Unhealthy Ways of Eating Brown Bread

I was lying on the couch this evening, wondering what the whole point of life was- Nothing to keep my mind occupied, no boyfriend's impending birthday to plan, crap reruns on TV. So I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my friend. I said to him: "What's the point of all this? Why live?", to which, he did not reply. And I lost the last shred of hope that remained.

I was restless, and something had to be done. So I changed the channel. 

As fate would have it, MasterChef was on TV. So, there I sat watching people make potato look golden brown, putting yummy pink salmon on the frying pan, flambe-ing beef in beer, mushrooming all my favourite flavours, making chocolate sauce and generally kicking off my cravings. And I am the unfortunate child of a vegetarian home, without a chance of going out to buy myself some mouth-watering food (for I am broke and the sky then, looked like it would take a piss on me).  

Something had to be done. So, I picked up the remote. No, I could not change the channel and I watched helplessly as one of the judges cut up the little pieces of heaven in a close-up shot. I was doomed. 

I did a kitchen raid and a refrigerator raid in the hope of finding something... anything! But my entire house was devoid of comfort food. Not even a piece of chocolate stuck around. Even Bournvita was replaced by some fancy, over-priced protein powder. All I had was a big loaf of brown bread (BROWN!) and freshly made butter. 

In all my life, my "cooking" was limited to instant noodles and boiled eggs. But today, I, Abhi Mami had the sudden inspiration to improvise on the available ingredients! And I made THIS: 

Abhi Mami's Original: Pepper Butter Bread Fry

I'd be glad to share the recipe with you. Except, I don't know how to do it like they do in recipe books.

By the way, what IS IT about recipe books?? They have the yummiest things to make and the most BORING ways of telling us how to make it! 

So, here's the recipe, Abhi Mami style! I made it, so it goes without saying that you can, too (No, my father and grandmother did not get food poisoned).

What I did was, I gathered my brown bread and butter. Looked through the masala rack and took powdered pepper and randomly, Kitchen King masala (or anything you care to use). I also found an onion rolling somewhere in the bottom of the vegetables, and for the lack of coriander, I used mint leaves (which turned out to be a good thing!). Of course, I needed a tiny bit of cooking oil, too.

What I did was, I chopped up the onion (it isn't funny, believe me! I was crying all the time! And that stupid, stupid knife was so UNYIELDING to my touch!). 

Then I heated some oil in a flat bottomed frying pan and tossed all the onion in it. It sizzled and the onion looked all pretty and pink. There was this wonderful aroma to it, too! That's when instinct took over and I added powdered pepper, quite generously! Just as the onion was getting fully fried, I added the mint leaves. I tossed it around for five seconds and emptied the pan. 

Then came the interesting bit.

I put a big chunk of fresh butter in the pan, which instantly sizzled and bubbled and melted like my heart does every time I see a man with firm buttocks. And I immediately added the masala (you can use any masala, I think. Even chilli powder if you're daring enough). Right after that, I tossed the brown bread in the pan. Ah, that was the moment of satisfaction! I watched as the brown bread soaked up all the butter in an instant! And I had to immediately add MORE butter and masala because it was disappearing... Like THAT! By the time it was fried in butter on both sides, the brown bread looked truly edible and heart-warmingly golden!

I "plated-up" the fried, gluttonous brown bread and put my onion and mint all over it. Oh, you should make it! You MUST make it! There was a carnival on my tongue! Butter, pepper, onion, mint and brown bread that finally did not taste like card-board! 

Ah, the life! Ah, the couch! Ah, MasterChef! 

Now, in conclusion, I must add that you can improvise this recipe any which way you like. But, a request from the creator- do NOT replace the brown bread. Yes, it will work out just as well with any other bread, maybe it will even taste better! But this recipe is a revenge against brown bread *evil laugh*

Nothing will give you more satisfaction than exorcising the card-board effect of brown bread and killing its over-rated appeal to middle-aged, cranky andro-pausal fathers. 

That being said, not long after I ate my Pepper Butter Bread Fry (and loads of it!), my mum sent me on an errand which ended in a one-kilometre brisk walk. So much for decadence!

The F-Word in Moderation

Anyone who has known me or has read my blog will agree that I need some serious grounding. I'm as loud, indecent and dangerous as all the fireworks of Diwali going off at once. I sparkle and bang incessantly (yes) and I don't stop at anything. A live-wire on the loose like me is not always pleasant either. With slight bi-polar tendencies and a definite Multiple Personality Disorder, it takes a super-human moderating factor to calm me down.

