In Defense Of FOOD! a.k.a You Should Eat That Chicken! Love, A Vegetarian Soul.

Choti Mata's Notes: Choti Mata has just been informed by Bear Grylls on her television that she can eat a particular variety of scorpion raw, if she manages to remove its stinger. He has skipped the part where he was supposed to tell us that it is imperative that we do not shriek like a banshee and faint the moment we spot that scorpion anywhere within a 100 meter radius of our person. He, however, did not skip the part where he told us, matter of fact, that it is entirely possible that we might be dead before we manage to take the first bite of this culinary delight. Choti Mata thinks Bear Grylls is badass and should never ever consider turning into a vegetarian. She also thinks food is a choice and gets severely offended when someone passes a judgment on that choice.

Choti Mata is a vegetarian. Vegetarian. Not vegan. Which means that she loves her daily glass of milk and prefers it to be sourced from four legged creatures of the bovine family instead of some foul plant derivative that works too hard to pass itself as milk. She also loves cheese in all its forms and versions, including the ones that she cannot pronounce to save her life. And threats of an expanding waistline notwithstanding, she refuses to give up butter and believes that she is a valid option should Amul decide to replace its famous Amul girl with someone who looks a little more human and a little less cute.

Choti Mata is vegetarian who has nothing against eggs either. Google tells me that this means I am a lacto-ovo vegetarian. And for a moment there, I had actually believed that there wouldn’t really be a term for people like us—that civilized society has not really matured enough to accommodate our freaky kind who refuse to fit in the well defined boxes of eating habits.

Apparently, the civilized society is more mature that I was giving them credit for. At least within the confines of Google search pages.

I am vegetarian. And it is not a religion issue. It was at some point of time. But it is not anymore. I continue to be a vegetarian because I think it is a gentler, kinder way of living and I do not intend to alter it as of now.

That in no way implies that eating non-vegetarian food per se is vile and cruel. It is just a comparative idea. So may be, being a vegetarian is a little more kind. A little more gentle. But I totally am with all the non-vegetarians on the idea that there is a particular way the food-chain had been set up in nature and that human beings are omnivores. But you dare throw the ridiculous argument at me that ‘plants have life’ and that ‘vegetarians too are guilty of murder…of plants”; I will first throw something at you, something that will be solid and will hurt like hell and then, I will tell you that if nature really wants me to ‘kill’ something to feed myself, which it seems it does, I will rather kill something that does not spill its guts all over me when hacked with a knife, does not scream in agony when its throat is slit and does not taste like blood if undercooked. If that means I have to hurt a few plants’ feelings, I think I am okay being that monster.

This is a ridiculous line of argument no matter how you look at it. And it is pointless. As I said, it is a pretty much a matter of personal preference that should ideally need no arguments, idiotic or otherwise to justify it.  

I don’t eat animal flesh. Or beef. Or poultry. Or sea food. But believe it or not, I have absolutely nothing against those who do.  I do not automatically make moral or religious or character related presumptions about people based on their eating habits.  I just wish everyone around me returned the favor.

Being a vegetarian had interesting ramifications. Like our persistent inability to find five decent things to eat everywhere we go. And the presumption that we will bite the head off anyone who dares mention the word ‘chicken’ in front of us. It is believed that it is the principle of things.

It is not.

Being vegan is the new fad. Being a vegetarian is pretty close to being a vegan. So, I am counting them in. Still, the fact is, we are and perhaps shall always remain in a painful minority. I don’t mind being in minority. What I do mind is when it is automatically presumed that being vegan/vegetarian means I am a prude. Too stuck up to enjoy life. That all vegans/vegetarians deserve sympathy because we are missing out on vital, shiny parts of life.

Newsflash, we are not. Not really. And you would have known if you had bothered to ask.

It is a universal issue. For people who don’t drink. For people who don’t stuff their faces with animal flesh. For people who genuinely do not like shiny bright lights, random sweaty strangers and deafening loud music in the middle of the night and therefore, do not like the idea of parties.  

I’d know. I am all of these people.

Having fun is a subjective idea. Different people have fun in different ways. Just like different people have different tastes. And like to eat different things. It would really be a very sad, monotonous world if everyone likes the same thing in the same way at the same time.

As a general overarching idea, I am having fun. Irrespective of what I eat/drink/do, I usually work very hard to ensure that I am having fun. Just like, I presume, everyone.

