I’LL HAVE A HOT CUP OF EMBARRASSMENT. MAKE IT EXTRA BITTER, PLEASE!

This is a post most of you may not be able to relate to, especially if you’re one of those always-fun-to-be-around, always-surrounded-by-happy-friends, always-having-the-time-of-your-life kind of person. But I’m sure there are quite a number of people like me out there and that they have certainly been in the type of situation I’m about to mention, at least once in their lives.

It’s that horrible moment when you are surrounded by laughing companions but you feel like the loneliest island in the deepest, most isolated waters. It’s that sinking feeling you get when you are at a crowded table and you feel so small, you could pass for Thumbelina’s younger sibling. If only you could crawl into that salt shaker and curl up there till it’s all over. Or perhaps an assassin could shoot you down quietly, with one of those uber-cool poison darts thingys. I mean, it’s not exactly like the people making merry around you would notice even if you were struck down by lightning right where you sit.

I guess those people who have it all, who have been brought up in a cocoon of happiness, who are free to do think and do as they please, who are never fazed by new faces and are eager to befriend everyone in sight, never pause to consider the feelings of the less fortunate. They have been so blinded by the rainbows that follow them around that they find it difficult to empathize with the less outgoing, more reticent people.

I speak for those socially awkward people when I say, you simply have to give us a chance to be 

comfortable with you, before judging us as timid or easily led. I am not saying I’m not capable of socializing. But I’m a piss poor conversation starter. If you’re so amazing and all that, why don’t you just try to make me feel at ease in your company instead of treating me like I’m part of the interior décor?

I do talk, and by talk, I mean blabber. A lot. But I can be myself only around those people who make me feel good in my skin. Not people who make me self-conscious, or those who act like they are above everyone else. It’s annoying when you run down to meet a friend, whom you absolutely love to spend time with, and who shows up in town only once a blue moon, and that person blows you off  for someone you don’t even know! What makes it worse is when that unsuspecting friend tries to get you all together at one table for coffee and you feel yourself starting to get more communicative with the coffee-mug than anyone else there. It’s aggravating! Absolutely maddening!

Thrust me into the company of total strangers (who are boring as hell, might I add) and act like we’ve never met. Oh! My! God! (Janice-style) Aren't you the most fantabulous friend ever!

I mean, Excuse me! But I’m not here to learn the menu by heart, while you all sit and chatter away merrily about things I can’t make head or tail of! This is all pig Latin to me. I*Yawn* Hmmm…perhaps it’s time you steered the conversation out of these boring topics that only you two can laugh  about and started treating me like I’m more than a deaf-mute marble pillar?

Private jokes at a public gathering? Hello! Could you possibly sink any lower in my esteem for you!

Please ignore that stoned-happy expression on my face. No, it’s not because I’m bored. I’m actually having fun, blowing up your stupid faces over and over again with the imaginary bazookas in my head.*Sigh* We should definitely do this more often, yáll!

If I have ever done this to anyone, I take a moment to apologize profusely. I admit it’s hard to imagine the pain the other person is going through, until you actually are the other person. If I have made you feel left out, or consider yourself as a third wheel, then, as friend, I have let you down and I am ashamed of my conduct. I know it’s not an easy slight to forgive, I’m still simmering over what I went through, but do find it in your heart to pardon me just this once. This is one mistake I will never repeat.

Trained to WED!

For most girls in Kerala, especially those belonging to communities who believe in child marriage, twenty something is the age when you experience a mid-life crisis. Because, according to our wise elders, twenty is the age when a properly functioning female is supposed to be fully prepared to give up her whole life and start anew.

I kid you not. It’s like there’s this switch that flips when you hit twenty and suddenly, you go from a clumsy, socially awkward teenager to a mature responsible adult, the epitome of grace and sophistication. You go from gawky and tousle haired to “wifey material” to all the eligible bachelors out there. You go from faded jeans and old tees to sarees and bangles and long earrings. In other words, you go from fun and spontaneous to ditch water dull.