So, twenty years since the phenomenon called Abhi Mami, the universe finally realized that something had to be done. As a result, the namesake of a certain to-die-for werewolf (read Twilight) has been sent to me. You can be sure that he is something more than human mostly because he laughs in the range that only bats can hear (wherein I hear prolonged bouts of silence over the phone) and because he has the ability of controlling me by doing nothing at all. He even makes the perfect replacement for the excessive amounts of coffee I consume- strong, dark and hot- just the way I like it.

This werewolf of mine is so... NORMAL and even toned, with an appropriate laughter length of 1.618 seconds; proper and decent and un-flirty. 

Un-flirty, but prefers to give me surprise visits, and personalized autographed copies of poems from a writer I love, pick up souvenirs for me from visits to historical tourist spots and indulges my (already) decadent palate to CHOCOLATE SANDWICHES! *sigh*

Like this but Better.

He also has a valuable nutritive quality. He is my daily hard-boiled egg. Needs cracking but has an excellent sense of humor underneath- refined and super-human, again, and certainly healthy and therapeutic for my addled brains. 

My werewolf once said to me: "Who's your daddy? You or me?"

But that was only the answer to: "What did the chicken say to the egg?"

(A nature versus nurture, et cetera debate was supposed to spring out of that)

His gentlemanly manner and constraint has had a binding influence on my usually uncouth social behaviour and has colonized and controlled my flirting etiquette. However, it took him three whole months of knowing me to finally mention the F-word. He only mentioned it. But we don't really do it. At least, not often. Or very blatantly. We even conceal ourselves from each other most of the times. And then we pretend that nothing happened. We implement the F-word every now and then, and it lasts all for about five minutes. It is rather fun I must say, and he always makes me want more.

Yes, we Flirt these days. But in moderation.

The Death of LOL :D :) :( ;(

I feel like replacing my instant coffee with filter coffee, sit back Mami style and read long copy advertisements (Idea Courtesy: Joseph Thomas). I might even pick up some paper and write a letter to a friend. A five-rupee stamp would indeed be a lot cheaper than making a phone call, because as chick protocol goes, call duration can not be lesser than 40 minutes.

But what about SMSs?

Well, there is a 15-day ban on texting. We are only allowed to send up to 5 text messages a day until September 1st, 2012. I am absolutely not complaining. If matters were left to me, I'd even extend the ban. But hear me out before you come after me with your chappals-

We frustrated, pro-tunnel syndrome text addicts are yanking our hair out, drumming and tapping random things, and even biting nails to keep our fingers occupied. We keep checking our phone for a new message, only to find that our dearest BFFs have deserted us. We feel special if someone sends us a message, and if the same person sends all five of his messages to us in a day, we consider him worth marrying. We live in a strange world, to be measuring 'True Love' in terms of text messages!

I see several advantages of not being able to text:

1. 'To Text'- which is wrong grammar, by the way, can no longer be used as a verb.

2. Since you MUST call, I'd like to see if you talk like you text:
"see-en you see-em?" formerly known as "cn u cm?"
"LOL LOL smiley smiley" formerly known as "LOL LOL. :) :)"

3. Flirt, if you must, but don't reduce it to "sexting". No one, I'm sure, would call up someone and bombard them with phone sex. Therefore, it is safe to predict that any love birds that find each other in the next couple of weeks will have a really nice, clean and possibly long lasting love story.

4. No time pass, no time waste. We all have the opportunity to learn the meaning of 'Emergency' and we'll reserve our SMSs for REAL emergencies.

5. You'll realize you have a lot of free time on your hands and you will become more productive (Third blog post in three days, ladies and gentlemen). I'd recommend de-activating your Facebook account to become even more productive (Inactive between January and June 2011 and COMPLETELY worth it). If you decide to do so, let me know so I can mail the links of my future blog posts to you (or follow my blog!).

6. Calling up people will ensure sufficiently meaningful conversations and will also improve the average attention span.

7. Most of all, we'll lose the LOL, the inability to end a conversation without awkwardness, and shed all our meaningless smileys and replace them with real words.

So, the Death of LOL is a pretty good thing, if you ask me. May LOL rest in peace- as static and as dead as it was when it was alive. 

