and disproportionately humbling.

The realization of how little control I had on something as minor as a house and what did it really say about my life as a whole!

Almost all of us lead our lives with a prevailing sense of control—on our decision, on people, on almost everything else. Once in a while something happens that reminds us that this life is much larger than our individuality allows us to realize. Sometimes it is something momentous—like a tragedy. At others, it is trivial, like a house hunt. But these periodic reminders, their scale notwithstanding are extremely crucial. Crucial for us to remind ourselves that we are mere players in a larger game. The game of life. Ultimately, it is the life that plays out. There are things-- sometimes everything that is beyond our control. And this is one fact, if taken in the right spirit, that can be extremely liberating. It can free us from the burden of consequence driven actions—obsessing over results, obsessing over success and failure, obsessing over our control on things or people in our lives.

It is one simple realization that can actually allow us to not worry. To live. And enjoy while we are at it. 

If any testimony for the success of this formula is required, my experience is an illustrative example. After all the struggle and pointless torment, I eventually realized that letting go was actually the best option. And the house that was offered up by the conspiring forces of the Universe is not so bad after all. All I actually needed to do was to let go of my need to control and accept gracefully. 

Barring the graceful part, I have nailed the acceptance. And you know what? It works.  

In Defence of High Heels

Choti Mata's Note : In light of Nandita's Das' latest and absolutely appreciable campaign 'Stay Unfair, Stay Beautiful', Choti Mata was inspired to talk about her tribe as well. And so, here is the long and short of surviving in a 'tall' world.

This blog belongs to Choti Mata. ‘Choti’ being the operative word.

Which in itself justifies this post on this blog

.

Evidently, high heels have been a regular in my life ever since I can remember. It all began innocuously enough around the time when my family figured that pumping me with fabled ‘height increasing’ medicines was actually doing no good. The repertoire of the armoury that had been collectively employed to achieve what was then a family ambition was fairly impressive and nearly intimidating. The agents of coveted inches were awe-inspiring to say the least—allopaths, homeopaths, naturopaths, voodoo practitioners and a couple of others, still awaiting recognition in the narrow minded mainstream society of intellectuals.

The end-result, despite such sincere efforts was massively disappointing. The promised inches were never delivered and my vertical dimensions never moved up into a respectable slot.

Come to think of it, may be, we took it all the wrong way. Maybe the result was not that disappointing. Given how effective all my height meds claimed to be, I presume I was on my way to the midget book of records before they came to my rescue.

  

I think I should be thankful.

Efficacy of my height regime aside, once I came to terms with my height (or the lack of it); in true survivor spirit, I decided to deal with it in the most resilient possible manner. I went to a shoe-store and bought a pile of most hideous looking platforms.

Don’t judge me.  At that point of time, aesthetics were not the priority. Kinetics were.

I really wanted to buy the pretty ones. But then I figured they would be of no use if I were to spend the majority of my walking time sprawled flat on the floor. Hence, I settled for the ugly ones. At least I could walk. Generous instances of awkward tripping and stumbling aside. But so long as my chin was not brushing the floor majority of the time, I was fine.

Like every affair, my fling with heels started off with a motive. The motive of finally achieving the status of being 5 feet tall.

Sigh! 5. That glorious, elusive number.

My obsession with 5 has a touching back story. In true law school traditions, someone there figured that 4'10" was not insulting enough. And so, I had to have a height of ‘paune paanch’ (translation—quarter to five feet). That one simple master stroke elevated ‘paanch’ or ‘five’ to the position of the most desirable goal of my life—at one point of time, even more that a paying job!

The five zeroes in my initial paycheque did vindicate my obsession to some extent (which I threw away eventually—but more on that later) and it slowly wore off. The heels, however, stayed on. The platforms too stayed but now have some respectable company.

In philosophical mumbo-jumbo, the obsession wore off because like everything else in life, it too was a futile pursuit. It was akin to revelations that people have in old age—when they realize that all that they had aspired all their lives was actually pointless. In my case, this was symbolized by 5. 5 feet, 5 zeroes—pointless.

But this post is not about the philosophy of pointlessness. This post is about heels and will remain so till the very end.

And surprising as it may sound, there is a larger philosophy in my tale of heels too. Which is also the core point of this post.

Heels in my world were the trigger for a grand revelation—the fickleness of public opinion. The opinion that made a big deal of my short height. Just like everyone dealing with the absence of those inches would vouch for. But what was more intriguing was that when I resorted to heels as a permanent fixture to counter this ‘perceived flaw’; that very same opinion disapproved again. This time, because, heels were unhealthy—for my body and apparently for my self esteem.

Luckily for me, I realized pretty early on that the only thing that was unhealthy for me was taking these opinions too seriously. About my height. My heels. Practically everything else.

And so I gave up—caring.

Not my heels of course.

Heels have stayed on. Not because they make me any taller or more approval worthy.  But simply because I love them. They make me feel good. I wear them as a matter of choice. As a matter of assertion of the fact that I will not be judged. Neither for wearing heels. Nor for not wearing them. Or for that matter, being short.

Heels and heights are mere metaphors for what is more or less a universal lesson in life. No matter what you do, who you are and where you belong to, you are bound to be judged. Too short, too tall, too black, too fat or too thin. There is no escaping. And there are ultimately just two words that are your shortest route to a healthy self esteem and great confidence.

Stop Caring!