Which is all well and good. If you ever achieve that level of perfection straight from the beat. There are those cutesy girly girls who are very much suited to this Herculean task. It’s like they’ve been waiting their whole life to embrace this sudden attention to their every action. Uncles and aunts gushing over how you grew up so fast, how you were in diapers only the day before (hell, I know I still am!). Constant reminders to stop slouching, to learn to cook and walk with poise are issued, military style. Endless streams of marriage proposals from balding old guys (who could pass for your father in poor lighting conditions) pelt you left and right.

Then there are the poor sods like myself who are in for a rude awakening as soon as we cross over to the other side of twenty. We realise that while our comrades flit hither and thither like graceful little butterflies, the zippers of our caterpillar costumes are stuck. Oh no, no metamorphosis for us! Nada! We’re going to be gawky a while longer. A considerable while longer; because our caterpillar-suit zippers seem to have vanished altogether!

There are a number of definitions for a mid-life crisis. Google defines it as “an emotional crisis of identity and self-confidence that can occur in early middle age”, “a period of psychological stress occurring in middle age”, “a period of emotional turmoil in middle age characterized especially by a strong desire for change”. All these definitions basically stress the same words; middle age. But that is not a luxury afforded to many young girls, even in this supposedly progressive era. You’re born, you’re twenty, you marry, you make babies, and you die. Hush, child! No back-answering!

I like to get up late on weekends (and college days too, unfortunately) and rush about half dressed while my mum tries to shovel some breakfast into my mouth. I like taking my time to laze about and driving my mum up the wall trying to find a pair of matching socks. I like fighting with my little brother for no reason whatsoever, other than the satisfaction of punching him just to make him chase me around the house. I like to wear the first thing that touches my hand when I stick it into the cupboard and I find my mum’s consequent reproaches endearing. And boy, do I love to spend half the day stuffing my face while watching reruns of old cartoons and F.R.I.E.N.D.S and the other half sleeping like a log!

Now they want me to give all that up to cook, clean and wash the underpants of a total stranger? No, thank you, I say! I’d rather spend the day driving everyone around me nuts.

It’s sad that my parents want me to get married so soon. Life begins after college. After getting a job, the excitement of moving into my very own apartments, partying all weekend long and slogging through the work days and getting a fat(hopefully) cheque at the end of the month. There are so many places I want to travel to, some with family, some with friends and some alone, to contemplate. And this I want to do without having to lug around the extra luggage that says “hubby” on the label. I want to meet new and exciting people and go trekking and white water rafting and parachute diving. I want to make mistakes and learn from them, and then make a few more just for the heck of it. I want to stumble and fall and bleed, if only to rise up stronger and more confident than before. I want to be myself, simply me, and not be judged. I’m not saying I want to die alone, but if I choose to stay single, I should be given the option to. I would love to get married, I really do love reception food and it’s a great big party with pretty lights and all the people I love in the same room. I mean, who wouldn’t love to get married to the man of their dreams? But hey, give me a chance to find myself before I find him.

All my life, I live trying to please my parents and after a certain period of time they hand me over to another guy with a fat dowry(an evil I will in no way tolerate) and a bucketful of blessings. So I spend twenty years of my life the way my parents want me to(which is fine, I love them that much) , a few more trying to get my bearings in a new family and the rest of my life trying to raise a family of my own. Isn’t that rather unfair? I mean, when do I get to fulfil my dreams and chase my own happiness? Where is the big break between living for my parents and starting a new life where I get to enjoy some “me-time” and discover just how big the world is?

The responsibilities that come with marriage are mind-boggling! Especially for someone like me, who can’t tell the difference between turmeric powder and coriander leaves. Yes, I’m that bad in the kitchen. So if I were to marry right now, the only options are to eat out every day and die from obesity or watch the telly all night, while slowly dying from starvation.

Why can’t I worry about grades and scabs like normal people my age all over the world rather than snubbing the throngs of annoying relatives who are dying to burden me with a guy whose hairline has receded more than the shoreline of the Lost City of Atlantis, with “boring “tattooed all over his face?