Why I Need an Early Menopause: The Rant

Maybe it's the hormone spill-over or something but in between sending hate mails to people I don't really hate and resenting my actions in general, there comes a time when I see my blood shed. A break within the break from normality when I'm reminded that- oopsie, we've got a bloody problem here.

I've gone over this for exactly one hundred months as of today. Ever since it started for the first time. The very bloody menarche. I'm no great with the biology of it but I really do try to rationalize the foul mood and the bad behaviour that stems out of it due to all this hormone curdling during one's menstrual cycle.

After every little girl's initial shock towards the blood, she learns to de-sensitize herself to it. She's conditioned to think of it all as "a natural process" and "it must happen" and "that's how it is". This mute acceptance and the ability to ignore the constant discomfort and pain is a skill that she must acquire. I was "gifted" with the ability to nurture a baby within me a little before the age of 12. Little girls these days receive this "gift" as early as when they are 8 years old (due to various factors and that's another story).

Have you ever stepped back from it and looked at it as something that is other than a necessary evil? Why the hormones? Why the blood-shedding? Why the foul mood?

What is it like for a woman to discover that her body worked for an entire month, gathering every particle of extra energy, consuming her nutrition to create a bed of blood in her womb for a life that never happened?
What is it like for a woman to know that it will happen again in another month's time?

What is it like for a woman to stand in her bathroom and look at the body she lives in and suddenly hate the ugliness of it?
How disorienting it must be for her- especially since it was the same body she admired just two weeks ago when she ovulated?

What is it like for a woman to lean against her bathroom wall, blacking out? What is it like for her to see her blood flow out uselessly? Her BLOOD.

I saw the tissue lining of my uterus leave me today- a soft blob with a semi-solid consistency on the bathroom floor. It was a part of me that was dead. It was a part of a prospective somebody that was dead. It had to go because it had hit a certain expiration date and my body could not afford to keep something stale inside me.

I know for a fact that my body made that blood bed with love. Biology textbooks call it the "placenta" but today, it looked like the neglected earth that was meant for the seeds of the future. And as I write this, my eyes foolishly fill up with tears.

It is in my nature to want to be a mother. No wonder my hormones protest when body isn't given what it wants. I am reminded of an entry from the Journals of Sylvia Plath. It goes like this:

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to the fine print, the swift, coloured motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolescence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning , bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is. 

Similarly, I see how evolution has streamlined us to modern times. I feel that the bestial purity was best. A nature versus nurture struggle happens between my head and my womb. I sit here, pajamas stretched taut against my cushioning stomach and curving hips. I don't feel fat. I merely feel domestic. There is some innate compulsion to reproduce that I cannot deny myself.

On the other hand, I know I cannot sit around wanting to be a mommy. I know I have an internship report to hand in. I know I have some assignments to do right away. I cannot want to be domestic when I have to complete my B.A, M.A, M.Phil and several Ph.Ds.
'What non-sense! Mother, it seems', snaps Rationality at me.
I cannot escape the holy trinity of Achievement-Fame-Fortune. I cannot plant my bum at home and be a woman.

An early menopause is required. Let's be practical, here. Nobody needs babies in this day and age. Nobody needs a man, either. And there are plenty of babies lying around to be picked up, already, right? Menstruation is SO three generations ago. Why hasn't evolution made it redundant, yet?

'Who are you kidding?'. the motherly womb clucks back. I think of my Prince-Charming-In-Shining-Armour-Holding-The-Door-For-Me. Of course, I need to menstruate! How else will I have Prince Charming's babies? A boy, a boy and a little baby girl.

But in one colossal blow, reality sets on my menopause. Dreams are shattered. Deadlines are set. I prepare for college and life in general. 

Why I Need an Early Menopause

For someone who is missing the gene of Sports and physical activity in general, fun things should be made taboo. Not that I'm unwilling to square dance or do the limbo dance. I simply should not be allowed to because I'm generally kinesthetically challenged, and for 48-hours post physical activity, I can feel every tendon, muscle, ligament and bone joint in my body. Little wonder, then, that it hurts even when I yawn and laugh, after ALL that limbo dancing I did during the Literature Fest "Jabberwocky" in college.

I tend to be slightly attention seeking at all times but I didn't know that I could limbo dance quite like that. I didn't, in my wildest dreams, guess that I'd go so low (literally) to get someone's attention! Not to mention I received certain un-subtle comments about my "flexibility". For all those who took the liberty to ask me, or rather TELL me how I achieved my "flexibility", at least pray that the right guy noticed!