Going back to where this post originally precipitated, I work really hard to not label people as savage monsters just because they are sitting next to me digging into a bucket of chicken pieces so huge, it makes me want to mourn the loss of mother hens, all 25 of them and shed silent tears.  As I said before, it would be nice if everyone around returned the favor and stop labeling me as a grass eating whatever. Because not only is it offensive, it is a little reductive in an ill informed sort of a way. Vegetarian food is not grass. And even when it is, it is usually a very well tasting grass. And for anyone who is willing to give it a try with an open mind, vegetarian food, without exaggeration offers incredible variety in terms of options and is scrumptious if done right.

This, however, is not a pitch to turn everyone into a vegetarian. This is not even an argument. Because honestly, I don’t care. In that sense, I think I am more sensible and have more life than several governments and politicians put together. 

Food is an incredibly personal choice. It is sacrosanct. And I firmly believe that nobody has any business interfering in what one chooses to eat or not eat. And more importantly, nobody has any business passing judgments on that choice.

I am vegetarian today. I may turn into a flexitarian tomorrow. And a non-vegetarian the day after. I can change my mind. And I am pretty sure that if I do, I will not sprout fangs. Just because I am eating something today and something else tomorrow, does not mean I have changed as a person. Or maybe I have…but food has got nothing to do with it. So long as I do not switch to cannibalism and start hacking fellow human beings for food, I don’t think it matters.

Food is a choice. A luxury. A gift for humans who have been blessed with the ability to taste and savor and enjoy their food. Food choices are personal. And a lot of times, a function of our socio-economic settings as well as our given circumstances. Sometimes they are a part of our identity, religious and otherwise. Sometimes they are a part of the journey that we undertake to discover our identities. And a lot of times, they are just a wonderful exercise of a privilege that has been exclusively bestowed on the human race.

It is easy for me to convert this post into a representative piece about choices and our innate right to exercise them without being restricted or judged. But even that would be a disservice to an idea that is as beautiful and intimate as food. Food is one of those rare human necessities that are also an absolute pleasure. And it is the only one that is mostly non-controversial (the other one being sex…but it is hardly non-controversial).  

I think we will do everyone a favor if we stopped making food a moral or a religion or a character issue. Or an issue at all. Food should be uncomplicated. And enjoyable. It isn’t half as difficult as it sounds…and is totally worth it!

This Is Not About Feminism! This Is About Free Will Folks!!!

          

Choti Mata's Note: Choti Mata's limited and woefully insufficient social media exposure informed her about the back and forth that is driving the internet nuts ever since Deepika Padukone's "My Choice" video came out. Predictably, it was quickly followed by a barrage of views, opinion, arguments and a "male counter version" no less. The theme is 'choice'.  And since free will has long been Choti Mata's favorite playing ground (and also since everyone and their grandmas are having a field day on the issue, Choti Mata figured she also qualified), here are her two cents. 

This is not about feminism. 

Nope. Not at all. 

Surprisingly (or probably not so much) I agree with both the videos (the Deepika Padukone version and the  very tellingly titled unofficial male version) that currently seem to be competing for 'who can rattle more intellectuals/chauvinists/liberals/everyone else' spot. And contrary to what the common opinion seems to believe, I think both of them are essentially making the same point. The fallacy lies in the perception...in believing that these videos are about feminism and its opposing forces (masculinism!?). 

They are not.

They are about choice. Free will. A concept that is pretty much universal and applies to all human beings, gender notwithstanding. The free will, the choice to wear what I want, be who I want, be with who I want to...or not and so on. Nobody seems to have a problem with any of those parts, theoretically at least. The part that concerns everyone is the part that contains sex (doesn't it always?) and the derived concept of adultery and cheating. 

The male version apparently does not support cheating or adultery. Which is fine. Except that I really don't think I would need or want anyone to 'support' my adultery...or cheating, should I choose to resort to it. It would be my choice. And like every other choice, it would have consequences. Which I would 'choose' to take on as well when I make that kind of a choice, however hypothetical.

(Just to clarify, for the purposes of the rest of this post, consequences do not imply 'bad things', no matter how threatening the word seems to sound. It is simply referring to the inevitable, minus any value judgment at all)

The problem is, choice is a complicated concept. And to view it only from the lens of feminism or anti-feminism or any other 'ism' for that matter will inevitably lead to oversimplification. As it has in the current instance. Nuances will be lost and somewhere, so will be the idea of choice.

