Resolutions and A New Year

Humans are infallible. We make resolutions, break them and carry on. But, you know what the beauty is that we still believe in all this. We love the normalcy of this routine where by we make resolutions, outlining a three-point program to improve one’s life and to make changes enriching life, society or just inculcating a better habit.

Man is a creature of habit .We are conditioned to act in a manner by social upbringing, the external environment we live in and the subtle influences which shape us. Come, this month we all get into the spirit of revelry, fervor declaring that Santa is here. The Christmas spirit guides us, and we all believe in the beauty of the festival. This magnanimity is what sets apart. We all embrace happiness, joy leaving aside cynicism, depressed thoughts and there is a positive feel in the air along with the frozen temperatures. Nature conspires to make everything pristine white, along with the fog to finally let in the ray of sunshine clearing the cobwebs and thoughts which bog down humanity for the rest of the year.

The aptly named ‘Angreza da Gurpurab ‘ shows the spirit of the true Indian who embraces every religion as his own setting aside pettiness and divisive forces. The advertising, marketing spiel of selling Santa outstrips every year’s targets. The fact that every roadside vendor at every major traffic light sells Santa and we lap it up shows that we all live in hope and cynicism has not dampened the spirit of humanity.

Yes, events mark the lowest of lowest ebbs in our lives, for e.g. the killing of schoolchildren in the US, the brutal rape of the young girl in Delhi, the shooting of a Pak school girl who just wants to study and many more …The list is countless and endless, the crimes the plunder of humanity goes on unchecked but yes, the will to survive carries us forward to another year.

We promise for a brighter, clearer future where women are respected, loved cherished as humans as counterparts and are not taken as a means of sexual gratification. Treat us well, as we do come as a prefix to the Earth you inhabit; Mother Earth. And the first word you learn is “MA” when you are born.

Respect us and it will come back manifold. Let the change come from within and not from writing, concocting witticisms in the virtual world, the real victim here is the Aam Aurat.

I live in hope, for when we reach rock bottom, there is nowhere else to go and one just climbs up.

Happy New Year

Life is not a status

We all are at crossroads; the doomsday conspiracy came and went. I was even attending a Facebook party thanks to an event created! Life for us has become so trivial, that unless it doesn’t get sensationalized via the virtual media, it just doesn’t affect us. Is it because of tougher skin? I thought we had a thinner upper epidermis thanks to the ozone layer depletion.

Remember the time, when all of us were going to get skin cancer and die? It was such a rage .We all started buying sunscreen as if it was going to finish off the world supermarkets. The hot topic of discussion was the SPF to be used, thinking the higher the SPF the better the coverage. We all have had the same skin coverage as our forefathers; yes depletion has made it worse but is it the cause for so much panic?

Then ladies and gentlemen we went through years of diets, everyone and anyone who had an opinion would quote the Gm. diet, the pure diet, the soup only diet, the eat protein/no carbs diet, the eat every two hour diet, banish the ghee diet, banish the potato diet and the biggest one of all, drink green tea and eat dark chocolate to release the antioxidant diet. Pump the sedentary muscles, chug in the protein mix but hire the three point eight maid to do everything at home. We forgot to be human, and started clamoring for the image. It still carries on sadly. Along the way we have started to alter outlives/lifestyles aping an image so subtly created by media, the virtual world that we all forgot that evolution brought us to be intelligent monkeys.

Barbaric acts, heinous crimes are shaming even the animals of the jungle. Do we change ourselves? Do we make protests and those little noises in polite conversations so that we sound concerned and so right? Does the mindset change?

Yes, the youth has woken up, we are seeing a mass stirring but is that translating into action? Are we still caught up in the drama of blame game, waiting for aliens to come and jolt us out of our self-induced slumber? 

I wonder, why does not the penny drop? I ask a lot of questions. I also implore that every citizen wakes up changes himself first to see the change. Its not going to happen till our mindset doesn’t change within the four walls. This will happen if we educate, teach the next generation. Mothers need to bring down their sons from the pedestal they place them on. Processions, intelligent status updates, pinging on the BBM, what’s app, hash tag # all do impact but limited. The rest of the country needs help starting right now, right next to you, and yes the man in the mirror too.

Ravneet Sangha

Tuition Wala Sirji

What do we search for more? Today’s woman is not looking for the elusive, exclusive diamond, nor is she looking for the next Hermes bag or the right body. What does she want? Well, at this time of the year she is also not looking for the thermal which is worn but is not seen and does not add to the e muffin top but she is searching for the Tuition wala Sir ji or keeping in with equality Madam ji .

I along with all the paranoid hyper mothers who do not fear the apocalypse but are in a state of frenzy over the tuition walla Sir who will miraculously prepare my son to clear the boards and the magical examination that holds the key to his future.

Life is the biggest test of all. The exams we take everyday failing and yes triumphing in small victories, big defeats but nonetheless winning and losing. How come there is no fixed tutorial for life? Why are we as a nation hell-bent on trashing ourselves with heinous crimes, debasing the moral fiber that set us apart from the world? Why has man become the ultimate destroyer of the woman? Where did the manual for this disappear? Every thing, object comes with a guarantee, a warranty period and so does funny enough humans, that we all will die but how do we go about it?

I search for the Master who will unleash the potential of my son who is judged by system where you are graded to the nth percentile, where the innocence, the smile or the human is ignored but the grades are taken into account. Never mind, what kind of generation we give birth to, one should be able to score well, get into the prestigious college and be a bright shining Indian for Mother India. The, blacks of my hair have gone on strike; they become whiter everyday and refuse any attempts by me when I coax them to be colored! In fact, I think I have a full on mutiny (similar to the Indian Mutiny) going on and they have a mind of their own. As my son says, just chill mama, I wonder whether he refers to the weather or whether I should park myself in the refrigerator or should I just take a pill and chill.