I digress.
*ahem*

As I was saying, physical activity is not for me, no matter how much fun it tends to be, because the biggest and most annoying consequence of it is that it tends to advance my period. Body pain, foul mood, cramps and wanting to curl up in fetal position is a highly undesirable combination. The realization of an empty uterus and a soft placenta that MY BLOOD made, ripping away from my insides and "that-womanly-feeling" further adds to the frustration. I may sound slightly dramatic here but it tends to put a lot of things in perspective:

(A)

Not only do you know FOR SURE that you're not pregnant, which reminds you that indeed you got no action this past month, you have to deal with the excess of (un-catered to) hormones, worry about the resultant pimples on your face and mull over the "Baby-name-of-the-season" that your mind has taken a fancy to (This time, it's 'Rainer', a nice sounding German name for my non-existent baby boy. God save my soul).

(B)

You have to curl up in bed and face the fact that even your beady eyed teddy bear is an annoying mass of nothing and have an imaginary conversation with the man it stands for.

(C)

You have to let some memories dawn on you, sickeningly- "Ooooh! Let's do lunch tomorrow! You tell me where, I'll be there. Blah, blah, blah, blah". (Why won't I keep my big mouth shut? Why? WHY?).

And then you have to tell that nice boy you like that you can't do lunch because of excessive limbo dancing and "woman problems".

I don't think I need to explain why I need an early menopause but I must tell you how many advantages it has got!

1. No reproduction issues: It's good for the planet! With the kind of population explosion there is, I might as well adopt a baby girl if I fancy (thus permanently putting an end to the argument with my mother about why my horoscope says that I can only have boys). I'll probably obsess less about stupid German baby names and by the time I'm ready to have kids, they'll probably come up with some stem cell solution if I want "my own biological" baby. If you ask me, the menstrual cycle should become an evolutionary redundance. I think we have enough people to last quite a few generations. And then we can deal with the stem cell mumbo-jumbo. 

2. I can limbo dance all I like and not get my period early and therefore not want to curl up and die. 

3. Menopause does not diminish sex drive, apparently (and unfortunately). Which is good in a way. But if it doesn't work out for me, I can pretend not to know this little fun fact, give up hopes on men and boyfriends in general and FINALLY do my CIAs on time!

4. I won't have to take medication for pain relief and I won't have to risk being addicted to them.

5. I won't have to run to the loo one thousand times and wake up all night no matter how XXXL the wings may be. 

6. I can buy a nice pair of shoes with the amount of money I save on sanitary pads. Fuck it. IMAGINE THE NUMBER OF BOOKS I CAN BUY! :

My Flipkart Wishlist!

If one of my aunties read this post (and I sincerely hope they don't! Mami needs no other Mami, thank you!), they may come back and tell me "What kandraavi is this? You are only twenty years old, no? You will not get menopause and all right now only. When will you have children then? And if you have any problem why not use Stayfree? It is very good, I am telling you! Non-sense and all don't write, ammadi. The black bra post is funny, but. We are also modern and open minded only"

As a Mami in the making, I'd like to add that it is I who can do full justice to the definition of "modern and open minded" (I think. I am still not well adjusted to eight year olds talking about their "boyfriends". In plural, yes.) and I do have a problem which is why I'd like to STAY FREE. Thank you!

And in case y'all think I can't hit an early menopause because I'm only 20, I'd like to let you know that I'm not worried. I come in close contact with a certain iron-willed post menopausal woman every week who will surely lead me in the right direction to it. 

Everybody Has A Choice*** (Daily Gyaan on Dress Code)

*** Except Men.

The psychology department in our university has a film club that screens movies every Friday. Today, we watched Persepolis. During the discussion that followed the movie, one thing that was talked about with undue fervor was the way the headscarf and the whole you-better-cover-your-body kind of clothes were forced to be worn by women. We empathized quite deeply. After all, we knew what it was like to follow a dress code. 

I absolutely have no complaints whatsoever about the university's dress code. I have absolute conviction that they only mean the best for us. I rather think the dress code is like a corset for our developing personalities- it makes us learn how to carry ourselves elegantly and restores lady-like body language (MUCH needed, in my case). My university means well. But you see, there is this really tiny dissonance between what is expected and what is executed. Here's how-

What the Uni thinks we'll look like:

What we really look like:

Whether we want to or not, all of us conform to the dress code. There is, of course, a lot of futile arguing about the expression of one's individuality and creativity, to which we are told that if we are truly creative and  individualistic, we should be able to express ourselves in spite of the constraints. It is not up to me to go into the rights/wrongs and advantages/disadvantages of a dress code. Most of all, the case of Student Convenience versus Administrative Convenience is something that has strained my mind enough, so I won't go into that either. 