Of course cheating or supporting cheating is not empowering. Having sex outside marriage is not empowering...for men or for women. But, the choice to do so, if they are willing to face the consequences. definitely is. And that is a fine line.

The argument is not about sex. Or clothes. Or partners. Or professions. It is about having a choice. Choices will have consequences. I will not cheat if I do not want to be cheated with. But, I may be okay with the idea of open marriages and then the whole arrangement takes an altogether different and much more complex hue. The simple part is the choice and the consequences that go with it. 

Videos like Padukone's too tend to oversimplify the idea. Because of course I have the choice to have sex outside marriage. But that shall entail a responsibility of accepting and respecting others' choices to do the same as well.  If my order is your anarchy, I will have the responsibility to bear with it when it is vice-versa. Feminism  cannot be anybody's get out of jail free card. Which is a point that the male version of the video is also trying to make. 

Pot can be biggest feminist in the World. It still does not get to call the kettle black.  

This is not about feminism. This is about choices. Choices have consequences. Free will always comes at a cost. It is not the punch line of a tragic story. It is the truth. What is also a truth is that there is a whole bunch of us out there, again gender notwithstanding, who understand the costs and are willing to bear it. All they want is the choice to make those choices. They can live with them. Or perish. It is their prerogative. And that is the core of all empowerment...that is all that matters! 

Of Enlightenment And Body Hair (AKA How I Got An Epiphany During A Wax Job)

Choti Mata’s Notes : Body hair is not exactly an appetizing choice of topic for anything, least of all a blog post. But hey, Choti Mata has recently been subjected to a particularly tormenting session at the local salon that threatened serious emotional damage lest she vent out her fury. Since, a hands on scuffle on the adjacent road was out of question, she has taken this less damaging (and less dangerous) method of keeping her sanity (or whatever is left of it anyway) intact. 

Disclaimer: The next 1000 or so words might contain stuff that a certain section of population may deem gross. It also contains radioactive traces of that substance called feminism. Don’t like. Don’t Read. And if you haven’t yet mastered the delicate art of navigating away from a page on your browser, feel free to close your eyes and wish it all away. It might just work.

“Arey! I can still see small hair on this finger. Do a thorough job”

It was the 10^th time this statement had been repeated in a span of less than 5 minutes. It was also the 10^th time I had reminded myself that I needed to work on my timing and stop bumping into finicky females during my salon visits. The female in question, who shall henceforth be referred to as ‘pretty woman’ (I am not being sarcastic. She really was pretty) meanwhile seemed totally unfazed and focused on her quest for perfection.

The harrowed salon girl bent further, squinting really hard to see the alleged hairs. They were evidently working very hard to remain unseen. After a few seconds, she conceded defeat in this game of hide and seek and just went on doing what she was expected to do, presumably praying that those hairs would have mercy on her and at least stop being visible in whatever hyper sensitive lens the pretty woman was using to find them.

It was several harrowing minutes later that the pretty woman was marginally satisfied and the poor salon hand could extricate herself from her clutches.  By the time she made it to my side, offering me a tired smile, I was already having a massive empathy attack and was on the verge of walking out, if only to spare her of any further torture.

I did not walk out. I could not. Because I had to be seen in public the next day and even though I had no penchant for the perfection that the pretty lady sought with admirable dedication, I still did not want to go out there looking like I could use a lawn mower.  But I was totally unable to shake off the guilt that seared me every time I told her that I could see hair on my whole goddamn arm.

I hate salon visits. I really do. They tend to make me feel strangely violated. And guilty of being a slave driver. Usually, both at the same time. It is about as disturbing a combination of emotions as it sounds.

But before I delve any further into the meat (or the follicle) of this matter, let me clarify my stand on the elephant in this post.

The body hair.

As a huge fan of body autonomy arguments, I have nothing against individuals, including women, who actively choose to not get their body hair removed.

Yay! to the hairy leg I say, as long as it is a matter of personal choice and makes the individual in question happy. I also expect the same courtesy to be extended to the individuals who choose to get their body hair removed, again strictly as a matter of personal choice.

I have been on both sides of that fence. Because, by the time I had discovered and ventured into the masochistic world of body wax, it was alarmingly late (by teenage esteem standards anyway) and I had already, albeit unintentionally militated against the convention for several years.  

