I did not Vote- The pangs and pain of a non voter

I can hear some of you saying...” shame on you”, “this was not expected of you”, “I knew it- she is not patriotic” ,”lazy bum”, “ don’t crib for the next five years now- you have no right to”.... and blah and blah and blah. In the so called democratic revolution I feel like the outcast. There is so much information fed to me each day about every hopeful candidate for the Prime Ministership. My friends are divided in their loyalty towards these candidates and do not hesitate to share links and updates about how good their choice of candidate is and how hopeless the others are. Thanks to the social media.... these ‘Men of Honour’ have their own mini campaigners spread across the length and breadth of facebook, twitter, whatsapp and the likes. Then why didn’t I vote?

I ask this question to myself a number of times during the day- and this is the first time I am feeling less of an Indian than my neighbour with an ink marked finger selfie on his facebook page. I am a breed that is stuck between the patriots who saw the march of independence and the revolutionaries who want to see a change in independence. Don’t get me wrong- I know my history well and I know the price for democracy and freedom that was paid by our brave fighters. I also know my present well where campaigns and dharnas yield results that are immediate but  interim with no follow up.... it is like we give up halfway and get busy with another “happening “ campaign. Every strive is forgotten too soon.... such is the impact of the information , tech savvy age.... there is too much of information on too many finger tips. I am the confused non voter!

There must be many like me who read the news paper everyday, watch the news on tv everyday, open up links and web pages about every party campaign, about the hidden wife, the mama’s boy, the slapper and the slapee, the offender, the offensive,  the bureaucrat, the campaign lunches , the money spinner, the mute , the talker, the stalker, the religious bender, the blanket and sari for a vote- giver, the taker...... and ohhhh I am confused!! And then I decide to be the outsider, the bystander, the R.K.Laxman ‘Common Man’ who didn’t exercise the right to vote .I will walk the streets  with my dazed wide-eyed look at everything wrong that will(not might) happen in the next five years, coz I didn’t believe that my vote counted and the man chosen to lead the largest democratic nation would have been the not so tainted man from the not so tainted party that I would have chosen.

 There  is a famous saying that my father  had written somewhere – “ In the kingdom of blind , the one eyed man is the king”. It holds true in our kingdom.... the one eyed man gets to be  king, in five years he becomes mute, add another five years he becomes totally blind. Notwithstanding, we have a new  set of one –eyed men ready to replace him and are campaigning hard. I made the mistake of not voting and I chose to remain blind, but these men show potential  as leaders of the masses and if you vote , your man might just be the one who opens up your eyes and makes you see the new world, creates opportunity, empowers the youth ,stabilizes the economy, bridges the gap between the rich and the poor, the rural and the urban, shuns bureaucracy, gets rid of the middle men, walks the walk and talks the talk.There is hope if you vote, and there are pangs of guilt if you don’t.Take that Step .... Vote!!!

On the threshold of number thirteen and the carefree number eight

They ask me- Why ,what, where ...how, and incessantly bug me with questions about anything and everything. Some of which I am prepared for, “ Adi - Mamma, what are the fourth and the fifth dimensions?”, and some of which I am not prepared for, “Aaru(while watching a movie)- Why is he covering his ‘main point’ with his hat?(as a woman came out of the pool in a bikini)”.They are my Brats!

They never cease to amaze me with their hilarious antics- “Aaru- mamma woh dekho ek phatta hua kauua”;  their witty comments –Aaru once announced “papa is potty two(42) and mummy is tatti five(35)”, I found that very funny; their insatiable appetite – “Mummy Bhook”, after every five minutes and sometimes even when the mouth is stuffed with something; and their humane nature – they want to help everyone- from a rabid dog to a fallen baby pigeon and even a drunken man on the street!

I love them! They keep me on my toes, I try in vain to take my quick naps in the afternoon or to avoid a game of football or cricket, saying its a boys’ game. But they are quick to reply –“ mamma you said, boys and girls are equal, its everybody’s game, so come and play”. And recently while playing the “equals” game of cricket ,I tried to be so like the boys, and sprained my ankle badly. As I fell the boys left everything and ran to me and trust their father to keep taking his runs between the wickets, shouting “She’ll get up, she’ll get up”!

They are growing up so fast. Adi will be thirteen in a week’s time. That boy is a gentle soul, always worried about the world not being kind, not being fair, not helping the poor enough; and if he had it in him he would do it all. He questions all that is wrong. Once he asked his father why he had  a glass of ‘ganda pani’(rum) in the car while driving. He asks me why I don’t give money to the beggar boy at the traffic signal, when I have extra money and it clearly looks like he needs it. He didn’t want me to kill the seven rats we caught in our house as we had enough food for them as well. For him the world’s problem is his problem and he needs to solve it, and may be in time he will solve it!