But I agree with one thing. The real challenge lies in being creative within constraints. It's a lot like copywriting. Much like how Bill Bernbach said- Make it half a line shorter; I can almost hear the administrative voice of Daddy V in my ear- Think Bigger.

This was coupled by a discussion on women's fashion in the Media and Society class today. My classmate Salome asked "How many of you think you're fashionable?"

Not too many hands went up. Then she said "Whether or not we think of ourselves as fashionable, we dress up every morning and design ourselves to look good"

Maybe it was because of the whole series of feminist debates that have been going on in this particular class- I finally became aware that my mind had gone into "Design" mode, and I kept thinking of how I'd get my new salwars stitched like this and that and what not to look gorgeous. 

I wasn't born to be a designer. But I was perhaps born to blog. And I cross my fingers and squeeze my eyes shut as I wait for Naaila Khan's approval of my thoughts on "Creative-Fashion-Within-The-Constraints-Of-Dress-Code".

Here goes-

Ethno-Goth:

Ever considered straight cut, sharp looking chudidar and kurtas that are black as hell, have skull prints at appropriate places and are made of a clingy but not flowing kind of cloth?

Hoortas:

Why is it that I either have to wrap myself in never-ending dupattas to keep myself warm or wear unflattering hoodies? Why can't kurtas be made of corduroy or wool or something thick with pockets that I can slip my hands into, and a hood (with drawstrings and all)?

Academic Spirituality (because work is worship and worship is not work at our Uni):

Remember those yellow/saffron kurtas with "Hare Krishna" written all over it? Why not have the same font but have the names of scientists, formulae and theories all over, instead? Imagine one with "Freud" all over!

Desi Biker Chick attire:

I'd like a kurta that zips up on the front. A plain, dark coloured one with a HUGE zip that looks like it came off a leather jacket. With full sleeves (little zips to keep it clinched at the wrist). If it's a black kurta, maybe I'll add leather or rexin at the hem? I'd also wear chudi pants and wear ankle length boots. 

OH, I SHOULD TOTALLY DO THAT!

Alright, fine, Naaila! I can see you shaking your head and laughing like there is no tomorrow. I know Vogue won't hire me. But honestly! I can no longer wear flower-printed, mango shaped, anarkali umbrellas with those AWFUL, AWFUL, Fuck-My-Life dupattas. 

Seriously, people come up with ready made sarees! They figure out a way to keep all six yards of cloth in one shape and size and they didn't have the brains to stitch the damn dupatta onto the salwar kameez? WHY?

*sigh*

The existence of women is complicated. Mostly because we HAVE too much. We have way too many choices. AND we have room for MORE. 

The men do not have this privilege. Firstly, it's the double standard: They get to wear western formals, not proper ethnic wear. They should be made to wear dhotis or something. But that's alright. Let them stuff their trousers in comfort. Not all of them can pull it off, those poor sods. 

Today, I realized that there was a lot that could be done with the dress code for girls. I don't deny that the dress code is a bit of a pain- but it's a small price to pay for grabbing the number of eyeballs that can be grabbed on our campus. 

Abhi Mami's Bill of the Black Bra

As far as daily life goes, three seconds of my mornings are spent in pulling out a bra from my drawer. Today however, I had to take slightly longer. My beloved black bra was tearing up a little. I didn't really want to throw it out, although it was nearly three years old. It had become an intimate part of my existence. Besides, it still fit well.

Some of us girls are really picky with our bras. We'd like a halter neck that is bright red, or a loud pink one to wear under our white shirts. The strapless whites to go with the new salwar-kameez and the purple push-ups for our Friday night tees. And then we pay special attention to the amount of lace on it and the feel of the under-wiring. Nothing would please us more than finding the perfect pair of matching panties (at a discount price).

I too am extremely uptight with my choice in bras and the bra-shop-lady in the local BDA complex despises me like a printed yellow butterfly on the pantie. Nevertheless, she lays out all the black bras she has got, until I ask her to put back everything that is not made of combed cotton. Then, I begin rejecting the un-sexy looking ones and whine about the white lettering of the brand name on the rest. When I'm finally done paying for those two or three lucky bastards who get to touch my boobs, the bra auntie is happy to see me leave.