I’m worried all this worrying will cause me to wrinkle prematurely. And I haven’t even begun my life yet.

A Toast to my Country

“It is only an error in judgement to make a mistake, but it shows infirmity of character to adhere to it when discovered.”

As far as I can remember, I had always scorned excessive displays of patriotism. I never seemed to be able to sing the national anthem with the fiery zest I’d noticed in some. I had often wondered what is that I lacked which made me so immune to my own country’s achievements.

My dad tries time and again to instill some amount of national pride in me. He cheers up visibly whenever India is acknowledged by the media and tries hard to keep up a perky banter about how fantastic it is to be part of such a great nation. He talks at length about how he prefers the lush green foliage and ‘natural’ feel of India to the dusty deserts and ‘artificial beauty’ that UAE offers. I argue that flora growing wild isn't necessarily my idea of beauty.

He tries to make me listen to Hindi songs. He buys me all kinds of vibrant ‘Indian’ clothes. He treats home-made food like manna from heaven and forces it upon me, those disgusting combinations of tapioca and coconut chutney. He takes me to watch movies in my mother tongue, promising heavy bribes in return for agreeing to sit through the entire premiere with good grace. He talks about cricket and how promising so-and-so of the Indian cricket team is and struggles valiantly, but vainly, to keep me posted on new matches and players.

I recall him going bananas once when the RJ announced that India had won some coveted trophy, swiveling from the front seat with such a huge grin plastered across his face that anyone would, for a moment, think that he himself was responsible (in some big way) for India’s triumph. I can’t help but pose the question, “Millions of people in India suffer on a daily basis for those basic commodities which most of us take for granted. Wouldn't Indians benefit enormously if they stopped splurging money on inconsequential amusements such as cricket (say), and invested it properly to bring about the much needed change in its financial condition?”

Dad looks like a pricked balloon for a few seconds, but he’s back in the game in next to no time with an inspirational comeback! “India is a developing nation. We are rich in raw materials. We have an abundance of human resources. It’s no small feat, what we have achieved in such a short time, after the British left behind utter chaos. We have come a long way after independence. We've pulled ourselves up from the smoldering remains of slavery and plunder and we’re well on our way to becoming one of the greatest nations of the world, if not the greatest. We are rich not only in monetary aspects, but also in culture and diversity. And cricket is one way of getting India on the international map.”

I know better than to retort, so I sit back and listen to him analyzing the strengths of family relations in India and those in foreign countries. No surprises about who gets to take home the accolades.

I used to love the vacations we spent in Kerala, which usually coincided with the monsoon season. The ride from the airport to my maternal grandma’s house used to be one of the highlights of the entire trip for me and my little brother. We used to drink in the diverse little wonders along the way; the beautiful seaside, with its monstrous waves, undulating with a fierce yet fascinating rhythm; people running to and fro to escape a sudden bout of fury unleashed by the heavens and the thatched mud houses miraculously withstanding the pounding of the rain. We wished we could join the half-dressed striplings running around cracked and overgrown wells, and welcome the rainy season with them, drenched in rain and joyful yells.

Just gazing at the world through rain-streaked car windows used to shift the gears of my perspective. Each blessed crystal drop is unique in its beauty; I believed each one had a special story for my ears alone. It’s hard to imagine all the places they have seen, all the people they have touched. If it were not for the phenomenon of surface tension holding each drop together, I could swear they would burst on touch like an over-ripe pomegranate, spilling wondrous tales of magical journeys. It made me wonder at all the injustice in the world, about all the lives searing anguish at that very moment, trampled upon by the vicious cycle of poverty, set in motion by those who hold power.

The rain made me glad I was alive, that I could see, feel and experience such exquisite loveliness. I felt blessed. I felt that I could make a change, and I was yearning to change so much about the world which struck me as unjust. I felt humbled by the poverty-stricken environment I saw around me, and I saw hope when I glimpsed the smiles worn by those who struggle ceaselessly to make both ends meet. When I heard laughter emanating from the dregs of misery, I felt inspired.

