The importance of turning a new page

For a while I did not understand the excitement surrounding New Year’s Eve.

As the countdown ends, people scream and hug and fireworks light up the jet-black skies. It is as if mankind managed to put a man on the sun, or something.

New Year's celebrations next to Eiffel Tower

There is hardly anything special about the New Year’s. Except, I remember, on the cusp of 1999 and 2000, when we wondered whether our computers would crash from the stress of figuring out what double-digit number comes after 99.

Today, I think I understand. People celebrate New Year’s because it gives them an opportunity to start with a blank page and write a brand new story. From the “beyond” of 2011, the problems and worries of 2010 seem far away. The worse seems to be over and in a strange way, you feel sheltered.

New Year’s is also a symbolic ritual to mark our resolve to make our lives better. To exercise, to travel, to read… And why not; because beginnings are known to bring bursts of enthusiasm and energy which help get the year rolling on a positive note.

But why wait until New Year’s to turn a new page? So many times, we just need to give that little push to the status quo in our lives in order to have happiness flowing in. Moving to a new city, quitting the job that makes you unhappy, ending unhealthy relationships…

I am about to finish my present internship/temp job of over a year. Although I know I will be sad to leave (I really like my job) and even if I don’t know where I’m going to end up yet, I’m excited.

You see, when I started the internship, I was a different person. Hardly out of school, with practically no worldly experience, I had a lot to learn. As I leave, I am much more confident, professional and self-aware. And yet, I know that in my present job I will have a tough time rubbing out the “intern” tag from people’s minds.

So I am glad to be able to go out and turn a new page.

Have you ever (intentionally or unintentionally) turned a page in your life? How did it feel like?

Why I feel cheated

Our parents raised us at the sides of our brothers, as equals. They sent us to the best schools they could afford, signed us up for sports and art classes and encouraged us to chase our dreams. And so we dreamed.

Our teachers told us that we could be anything we wanted as adults. Doctors, engineers, journalists, artists, pilots, lawyers… It was just a matter of hard work and perseverance. And so we persevered.

Our textbooks said that men and women had equal rights in India. Newspapers featured stories of successful women – Kiran Bedi, Barkha Dutt, Chandra Kocchar and Indra Nooyi. We wanted to be like them.

Domestic violence was something that happened to uneducated women from poor families. Dowry deaths happened in villages. And if women stayed shackled to home and heath, it was because they did not try hard enough.

But we, the Generation Y girls from English-speaking, modern, middle to upper-class families were a privileged lot.

And the world was our oyster.

Or were we living in an oyster?

At the threshold of adolescence, as we were released from the comforting confines of high school – where everybody came from more or less the same socioeconomic background – into the wider horizon of the university world, the oyster cracked open.

Our bodies started to change and so did the regard of the society. In crowded buses, hands would grope our bottoms and some good-for-nothings would whistle lustfully as we walked past by them.

“But your skirt was a little too short”, some wise one would say.

Lesson learnt. If our Bollywood idols could romp about in mini skirts and low-cut blouses, we could not.

We are not to be caught holding hands with boys.

We are not to be too loud, too boisterous.

Marketing and sales is not for us – why not study to be a teacher instead? Plenty of time then to “take care” of the family.

You are 25 already and not yet married?

You must learn to cook and clean my dear, what will your future in-laws think?

The world our parents brought us up in and the “real” world seem so far apart. And this, I believe, is the dilemma of the contemporary Indian woman.

Tradition and modernity. Family and career. Societal expectations and self realisation. Where to draw the line? Where to find balance?

As this article in The Guardian rightly says: Between the soap-opera beauties and the establishment figures of “women’s empowerment”, the Indian woman is floundering for new ideas about herself and her destiny, unclear about what freedom means, at a time when east and west are clashing at every shopping mall.

Surely Indian women have come a long way. They are making their voices heard in the Parliament and acting as vigilantes in lawless corners of the country. They represent 40% of the students enrolled in colleges. Why, the current president of India is a woman.