However, after I did cross that fence, the choice to stay there was pretty much deliberate and intentional. Convenient as it was, I realized I just I did not subscribe to the idea of preservation of body hair—mine or anyone else’s. (Loose translation: Hairy individuals=big turn off) But as I said, I respect personal choices. Including the extreme ones—like the choice to prance around like a baboon. I am cool—as long they are not making mating calls in my vicinity.

So, I don’t like body hair. Which against the background of my absolute aversion to salon visits is a preference that ends up being a massive pain.

Still, prudence tends to score over petulance and most times, I am able to make it to a salon before things get out of hands. However, as I mentioned before, I totally lack the penchant for perfection that the pretty lady exhibited and tend to prefer my stay in the salon confines to be as short as possible. It is hence rare for me to get anything beyond the obvious out of my salon visits—least of all, a food for thought topped with an epiphany.

This time, it was different. Different because, sitting there, watching the pretty woman getting all worked up over five stray hair on her finger--it got me thinking.

It got me thinking about the sad world that the pretty woman seemed to belong to. The world where people managed to tear their eyes off her undeniably attractive face and focus on a bunch of invisible hair on her arm.

Then, a terrifying realization came crashing down on me. The realization that perhaps we belong to the same world. The world where the possibility of me being judged by the quality of my wax job was much higher than me being judged for anything remotely more substantial—what I have to say for example.

There is enough evidence around to support that particular conclusion. A thriving cosmetics industry,;an even more thriving advertisement industry that seems to find the core of all its creativity around women’s body; body image issues that seem more like an endemic and the pages of the Hindi daily that were lying open in front of me and telling me how turmeric was the only treasure that I needed in my life because it would keep my skin glowing.  

It was a terrible realization. It made me want to throw up.

I left the salon within next 15 minutes. The bright light day made me see things a little more clearly.

Then I had that epiphany.

I did not spend any more time in the salon than I had to. The pretty woman did not spend any less time in there than she wanted to.  And we were both off on our merry ways, none less or more in worth than the other.

Perhaps, my horrifying realization was true. Perhaps, our world is indeed very shallow. Perhaps, they are out there—judging us within their shallow understanding of an individual’s (especially when the individual is referred to as ‘she’) worth.

And yet, just like the body hair, this too is a matter of personal choice. My personal choice of the extent to which I allow myself to be judged. Or be judged at all. And just like body hair, neither side of the fence is wrong. Not really. Not as long as the so called choice is actually personal and not a product of external conditioning.

There shall always be judgments. It is inevitable. But, subscribing to those judgments is a choice. Being governed by those judgments is a choice.

Being judged is always a choice. Please feel free to say no!   

Women Ahoy! Say What? Say No!!!

Choti Mata had an epiphany while shaking off her post Holi stupor. She needed to blog. And so, Choti Mata is back, this time talking about pointlessness of burning bras and the importance of the idea of ‘saying no’, even when it is not about sexual advances.  

Choti Mata doesn’t advocate bra-burning feminism. Because it is a misguided epithet. And because bras are expensive. But Choti Mata is all in for reasoned feminism—you know the one that does not mindlessly label all male species of the planet as vicious, uncivilized creatures with only one properly functioning organ and a sinister, destructive, violent agenda against everything that moves and is referred to as ‘she’.  Because that too is a misguided, oversimplified generalization. Because Choti Mata hates a lot of things—and bigotry tops that list. And because it is hardly prudent to antagonize what constitutes half the population of this planet.

 

Also because Choti Mata thinks male species, at least the human one, is needed. For business. And for pleasure.

That being said, there are things that are bothersome—within and without the realms of feminism. It is unfortunate that because realms of feminism sometimes overlap with realms of reasonable expectations—it is easy to dismiss even reasonable expectations as frustrated, pointless tirades of feminist hags. Because nothing is classier than putting those people down who dare to raise their voices for their legitimate rights.

So there are things that bother us as right thinking individuals—feminist moorings notwithstanding.  Like our right to say ‘no’. Or the lack of it. And I am not even talking about advances—sexual or otherwise. I am still stuck on the decisions that pertain to our life—like what I would like to have for dinner? Of who would I like to marry and spend the rest of my life with?

An acquaintance was recently gushing about a girl he knew who was so obedient, she did not even bother meeting her ‘would be’ husband chosen by her family before marriage. Because you know, father knows the best and if he is happy, so is she.