Some incidents, however, wounded me to such extents that I was loathe to step foot on my own soil. I still distinctly recall one such episode I witnessed at the airport. My family was strapped in and zooming towards the exit, when my searching eyes lingered on a large family, obviously well-to-do, loading an expensive-looking car. Every member of that cosy unit, from the overdressed uncles and the aunties bowed down with the weight of gold to the over-nourished kids, assiduously overlooked a handicapped beggar who was literally crawling at their feet for a few coins to satisfy his constantly aching stomach. I saw him flash by for a mere second, but that second was all it took to etch every pitiful detail of his pathetic existence into my mind. The tattered and grimy clothes, completely incapable of shielding his weak body from the biting cold wind, his pencil-thin legs curled limply on the worn-out wooden board on which he dragged himself around, the matted hair hugging his face, shielding the bedlam of emotions on his countenance.

The longing in his eyes and the patient smile omnipresent on his lips, even when he was being treated like less than dirt, changed something in me forever. I can’t define what has changed; I only know that something has. That one could be so callous to ones ’own blood is terrifying.

I’m trying hard to stop taking things for granted, but of course, I slip up now and then, sometimes rampantly. I’m only human, and I’m nowhere near perfect. But I’m content in the knowledge that I’m striving to become a better human being, one that is not blinded by the good things in life. I do not wish to be complacent with the way of the world; I would rather attempt to see past the dazzling splendors of life, deep into the labyrinths of harsh reality. Instead of staggering in the face of adversity, I wish to be emotionally equipped to embrace each new day with a welcoming smile, and a steady state of mind. 

At Your Service, Your Highness!

So you’re a senior. Big deal.

I’m not sure why people don’t seem to realize the fact that if you join an institution which has courses longer than a year, you’re bound to end up a senior someday (unless of course, you’re flunking every course except the ignoble course of Booze and Pot Practical). So if you are not a disaster in every respect, it’s as natural as breathing to become a senior eventually. It does not warrant you any special powers, or the right to lord over others. You’re just another face in the crowd. And not a very pleasant one at that, if you refuse to get off your high horse once in a while.

It’s sad when a bunch of people who are supposed to exhibit model behavior choose to believe that they are superior to others because they have lived a year or two longer. Where is the logic in that? Being supercilious does not make you likable or make you appear refined in the eyes of the beholder. Trust me when I say, we just go “what a snob! “every time you decide to get all high-and-mighty on us. Being uncouth and barking out harsh words does not make us respect you. In fact, I believe respect must be earned, not forced. And certainly not extorted by threats and swears.

Before I entered college life, I was never given any exposure to the senior-junior distinction. I come from a culture where all are given equal weightage, and credit is due to those who deserve it based on merit. So it came as a jarring bit of culture shock when I was suddenly thrust into the madness of pretending to look up to people you really don’t give half a damn about. I honestly can’t bring myself to smile at a stranger on campus any longer, because it might provoke them to lecture me about how “one must never grin at seniors. It’s disrespectful and makes one look cocky”. Oh, okay, sir! Yes sir, I will bow my head in deference each time I see your holiness or any one of your royal clan, and scuttle along like the peasant that I am! I dare not meet your eyes or form coherent sentences in your presence! NO SIR! That was not a smile! My lips were just twitching from nervousness! Forgive me, your highness, I beseech you! I shall never smile again!

I’m not talking about ragging, which is another issue altogether. What I’m talking about is the culture you exhibit. When you live in a society, the way in which one acts or conducts oneself to others is very important. We are all social animals, after all, and we must behave appropriately. Your attitude towards others is telling of not only your character, it also hints at your upbringing.

One must accept all sorts of people from all walks of life, because everyone is unique in their own way. Sometimes, we choose bond with others on the basis of how much we have in common. But it is the little quirks of that person that we grow to love; their characteristic traits that set them apart from others. It is these differences that make people interesting and their idiosyncrasies that we find amusing. Imagine how boring and predictable every single day would be if we could mould the thoughts and actions of those around us to suit ourselves. Some people have behavioral characters that you like, some you loathe. It’s important not to forget that there are some out there who probably doesn't like some of your mannerisms either. Live and let live.