Aaru is eight, but talks like he is fifteen and thinks like he 30. He wants to know everything now and just now....he waits for nothing and no one. He is a ‘bindaas’ lad, carefree , naughty and gets into trouble( reminds me of me), but he can get out of any tricky situation with just a smile( and some people would again say... he is a lot like me). Unlike Adi, he wants the world to worry about him. He can lie unabashedly and can surprise you with his uncanny ability to stay calm and composed.

They are a part of me, a little like me and a whole lot different. Adi is the idli, dosa, rice plate eater from Tambiland. He talks less, works more. He is always thinking and I never know what he is thinking. He cooks well(a treat for his future ladies), and he makes some amazing things with anything waste. He is old school and a little conservative in his thoughts... would have been a perfect fit in India 70 yrs ago. I foresee a clash of thoughts and ideas between him and me in the future but for now we are good. Since he is still my little boy, I have started talking to him lately about a concept of ‘learning to unlearn’( a thought shared by a good friend of mine), so he is open to change and to evolve.

Aaru – the ‘Punjab Da Puttar’, loves his alu paratha, malai chicken and palak paneer. He is a ‘jolly good fellow’ , witty and always up to his pranks. He is a charmer and will woo his ladies with his looks and sense of humour. I was recently amazed by his Punjabi accent as he learnt the famous “Sunder mundariya”(a folk song sung on lohri, a tradition dying with the new generation). He sung those lines and it made his grandparents so happy and proud. He is a people pleaser and wants to make everyone happy around him. He wants to become a cricketer ( a bowler at that)when he grows up, and why not; he has got the looks and the attitude for it, aptitude shall sneak in soon!

They will grow up soon, leave home, carve a niche for themselves. I will crib and throw a fit when I grow old and don’t see them enough. But for now they are around me, with me, for me – laughing , playing , learning.... and one day I am sure they will grow up to be “Gentle” men.

The Brave Girls Of India

This write up is courtesy Mr. Nilendu Ganguly, but I had to post it.

 Few days back, as a billion plus Indians slept, a handful of tribal girls proudly held aloft a trophy they won in their maiden entry in a football tournament in far-flung Spain.

It was the night of July 13. Hundreds of fire crackers lit the skies as the girls screamed Vande Mataram – their battle cry – for being placed third in the Gasteiz Cup, the world’s best testing ground for teenager football in Victoria Gastiez, also popular as Europe’s Green Capital.

They were the same girls who were slapped, kicked and made to sweep floors by arrogant bureaucrats in Jharkhand when the girls asked for birth certificates, a necessity to apply for passports.

But they eventually managed their passports, thanks to a strapping American, Franz Gastler, who pushed the cases of the girls with mandarins of the Ministry of External Affairs in the Indian Capital.

He was a lone ranger in his efforts.

The girls were lovingly titled the Supergoats by the organizers in Spain the moment they saw the girls playing barefoot in practice matches on arrival.
Why?

The girls had limited football gear and could not take the risk of tampering it before the tournament. They were overawed by international teams in the first tournament, the Donosti Cup, but came to their own in the second tournament.

Offering a consolation prize for the third team – winner of a match between losing semi-finalists – was a mere formality for the organizers.

But for the girls, it was a giant leap into global soccer from their impoverished Rukka village near Ranchi, considered one of the world’s epicenters of child marriage and human trafficking.

As soon as the announcement was made for the prize distribution ceremony, the girls rushed into their dressing room and returned, some barefoot, wearing red-bordered white saris, their traditional festive dress. Many had their plastic flowers in their hairs.

And when they huddled together after the mandatory photo session, some wept inconsolably because they had almost given up their hopes to participate in this tournament.

“They were over the moon. It was their night,” said Gastler of the girls, who subsist on less than a dollar a day.

For a country low on soccer, this was - arguably - good news for the mandarins of the game. But no one cared. All India Football Federation (AIFF) president Praful Patel was not aware of the girls’ superlative achievement, nor was the country’s new sports minister Jitendra Singh.

“We could not sleep that night (July 13),” says Rinky Kumari, 13, captain, Supergoats. Once she bunked her school helped her mother do household chores. Today, thanks to football, everyone knows her name in the village.

She says she remembered the days she was slapped and sweep floors when she went to the Panchayat Office get birth certificates for her passport.

“That is the pain of being a tribal girl in India. I do not remember the slap, I remember the Cup,” says Rinky.

For her, and her teammates, it means a lot.

Food and Me (June 12)

I like food and food loves me, cause it goes and settles quite nicely in all the right places that it calls "home". And I for one have tried very hard(hardly) in the past to shoo it away with half hearted exercise regimes, my own way of controlled dieting and crash dieting(and oh! it crashed into the Grand Canyon on day 3).When I was young(yeah, "WAS") , I was skinny , never ate, had no cravings and life was bliss!!!And now I am eating one meal and deciding the menu for the next one.