The relative emancipation of Indian women, however, comes with a price. While they are joining the workforce in increasing numbers, women do not have a good support system to cope with household duties. As is the wont of women around the world, the Indian woman too is falling victim to the Superwoman syndrome where she aspires to be the perfect housewife all the while climbing the corporate ladder.

In some households, having a career is still considered to be a “privileged pastime” and family members will often try finding fault with the household duties of the working woman. Back in India I once found myself among a group of sixty-something mother-in-laws blaming their daughters-in-law: “We could have had careers if we wanted to. But we did not want to fall short in our children’s upbringing.”

To me, their conversation reeked of jealousy and broken aspirations.

The workplace is not any kinder. Working Mother Research Institute reports: Ceilings to their (read Indian women’s) aspiration are made of more than glass. Traditional social attitudes and cultural patterns have not changed overnight. Overt discrimination may be receding, but the ‘old boys networks’ may still be operational. The skills and confidence to push for career advancement are not instantly acquired. Practical infrastructure challenges can vex the most determined of women as they try to make lives that embrace both work and family.”

So what is the conclusion of all this? Let us encourage the women who decide to dedicate their lives to their careers. Let us support those who choose the balancing act. And let’s not look down with condescension on those who go for the traditional role of the nurturer. Above all, let us all respect each other; for it is only through mutual understanding that we can help further the cause of women’s empowerment.

Happy birthday, Mihir!

My brother recently turned 16. This post is in his honour.

I was 7 years old when you came into this world. It was an afternoon and I remember being excited as ajji and ajoba accompanied me to the hospital in a rickshaw.

When I saw you – a pink and wrinkly mass of flesh with a non-existent chin, I was kind of disappointed. A baby was supposed to be cute, right?

I spent the next day at the hospital. I wanted to “play” with you. But all you would do is cry, eat, pee, poo, sleep and stare. That was the scary thing about you: you could stare down any adult.

And then we brought you home.

Eventually, you grew a chin, put on a lot of adorable baby fat and learned to gurgle endearingly. I was in love.

When it was time to enrol you at school, I was happy to have you around on my ride to school. The rickshaw-uncle would invariable make you sit in the “dickey” behind the seat (you were tiny, so you fit!). Once, I remember, someone gave you a chocolate. As graceful as ever, you drooled… All over my shoulder!

The proud sister that I was, I would come visit you during the lunch break. And you would pretend to not recognise me and would go on playing with your friends.

At times, you really annoyed me.

It is sad but with time, so many sweet memories are forgotten. What stays behind is somewhat like a collage. Now you are driving on your little red scooter, then we are fighting over the TV remote. You are dressed as a mango in a fancy dress competition. You are also dressed as a saffron-clad, bearded sadhu for a school play. During your munja, your hair is shaved off and I tease you for looking like The Mask. We are on my Scooty and we stop at a kacchi dabheli stall (You always ask for a second helping). We are at Kalyan’s stuffing pani puri. (Is it strange that so many of my memories of us are related to food?)

As the protagonist of Rebecca says, if only we could bottle up memories and then be able to open and smell them when we wish.

I think neither me, nor you, saw time flying. Now you are 16. Tall like a bamboo.

And I must say, however embarrassing it might feel: I’m lucky to have you as my brother.

I like what you have grown up to be. I like that you are curious and questioning. Never lose that inquisitive twinkle in your eyes.

Lots of love and best wishes for the year to come.

The story of my blog

Disclaimer: This post should have actually been the first post on this blog. This post is about why I started this blog. In fact, this post is more about my current existentialist crisis. So forgive me if I sound like I’m ranting and rambling. And forgive me for using the word “post” four times in just three sentences.

Anyway. Here goes the story of my life.

I am in my bed. It’s midnight and I’m unable to sleep. I’m feeling uneasy, like something heavy was pressing down on my chest. And then I’m feeling scared and tearful. I want to go away and hide. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Rewind to the time when all I thought about was homework, food and the cute guys in my class.
I am ten years old and I fall asleep instantly as I place my head on the pillow. I fear nothing, except probably maths. I am a good student. And an ideal daughter.