It’s time to set aside your inflated egos and remove that chip from your shoulder.

It’s quite common to come across senior students giving the younger students quite a tongue-lashing for increasingly stupid reasons such as growing a beard longer than the seniors or wearing sneakers. I mean, woah! I've been thinking it over, this these mindless commands seniors issue, and have come across only one logical conclusion. You have an inferiority complex, mister! One that is so big, it can be seen from outer space! You are constantly ridiculed for your inadequacies and you feel worthless and small. So you take out your frustrations on the only people in college without a voice, the first years. You need ways to feed your ego and these hapless victims are easy prey, terrified as they are of upsetting a senior. Please, get a hold of yourselves, people! Well brought up humans have a broader perspective to life and are above such shallow behavior.

So a meeting you called together did not happen. That does not mean that it’s okay to be rude to the next junior who happens to show up. It reflects only on your upbringing that you can’t keep a cool demeanor in spite of your anger, and deal with it in a level headed way. Because, irrespective of how much you swell up like a bullfrog and how sharp edged your voice may sound, there is no denying the fact that your organizing skills are poor. So why not conserve the energy you use to bloat up, and utilize it to work on improving your managerial talents?

So an event did not have adequate participation. That does not entitle you to go all Hitler on every junior in sight. Consider this, they might have shown up if you were nice about it in the first place, instead of ordering them about like the slave driver that you are! Why not try to build positive relations with those around you, relations that are built on friendship and mutual respect, as opposed to those tainted by distrust and mutual dislike?

Sure, it’s only supposed to last as long as the first year of college, but it leaves a lasting impression on our minds. As far as seniors are concerned, we are not so free with our smiles or lavish with our affections anymore. Why get off on the wrong start? Yes, maybe your seniors were rude; they did to you all the crappy things you do to us. So you vent by doing the exact same thing to us.  And the cycle of ugliness continues.

I believe it’s about time we stepped forward to break this cycle and extend a warm welcome to every new person in our lives.

Let me end on a positive note. There are some lovely seniors out there, ever so ready with a friendly gesture, a helping hand, and to them I say kudos! You are spectacular examples I would love to follow. And it is these few that shine as a beacon of hope for those of us struggling to fit in. And for that, we love you. You have our respect. 

To Love, or Not to Love, That is The Question…

Grown-ups have a great many things they like to grumble about. The traffic, the weather, loud noises, unnecessary expenses, the neighbours’ kids…the list is endless. The constant source of worry for an average parent is meeting the exorbitant expenses of their spoilt brat, so it is only natural that they fuss over money all the time. Or rather,  the lack of it. Let them have this one.

What amuses me is this. Students, whose only worry should be getting good quality education, or in the case of some, scraping up the pass marks, worry relentlessly around this time of year.

And no, it’s not the finals that have them ripping their hair out in frustration. It’s not the dreaded university exams that have them up all night worrying, running through endless flasks of coffee. It is the stress associated with the D-day; Valentines ‘day. The pressure of coming up with a suitable way to impress the guy/girl they had proclaimed their love for is high. And for those guys yet unfortunate in love, it is the once-a-year chance to impress the girl that they have been crushing on since forever, but lacked the guts to ask out.

The guys groan in unison over the sudden hole in their wallet as they fall over themselves to splurge on unnecessary extravaganzas to impress their lady-love. They seem to be under the impression that the love they receive is directly proportional to the amount of money they are willing to lavish on their girl, which is quite sad. It is fantastic that guys are so eager to spend their last dime on girls who would ditch them in the blink of an eye for a bigger box of chocolates or a fluffier teddy bear. They willingly enter a territory unfamiliar to their testosterone- driven world and are seen trying to shop for clothes, jewellery and overpriced makeup, looking like lost puppies in a thunderstorm. Which I guess is a little sweet on some level, considering that these guys can’t tell mascara and eyeliner apart for all the tea in China.