Mamma always gives me that disgusted look when I add my new bras to the already existing mass of black. The Bill of the Black Bra bothers her because I don't buy the multi-coloured sets of three that are cheaper. She regards me as a child possessed as she asks the old question again: WHY BLACK???

"Because it's not loud!" I say
"Who's going to see it, anyway?" she asks. And that is one question I refuse to answer!

You see, my black bra and I have this great thing going on between us. I tell everybody who he is in a way that makes him seem mysterious and sexy. In return, he lies unseen under any and all things I wear, always sticking to his "no lines" promise. I can not allow just ANYONE to graze my boobs. He has to be someone special. And he earns that special place close to my heart by supporting me unfailingly ALL night and also all day. And yes, still at night.

I know I'm talking as if my bra is my boyfriend, but in all practical terms, it is the only long-term boyfriend a woman can have. The bra and the cleavage are complementary- they have to be a carefully matched pair.

My black bra is my boyfriend who is dignified in his colour, sexy in his very design and makes the mission of his life to give me an uplifting confidence. While every one of us women have this boyfriend, we know that we cannot have two guys at the same time. When one comes in, the other comes off. But it's not like we get a real "boyfriend" whenever we feel like it! If you ask me, I'd rather keep the faithful bra that effortlessly pushes me up me when I'm down.

My bra is steadfast in his resolve to be by my side but there are those random occasions when he feels a little naughty. He slips out from under my sleeve and makes quite a few girls gasp. It is then that my friend Anisha clears her throat, drops her voice and says in my ear- "Abhi, your boyfriend is peeking on the left".

Beauty is only Skinned Deep

Today I made a reluctant visit to the parlour to do the abnormal things that normal girls do. And count on it to give me food for thought! A beauty parlour is not a place where you can mind your own knees... Um, bees wax. It is a place that unites various women for a diverse range of concerns, beginning from filing the pinky toe nail to positioning hairy eyebrows to freeze the expression of the right amount of surprise on one's face. And we all have our ends splitting somewhere in the hair fray.

Every time the door opens, all eyes turn to look at the poor woman who is going to be the next victim of the friendly beauty parlour aunty. Imagine their horror today, and my amusement, when the newspaper guy came around to collect money for their monthly subscription. He opened the door WIDE and went "Sunitha aunty..."

And she went "Aiyyooooooooo. Bagilu tegibediiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (Don't open the doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooor!)

Now, I wonder, why is it that a man who carelessly comments on the state of his woman's hairy legs is not allowed to see her getting it removed? Or, given a choice, why wouldn't he want to see it? I took one look around me and saw a three year old girl getting her first hair cut next to me, and a senior citizen getting a pedicure at the farthest end; Three lanky girls getting their eyebrows done, one getting her arms waxed, one lady getting tan removed off her back (her BACK!) and another getting her hair coloured. All of us were there trying to look better than we already were. I thought of how I had walked into the parlour- with resolve to finally get rid of my ugly arm hair, and the first thought that came to my mind when aunty put hot wax on my arm was- "Iss Jungle se Mujhe Bachaaaaaaaaaaooooo!". But obviously, I only breathed in sharply (fail).

Sunitha aunty looked at me and went "Too hot-ah?" with a kindly smile. I just smiled. She continued her speech-
She: Long time, no see? You need to wax regularly.
Me: Exams, aunty. (Yes, it rhymed!)
She: Ohh. Thought so. You haven't been sleeping well no?
Me: You could say that.
She: Your face looks so tired... Want a clean up?
Me: (thinking to myself) She probably means cleansing my face? What the hell? (to her) Ya, ya.
*Dumbest decision ever*

I didn't know she would be knuckling my eyeballs (she called it "massage")! I had my face frozen with some kind of plaster of Paris type thingy and she was SCRAPING my face off with a thin stainless steel instrument of torture! Did she think it was my face or the stinky toilet in the shopping complex?
(Yes, I'm writing this! I don't care if boys are "not supposed to" know. I know more men who care about maintaining the shape of their eyebrows than me and my imaginary best friend ever do!)

We deluded women were being skinned and all we were thinking was "When I open my eyes when these wet cotton pads come off, I'm going to make Aishwarya Rai jealous"

BULL.

The only thing that comes out of getting your skin ripped off your flesh is less discomfort when you sweat. For all the pain you go through, people you plan to please- husbands, boyfriends, student tenants of your opposite house aunty- will only react as if you finally decided to look presentable. And we don't realize that we are beautiful already.