Fast forward a decade and am packing bags to leave for Paris. I have been given a scholarship to study in one of the best schools in France. My parents have agreed to pay for a part of my expenses and the student loan will take care of the rest.

I have made myself and my family proud.

As my plane takes off, I have butterflies in my stomach. My dream is coming true. The tears shed by my parents down at the airport are fast forgotten.

The year passes by in a whiz. New friends, parties, travel and discovery.

Fast forward again to September. I am glad to be back to Paris after the summer vacations. And then, I fall in love. He’s funny and kind and generous and smart. But he is also French. Parents panic. I get defensive. They feel betrayed. I think they just don’t understand me.

Rewind to the vacations. Mom had said she had found the perfect match for me. I had cringed. I have always dreaded arranged marriages. But it is quite the norm back home.

Fast forward and December arrives. Classes are already over. Shit!

Then, I land the internship of my dreams. All of a sudden, I’m paying my own rent, enjoying this new-found financial freedom.

And then one fine day, it dawned on me. The terrible truth.

I was now on my own in this big, bad world. I had become, in the true sense of the term, an adult.

And that is exactly why I was twisting and turning in my bed the other night.

Being an adult means that I have to shoulder the expectations of my family and the society. I am “expected” to find a well-paying job and settle down with a suitable boy. ASAP.

Being an adult means that I can no longer call home the house I grew up in. It shall now be uniquely and exclusively my parent’s home.

Being an adult means above all, that I have to now take my own decisions, make my own life choices. And if those choices hurt somebody, I have to take the responsibility for it.

I realise though that my loved ones shall always be around to support me and guide me and I feel lucky to have such a lovely entourage.

I also realise that I am a bit of a drama queen and that other people have a lot bigger problems in their lives.

But I need to vent. I need to talk about my experiences, share the lessons I learn and ask questions to young people like me. And this is why I decided to blog.

There you go.

I am feeling a little naked now

Perfection is for losers

Every time I sit down to write a blog post, I always rewrite the first lines a couple of times. It’s so important to attract the reader’s attention and hold it, I tell myself.

And then sometimes, if I’m not satisfied with the beginning, I will not go further. The idea will have escaped my head, the inspiration gone. In order to write that beautiful, perfect first line, I lose out on some good ideas.

The trade-off is really not worth it.

I have realised that the desire to be perfect is one of the reasons why I often procrastinate. Be it school homework, cleaning up my room or learning something new – I don’t start projects for the fear of failing. Of not doing things well enough.

So I now try not to worry too much.

If I have to write a post, I’ll try to just get over with it. I can edit and re-edit as many times I want later.
If I have to clean up my room, I’ll give it a head start as and when I can. A partially cleaned up room is better than a messy one.

Perfection is for losers, I tell myself.

PS: A fun fact about perfectionists – they are more likely to suffer from depression.

Being the small fish

The boyfriend is a huge Tim Burton fan. So he was naturally pleased when I gifted him ticket to a Tim Burton movie marathon. There was a catch though; the show started after midnight.

So on Saturday we stocked up on Red Bull and arrived an hour in advance at Le Champo (an indie cinema near St. Michel). We started with the evergreen Beetle Juice, followed up by The Corpse Bride and ended with the excellent Big Fish .

Big Fish is the story of a son wishing to reconcile with his dying father, who he thinks he doesn’t know. The father claims to have lead an extremely unusual and adventurous life; for the son it is nothing but a pack of lives. As the story unfolds, we start to suspect that myth and reality criss cross in the father’s stories. Not content with his life of an ordinary travelling salesman, he always wished to be the Big Fish – extraordinary, exemplary and outstanding.

Technically, he failed. And yet, as we see in the final scenes, his life touched that of others. He made strong friendships, found the love of his life and helped the distressed. The celebration that is his funeral thus stands testimony to a life well lived.

The moral of the story: you don’t need to earn millions, be a war hero or save the world in order to be a big fish.
Even as one of the millions of ordinary people, we do make a difference in the lives of others, especially of those we love. We matter.