The girls whine and fuss over how best to display their love for their valentine and spend days scourging the malls for the perfect perfume or the right pair of boots. They then spend hours on the phone giggling over how perfect they want the day to be and even more hours at the spa pruning and scrubbing and getting waxed in order to look just right for the “very-surprise-date that he has planned”. Which is obviously not much of a surprise if you started shopping for dresses for date-night like a month ago.

It’s bad enough that there is this day that is chockfull of expectations that one is expected to oblige. Then there’s the added burden of trying to pick out a suitable gift. We give up a fat wad of cash to purchase things that add a dash of glamour to one lousy day and then then gather dust in a corner; things that bring us no lasting joy and are perfectly worthless after 24 short hours. If you want to make a present of something, might as well make it useful. Because let’s face it, big fat teddy bears do nothing except sit at the foot of your bed with intensely creepy stares in the half-light. A new pair of shoelaces would be so much more productive. Chances are, it’ll make her think of you at least when she jogs.

What makes it worse is that there’s a whole week leading up to it, each day named after another large denomination of your years’ worth of pocket money. And anyway, why do we wait for Rose Day to give a rose to show someone we care about? Why not surprise your loved one with a rose when the fancy strikes? Or share a huge box of chocolaty satisfaction with the person you love spending time with?

Now, I have nothing against Valentines’ Day. Romance, bring it on! I’m all for it, as long as it is the real deal. It’s completely okay to go overboard for a person who you sincerely believe is the right one for you. But that’s where most of us go wrong. We never seem to be able to distinguish between true love and puppy love.

I believe that for those in love, every day is a celebration of their togetherness. It needn’t be limited to once in every 365 days. And it mustn’t be adorned with price tags.

Cuddly toys are not what define your love. Chocolates are not what symbolises that special feeling only your significant other can give you. It’s not laminated cards with glitter on them that should speak of your affection for one another. It’s your thoughts, words and deeds. If you truly love a person, treat them with respect, accept them as equals and show them how much they mean to you through your actions.

You don’t come across true love in the vegetable isle, so you might as well hold on to it, if you are lucky enough to have found it.

As for those still scrambling to find a date to celebrate V-Day with, here’s a suggestion. Valentines ‘day need not be spent with lovers alone. It is celebrated to honour a martyr, not a couple of star-struck lovers. It represents not just love, but sacrifice. So why not make it special for those people who have sacrificed countless comforts in order to ensure your happiness? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you dropped by to see your grandparents on February 14^th, armed with your grandpas’ favourite box of chocolates and a big bouquet of those yellow roses that your grandma absolutely adores? Think of the joy you would give them, those dear old souls who have loved you since the day you were born. Or take some time off your ‘busy schedule’ to tell your parents that you love them, let them know you appreciate everything they’re doing for you. Get your baby brother or sister a toy that they have been craving, treat them to an outing and as much ice-cream as their little tummies can hold.

It’s always better to wait for love to come to you, rather than chasing after empty promises of love.

Of Cashews, Lizards and Puppet Masters…

Living in a small town (which is little more than a village with its very own railway station) comes with its share of infuriating inconveniences. This quaint little town, mildly famous for its cashews and harbours, might at first seem an attractive place to live blissfully. If you are a tourist with the comforting promise of a home sweet home out there somewhere. But the initial charm wears off quickly enough and one is soon oppressed by the nauseating smells, crowded streets overflowing with garbage and uncouth citizens, dilapidated structures with paan-stained walls and the omnipresent pallor of gloom hanging over the place even on the most scorching of days.

Special mention must be given to the myriad of nasty critters which throng to your residence like it’s their favourite resort and stay put, creating generations of disgusting bugs who call your sanctuary their home. By birth right. The lizards, especially, are nothing you want to wake up to, stuck to the ceiling and observing you with those repulsive eyes. Should I fall on her face or just freak her out by chewing up this butterfly right over her open mouth?  And is it my imagination or do they seem to be getting scalier and more deformed by the hour? Evidently, evolution has done nothing for their looks.