I think this was the point of the conversation where I was supposed to say something appropriate in response. Or at least make some approving sound. I couldn’t. I was too busy trying not to gag.

Completely ignoring the fact that this scenario sounds like it had been ripped from some legendary Govinda movie of the 80s, it was downright disturbing. And distasteful. And so totally disrespectful of the times we say we are living in—the times of education and opportunities; of freedom and independence; of choices and basic rights to live. The times I am talking about of course are limited to a certain set of people belonging to a certain strata of the society—the urban, educated one. But that is hardly relevant—because the trigger for this post belongs to this very strata while still choosing to behave as if they were stuck in one of the villages Shyam Benegal used to make movies about. Or the ones that exist in the real World and think Khap is more powerful than Barak Obama. (Maybe, in their part of the Universe, it is. But that is not the point).

The ability to ‘say no’ is an inherent part of the idea of choice—the idea that is the core of all empowerment. A society that chooses to glorify ‘not saying no’ as a virtue is a society condemning itself to perpetual regression. Unfortunately, it is exactly the kind of society that largely thrives around us. The society where ‘love marriage’ is still a hush word.

This is not an arranged marriage versus love marriage debate. Marriage per se is a touchy topic. Especially for Choti Mata. She might need at least 10 other such post before she gets it entirely out of her system. But that is for later.

Both love and arranged marriage have their own merits and demerits. The arranged marriage scenario is simply an illustration for a prevalent decision making process in our lives—be it the kind of education we should have to the kind of person we should marry. This certainly doesn’t imply that families should not have a say in our decisions. Families have best intentions and our best interest in their heart (unless of course the family is dysfunctional. Or watches too many Sitcoms) and are often an asset in crucial decision making processes. But ultimately, it is our life. We should have a say. A choice. And it should be recognized as a virtue. Not vice. This is a gender neutral aspect of this idea. Because believe it or not, familial and societal pressure are actually a huge issue for men too. Maybe not as huge as women. But still huge. And considering that the idea of choice is all encompassing, it has to address everyone.

Coming back to the point of feminism and women, amidst the hue and cry about any and everything concerning women empowerment, the subtle aspects often get left behind. The aspects that play out in perfectly well meaning, educated, loving families.  Just because they are still stuck with an image of a ‘good girl’ that was hard to digest even in the 60s. The one that says a ‘good girl’ knows her house chores, keeps everyone in the family happy, is always prim, proper, appropriate and of course, is supremely obedient.

There goes my gag reflex again.

Not saying that those qualities are not desirable. Maybe they are. Maybe they are not. It is a matter of individual choice. And that is the whole point. I don’t mind being the ‘good girl’. I would just like to have a choice about whether I want to or not. Besides, who said I could not be all of the above and still not have aspects that are wild, improper, unconventional…disobedient.

Because hell we are educated. We are independent. Quite a lot of us are holding out pretty fine in what they call ‘a man’s world’. The last thing you should want us to be is to be prototypes. Of a model that had gone obsolete the year it was created. Just because you think it is appropriate. Safe.

Who is to say that simply because we do not fit in a set of prototypes, we will not be able to accomplish what ‘good girls’ traditionally do? What exactly makes everyone out there presume that just because we break stereotypes, we will not be able to build great families, great societies and everything else that we think needs to be done?

Besides, even if we don’t fulfill our traditional roles, we will at least be leading happy and productive lives—lives that may prove far more valuable to the society than our hankered, subdued, tied down versions ever could be. 

The bottom-line, however, is simple. And it is not about the society or its beliefs. It is far more intimate. It is about family. Families that glorify ‘not saying no’ as a desirable virtue for the female members. Families that don’t think being strong and smart is a worthwhile aspiration for their women.

The only answer to a regressive society is a non-regressive family. The family that can teach its women to fight and survive. To make it count. A society may not be open to change—but if families are, we will have a lot of ground covered. And have a lot of hope for the future.

Ultimately, if you preen at the idea of your obedient daughter submitting to your every command now; you better be prepared to preen when she quietly subjects herself to domestic violence, never saying a word. Or when she bears with ill-treatment and molestation without ever standing up for herself.

Because it was you who taught her never to raise a voice. Because it was you who taught her that standing up against what is wrong is unacceptable. Because it was you who taught her that staying silent is her only resort.

Because it was you who taught her that ‘saying no’ is a bad thing.   

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!