I may be one of those fortunate women who knows men who are not jackasses, who will call me pretty, bushy eyebrows, hairy legs and all. But maybe once in a while it is good to break the monotone- to grab the double deal of less sweat and a little entertainment.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some boys to taunt, tease and beg me please. 

What do you think I am? A girl?

Not to be sexist or anti-feminist but that's one of my often used dialogues- What do you think I am? A girl?

As my good friend, *shit*, girlfriend Nandini points out, gender is just a social construct. I am a biological woman but I don't feel the need to be lady-like. Yes, I have somehow accumulated millions of pink things in my wardrobe and burst into fits of giggles, but please, that doesn't make me 'feminine'!

There's a reason why I feel I must re-explain my tom-boy self. I was in the girls' bathroom today, fixing my unruly new hair when a thin, tall girl walked in. She had let down her long, straightened hair, wore a straight-cut, elbow length sleeved kurta and leggings, and wore one of those criss-cross looking plastic pseudo-pumps. She deposited her over-large handbag on the counter and went into the loo.

I went back to fixing my unruly new hair when a thin, tall girl walked in. She had let down her long, straightened hair, wore a straight-cut, elbow length sleeved kurta and leggings, and wore one of those criss-cross looking plastic pseudo-pumps. She deposited her over-large handbag on the counter and went into the loo.

Yes. YES! I know! You read that twice and went "Huh?"
But the same thing happened to me! Two different girls walk in looking like they could've been mass manufactured by Mattel!

Now, I'm a follower of "Every Woman's Bible" a.k.a The Confessions of a Shopaholic series. And I completely agree with Becky Bloomwood when she says that fashion is good for one's health. She acknowledges that wearing extra high heels can give you a terrible back pain but what she's trying to say is- If you wear nice clothes, you look nice. And if you look great, you feel great. If you feel great, you "be" great. She stresses on the importance of fashion's role in your psychological health.

Fashion is a commonly accepted standard. If you follow it, you are automatically accepted. And it's extremely true that expensive stuff make you look "gorgeous". (Well, they better!)

But what if you don't care about being accepted? What if you don't mind not being in the "in" gang? What if you wear the same dirty gray floaters everyday, regardless of what clothes you're wearing? What if you just repeat the same two pairs of jeans? So what if you don't have a french manicure and permanently raised *but plucked* eyebrows?

You can choose to wear your custom made khadis, your ten bucks a pair ear-rings, your unwashed, self-proclaimed "re-usable" kurtas.
You can choose not to iron your clothes or not to brush your hair.
You can choose to mis-match the colours of your wardrobe.

I'm just saying. As long as you're comfortable in your own clothes, why should you give a damn to anything else? And have you noticed how when you're conscious of what you're wearing, everyone automatically looks at you? Like for ONCE I wear mascara and my classmate goes... "You're wearing mascara". Yes, thank you for noticing. I DO own make-up, in spite of my "not a girl" act.

So, my "not a girl" act has been improvised, thanks to my new, extra-short hair cut. You remember how my guy called me ugly and I chopped off all my hair? He said to me later: "You political minded, manipulative woman! I did NOT call you ugly! Your long hair looked beautiful but this really, REALLY suits you"
You see that paradoxical statement that he made? Yeah. He's yet to see that slap coming. I haven't had the time.

On the other hand, a brutally honest junior of mine said "It's good that you cut your hair. You used to look like a mongrel". I don't know why it makes me so happy to hear someone admit that I am, indeed, ugly. God bless his soul.

While you have managed to reach this far through my long lecture, you'd probably be thinking "That hypocritical bitch. If she isn't pro-fashion, why was she wearing that pretty pink thing and abnormally high heels today?"
No, I didn't have a date lined up, although Ananya did ask me what the occasion was. But, dressing up in flowery pink and riding a bike is highly amusing and entertaining. It takes your mind away from the horrible state of Hosur road traffic. I won't deny that it had its consequences. He did say I looked "stunning". And that led him to do something adventurous for my sake. (Full story only to my girl best friends. In private.)

On my way back home, I had further EPIC reactions from the public. I was a paradox in sight. Pink and black. Girly and ballsy. That's when I realized, I was born to do three things:
1. Break stereotypes.
2. Make a fool of myself.
And finally,
3. Not give a fuck.

~FIN~