The  other  day my older one, Adi said" Ma...aap aage se toh theek ho peeche se mote tagde dikte ho"..He doesn't mince his words.Poor fellow doesn't realize he is never gonna get a girl like this. And this sentence of his is the reason I am writing this note.

I have , in the past neglected myself and the subtle hints that my body gave , only because people flattered me with compliments and compared me to a some what famous actress(Vanity is my Name)...It got to my head ...I never understood the joke when they said I was the fatter older version of her.

But a serious wake up call , a lifelong need for medication and the much needed motivation has brought me to my senses.Though they say " Its never too late", But most of us make the mistake of postponing it till it's rather late.

I love food and food loves me... but now in moderation.. I exercise and I take care. And for all those who tell me I look like a certain actress.. let me tell u that she looks a bit like me and when she grows older and fatter she will look a lot more like me( Vanity is still my Name)!

Ma .. this note is specially for u.

The Incredible Indian Male

A nation rose from silence to a horrific truth that women are the “weaker sex”. Contrary to the belief that we are a developing nation, we went back a few hundred years where a man’s penis was of great value. With testosterone raging and adrenaline pumping high he would go on to the battlefield to justify his “manhood”. And this is what he is doing today- be it in words or in action. Somewhere he is loosing it, his right to control the once meek and submissive woman. All his life he has seen his grandmother, his mother, his aunt going about the house with their head held low, uttering monosyllables only when the dominant male spoke to her. So now, how can he see his wife, his sister, his own daughter break the monotony of the patriarchy rule and become his boss at work, his equal at home and his contender to his father’s will.
It is but natural that to such a man a woman may look “dented and painted”, to this man she is the face of urban India and not the rural Bharat , that she is his next conquest and that she needs to learn her lesson right away.
As a woman today living in this “developing nation” I salute to the rise of the “Incredible Indian Male”. I feel a deep urge to serve him, to be honoured by his presence and feel duty bound to give into his whims and fancies cause I was born to do so. What he says is right , what he does is right too! And god forbid I go against his will and wishes may the earth give way and I be buried alive.
My mother taught me wrong that being born a woman was something to be proud of. That I had the charm and the wit to make men dance to my tunes. That I could do whatever I wanted ,whenever I wanted and I could do better than a man. But, she taught me wrong cause she never took into consideration that men had egos the size of their you know what that grew at the slightest of provocation.
Men of honour and men of pride are an endangered species or rather an extinct species that we may now find as fictional characters in books, cause the “Incredible Indian Male “ finds it difficult to digest that objects like women have to be treated with dignity, have to be given a place in society and Oh, good lord! Be treated as an equal.
With debates and counter debates dying their own death in all social media as time passes by, me an “Average Indian Woman” would wait anxiously for another national uproar, hoping that politics and media would again “talk” about ME and MY PLACE in the society. Give me the importance, and try to lay down laws for my safety, since I am already born and they cannot do anything about that! And till such time I hope and pray that I am not the cause of the uproar.
I walk on the streets today with the latest update that how my bare midriff is going to be the cause of me getting raped and not those lecherous eyes or the sick mindset of the awesome male species. That I should remember to call him “bhaiyya” , if he forces himself upon me and thus he will let me go to find another one of my species who doesn’t know this magic word.
I bow down in admiration to the “Incredible Indian Male” as he has shown me light that he may worship my form as the Goddess of Wealth but my true place lies in my mother’s womb- safe, secure and loved!
The end to this note is wishful thinking though I don't believe it too... I am angry, hurt and confused... I want to live safe and with dignity. This seems too much to ask in the present scenario... And it's only a wish! 

I am what you call "A house wife" ,"a stay at home mom"..I do'nt like these descriptions much,but I am living with it and do i like the situation that I am in...Ohh I love it.

I like doing things for my family..working for them..with them and sometimes just being there.

If you look at it ..it is the same drab routine that goes on day after day after day.If you ask me today what I am doing next week the same time..without a thought I'll say the same thing I am doing right now.The big details are just the same,but it's the small ones that make all the difference.

The other day Adi ,my eight year old started crying cause he just could'nt beat someones score on an internet game(he does that a lot)..so mom beat the score..and seeing the smile on his face as he entered his name on top of the score sheet was sweet.

Going to pick up Aarush from his school is one road trip that I would'nt like to miss.Just seeing him cry as he runs into my arms is what i wait for everyday(he'll grow out of it soon I know).

His nonstop chatter of how "exam aunty"(that's what he calls his teacher) scolded him or how he beat a boy when the teacher was not looking(I have to tell him to stop that) make all the waiting worthwhile.

It's been going on for over nine years now...and I know it will go on for eternity..but just knowing that Arun can't find a needle in a pile of needles without yelling out for "munna "...kind of gives me the control...and I like been in control.

Just knowing that I am there when they need me keeps me going...and that's a job well done.