Add to this the tag of being a female and life becomes a one way ticket to hell.

Harder to bear than the stigma of being forced to sleep in the same room as a lizard (ugh) are the social discriminations piled up on girls here, efficiently burying us neck-deep in insecurity and self-deprecation. Life here is easy, if you’re the kind of girl whose life revolves around makeup, clothes, boys and the numerous cheap soaps they air to entertain the mind-dead. You are considered a perfect daughter if you can’t wait to finish your most basic of education so that you may get on with your life’s ambition, the sole reason to your existence, i.e., marry and make lots of babies. Woe betides you if you have something a bit more ambitious in mind, like, I don’t know, getting the hell out of here!

In our present world, the moment you are born a girl, certain doors of opportunity get slammed in your face, amongst them security and a right to equality. That seems trivial compared to the doors that bang shut if a girl steps foot inside the close knit society of idiots who have the rein of “God’s Own Country”(let me take a moment here to snort rudely into my handkerchief.)

Restrictions at every turn are bound to get to you eventually. It leeches you off emotion, kills your fight. Each waking moment is a painful exercise in dealing with the crushing emptiness of having others make your decisions for you, telling you when and how to talk, walk, dress and make babies. Girls are meant to be seen. Not heard. They are there to be leered at, to ogle shamelessly, to berate and put on a puppet show. Not to respect.

In stark contrast to this misery, the males of this small town get to stride about as if they own the place. In all fairness, they do. Sometimes, I wonder what it must feel like to be in control, to be able to stand on your own feet without the fear of everyone you know turning against you. Is it that these guys, who share the same air as we do, are too complacent with their lives to try to make ours easier? It doesn’t affect us. So let them suffer.  Do they spare a thought to how we are reduced to helpless, hopeless wretches so that they may feel in control?

Why must the women be restrained in order to maintain social decorum? Why can’t we enjoy the same rights as men? For our safety, you say.

Now consider this. What evil do we need to be saved from?

It can’t be that we can’t leave our homes alone after 6 in case we are chased down by a pack of rabid dogs. Surely the men face the same danger. Surely they are not immune to anything nature has to offer. In front of God’s fury, they are as vulnerable as we are.

This leaves the obvious answer. The only evil threatening our safety is men.

The feral dogs who terrorize us are the same ones who shackle us to “protect “us. Protect us from themselves and their brothers.

Where, I ask, is the justice in this system? Why do we take it for granted that we women must live in the corner of our homes, why do we tolerate this form of slavery? Because trust me when I say, slavery is not a thing of the past in India. It is part of our daily life. And by the looks of things, it will be our beautiful future!

Pariah /pəˈraɪə; ˈpærɪə/ (noun) - An Outcast

There are so many things I could be doing in an effort to utilize my time productively. Picking my teeth, willing impossible patterns to come into existence on the paintwork of my room, analyzing the dust motes floating around me, scratching carefully around the latest of my proud collection of battle scars with the Pint-sized Evil Genius I call my brother…really, the possibilities are seemingly endless. So I decided to blog. Because that’s what people seem to do these days, when they are drowning in an ocean of boredom.

Why is there a Pariah in the title, you ask? Well, the simple truth is that I’m not exactly your typical social butterfly. Far from it, I am socially awkward, painfully shy and speech impaired around strangers. Oh, and I’d run a mile in the opposite direction rather than face an unruly crowd of merry peers. So it’s only logical that I do feel like an outcast from time to time, and prefer to be complacent around a select group of close friends and favorite books rather than running all over the place trying to talk up every bird and bush.

College life is no party. Not when you are a girl studying in Kerala, home to the most parochial sub species of Homo sapiens. It doesn't help that your parents are utterly confused by the undulating waves of advice from the (ahem) ‘’well-meaning’’ crowd of overzealous relatives who are simply falling over themselves to run your life for you.

No thanks, I’d say, but then again, who listens to anything I have to say? Which is a bit inconvenient if you think about it, but not much of a dampener!