And, then I think of the times I remember God, doe she make time for my prayers or is HE overworked in the times of examination build-up. If one would statistically think of Indian mothers all praying to God and asking for the highest marks and promising money, Prasad. He sure would be over worked along with keeping in mind the festive cheer plus a balance on the crazy country of ours.

My prayer is simple, send me the magical mythical Sirji who can transform this kid of mine and I promise well, the moon and I hope I have some hair left by the boards next year. Till then, I have resorted to every oil preparation by every Swamiji.

Mr and Mrs Bird

Mr. and Mrs. Bird

(For the want of any names, lets just keep it simple silly)

Mr. B kept on shouting hurry up, we need to be back before dark .You don’t know how difficult it is to make one’s way back in the airway as it gets so dark and the for and the twilight witching hour mixed with the commotion of the lights which confuse us heading back home to themulti-storeyes green patch in the urban jungle.

I wonder, as always how do they know where to go and sleep. Is it a homing device, they all come fitted in? I watch them during my walk they are like poetry in motion, a flight of coming home to roost. The chirp, the caw the tweet of the birds all comes together as melody to my ears, but for one Mr. and Mrs. B who always come in late. They circle, swoop the skies as if they are the monitors of the whole flock, waiting, counting the numbers making sure all of them are in there. Mr. B looks at me as if I am the crazy intruder living un-glamorously in a cemented house with no air to breathe in. Its pity I see in his eyes, and sometimes a smile, as if he understands.

Mrs. B always sits on the railing of the first floor looking, waiting for the stray last bird to come in and take place. She makes the final flight before joining her husband for the last sip from the feeder. I think she might be like me, one who needs constant water. I tell you, my constant fear is finding myself without water. It is like fanaa for the soul.

Mr and Mrs B conveniently allow us to live with them, condescending us to live them to imbibe the happiness, the mindless chatter and the constant tweeting.  I wish humans would learn form them , no wars over a strip of land, no discrimination over caste creed, no senseless killing over sex and yes equal opportunity to study unlike the country next door.

Mr. and Mrs. B and generations before can teach us so much more; even more than the world famous limiting 140 word tweet !

I want to intrude into their heaven, to understand the gabble, the hierarchy games played, where why do some birds go first and some go last. I wish I’d know the secret of how they all just get silent t, pin drop, it’s as if someone takes a feather and lights out. Our garden a haven of these millions of birds is not a figment of my imagination, but an oasis, a rarity in this fast vanishing jungle. All I would like is to have is a conversation with these avian friends of mine, Chand sifarsh maybe. The one eyed crow, the bird with a twisted foot, the brown bird with one wing and the white owl who decides when he wants to grace us with his presence.

The Aunt Lucy (common pheasant) who roams the gardens as if she owns ‘em with her trio behind her. I think she has a hen-pecked husband who follows her lost in love and her magic. Was that an oxymoron, I don’t know? All I wish is a window into their chatter where they discuss the world at large, the village in general and they dying rays of the sun painting the world red and the strange two legged person who stops, stares and walks with two twigs in her ears.

Mr and Mrs Bird

Mr. and Mrs. Bird

(For the want of any names, lets just keep it simple silly)

Mr. B kept on shouting hurry up, we need to be back before dark .You don’t know how difficult it is to make one’s way back in the airway as it gets so dark and the for and the twilight witching hour mixed with the commotion of the lights which confuse us heading back home to themulti-storeyes green patch in the urban jungle.

I wonder, as always how do they know where to go and sleep. Is it a homing device, they all come fitted in? I watch them during my walk they are like poetry in motion, a flight of coming home to roost. The chirp, the caw the tweet of the birds all comes together as melody to my ears, but for one Mr. and Mrs. B who always come in late. They circle, swoop the skies as if they are the monitors of the whole flock, waiting, counting the numbers making sure all of them are in there. Mr. B looks at me as if I am the crazy intruder living un-glamorously in a cemented house with no air to breathe in. Its pity I see in his eyes, and sometimes a smile, as if he understands.

Mrs. B always sits on the railing of the first floor looking, waiting for the stray last bird to come in and take place. She makes the final flight before joining her husband for the last sip from the feeder. I think she might be like me, one who needs constant water. I tell you, my constant fear is finding myself without water. It is like fanaa for the soul.

Mr and Mrs B conveniently allow us to live with them, condescending us to live them to imbibe the happiness, the mindless chatter and the constant tweeting.  I wish humans would learn form them , no wars over a strip of land, no discrimination over caste creed, no senseless killing over sex and yes equal opportunity to study unlike the country next door.

Mr. and Mrs. B and generations before can teach us so much more; even more than the world famous limiting 140 word tweet !

I want to intrude into their heaven, to understand the gabble, the hierarchy games played, where why do some birds go first and some go last. I wish I’d know the secret of how they all just get silent t, pin drop, it’s as if someone takes a feather and lights out. Our garden a haven of these millions of birds is not a figment of my imagination, but an oasis, a rarity in this fast vanishing jungle. All I would like is to have is a conversation with these avian friends of mine, Chand sifarsh maybe. The one eyed crow, the bird with a twisted foot, the brown bird with one wing and the white owl who decides when he wants to grace us with his presence.

The Aunt Lucy (common pheasant) who roams the gardens as if she owns ‘em with her trio behind her. I think she has a hen-pecked husband who follows her lost in love and her magic. Was that an oxymoron, I don’t know? All I wish is a window into their chatter where they discuss the world at large, the village in general and they dying rays of the sun painting the world red and the strange two legged person who stops, stares and walks with two twigs in her ears.