The Unthinkable...

[In reply to Mr. Chetan Bhagat's advice to women: blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/The-underage-optimist/entry/five-things-women-need-to-change-about-themselves]

Now that the first attempt at something "unthinkable" has been made, let me try my hand at it - by trying to tell men that they might just be wrong. This is not a pretty article, so if you are looking for a lighter read, perhaps you will find a copy of "Two States" lying around somewhere. This article is my reply to the five things Mr. Bhagat suggests women to change about themselves. My reply, not as a woman, but as a rational individual:

Mr. Bhagat suggests that women need to stop judging other women. I completely agree with this. In fact, they should also stop judging men, their kids, others' kids, the clothes in Paris Fashion Week and the quality of rice bought at the supermarket. Men should also not judge women, other men, their kids, others' kids, the Kawasaki Ninja and football passes. Won't that be a nice and comfy world to live in!?  Give me a man who has never judged anyone or anything in his life (professional judges, please don't take this personally), and I will accept his advice to humanity on the matter. Mr. Bhagat, whose description of 'Dean Cherian' closely resembles that of a bulldog, does not strike me as such a person.

Now, where do I even begin on the faking issue! Well, as a disclaimer, I love to fake. I was told it is called being grown up. It appears, however, that women tend to commit the serious crimes of laughing at men's jokes even if they are not funny and dumb-ing themselves down for guys. Now, how many men do I know who fake it right , left and center to improve their chances with a girl? I'll leave that question hanging...
Women also tend to accept a raw deal at work easier than men, it appears. It is called being professional, Sir! You might not like to hear it, but perhaps those women are tougher than the men around. They might not be the fake bitches you make them out to be. (It should be noted here that I, personally,do not agree with this generalization  of women accepting raw deals in the least.)

On the issue of women refusing property rights (the only serious issue in the article, according to me), I agree with Mr. Bhagat that women need to stand up for their own rights. However, the usual reason for women to avoid property disputes is domestic discord. Blaming society might be  cliche, but, in ours, women always support their men in their property related disputes, but not vice-versa. The supportive husband says, "forget your dad's property, we have enough as it is!" The loving father says, "forget your alimony, I can support my daughter!" I have rarely seen a woman who has given up her property rights when at least some of her family has supported her. But to choose domestic peace over a few acres of land - isn't that a sign of foresight?

Then there are the dreams! Those dreams that are never big enough, never great enough, never worth fighting for...to anyone but the dreamer. Truth is, nobody needs someone else to tell them what their dreams should be. Mr. Bhagat, in spite of his ability to reduce life at an IIT to a bollywood-ish romantic comedy, does not get to dictate the dreams of the women of India. An ambition of having your two healthy kids tell you how much they liked the lunch you packed for them is no less precious than that of becoming the CEO of Yahoo! The question is: Can you respect one as much as the other, and ensure you do your bit to support a woman in achieving her dreams, irrespective of what they are?

Mr. Bhagat's last advice, however, is one I wholeheartedly support. Never be too caught up in the drama of relationships. This advice, I'll re-iterate, for both men and women to understand (no, I do not think women need this advice more than men).  Any relationship,with anyone but yourself, is not worth having if it takes that much effort and causes that much distress. Relationships, like Mr. Bhagat says, are important and should be valued. However, they are there to help you get through everything else with a smile upon your face. It is not worth it to protect a relationship that constantly keeps costing you that smile. Get over it! Move on! Live your life, this is your only chance at it!

The Naming Convention

What drives a respected Professor at a U.S. university to write an article on his webpage explaining his name?(reference: http://users.ece.cmu.edu/~raj/name.html) Why am I consistently referred to as T. Asha in Bangalore, or my friend called "Dibba" in Kharagpur? I call it the naming convention...or rather, the conventional naming.

Here's my theory: The human mind tries to fit everything to a recognizable pattern. We see a  grassy field with lines on it, we automatically start pattern matching it against football/hockey/baseball grounds. We see a name and we break it up to fit our predetermined format for names, translate it to our mother-tongue, re-translate it to English and generate what most obviously must be the actual name! Then we smugly think "Stupid fellow! Can't even spell his own name!"

Next comes the phase when we, in all our magnanimity, repeat the "correct" name over and over again to the person, hoping that they'll someday pick it up! Usually they do. I, for example, reply to anything between Tisaya and Treiasha without so much as a flinch, Divya knows to pick up her mail whenever they announce "Dibba courier!" over the intercomm and I am sure each one of you have a similar story to tell. But often people turn out to be exceptionally thick headed and continue to argue on how their names are supposed to be pronounced. I was that way at one point of time, and I remember the patient sighs as people explained to me that given the spelling, my pronunciation of  Tiyasa is gravely erroneous! Today I laugh at my ignorance...

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have done my very best to conform to your naming convention. But there's always a point where one must draw the line. And I have identified my point to lie after the T and before the Asha. I hereby declare that I absolutely, solemnly and wholeheartedly refuse to be rechristened T.Asha, no matter what part of the world I reside in. I will not respond to this name and will forever boycott any person/organization that addresses me by this name. Be Warned! I will fight this injustice till my dying breath!

My Fairytale: Introduction

When I was a kid, I used to believe that I was a character out of some book, where my life was part of a fascinating plot, connecting lost puzzle pieces that would fall apart if not for my existence. As I grew up, however, I convinced myself that I was extremely real, as was the world around me. The realization that my existence did not in one bit affect the flow of any award winning script was definitely not easy to digest. But the overwhelming evidence against my theory left no doubt in my mind whatsoever. To begin with, if my life had been penned down, it had been done with extreme attention to detail. Such detailing, to the level of my shoe size and eyesight, can rarely be seen in literature, and definitely not for supporting characters. That I was not the protagonist was evident: I was neither a princess nor a pauper, not amazingly gifted at any of the arts and definitely not breathtakingly beautiful! I was not the antagonist,  simply because I am not evil! In short, I was fairly uninteresting and nothing of importance ever happened to me. Thus, dear friends, I came to the conclusion that I never had a fairytale!
Now, some ten years after convincing myself of my absolute irrelevance, I would like to propose a plot for a fairytale. One in which someone like me can be the central character, and live happily ever after. You see, magic, if it happens, doesn't happen to pretty people only, nor is love restricted to royals. You can of course argue that magical love is a thing restricted to the rich and famous, but I'll simply cite about half a score examples to the contrary to end the debate. That, however, is not the point because my plot does not have a prince charming or a pumpkin carriage, mirrors don't talk to me and as far as I am aware I am neither a mermaid nor a duck.No this fairytale does not have magic, nor the ideal man and it definitely does not speak of the kind of love that makes you live happily ever after.This fairytale is about a real person; one who has been rejected and wronged, one who has loved selfishly and hated irrationally, one who can't sing or dance to win peoples' hearts and one whose fortune does not change overnight to provide every happiness in the world. On the contrary, this is the story of one of those simple beings to whom finding ten bucks on the sidewalk is worth writing down.
I start narrating this tale with the fear that most of my readers are more interested in the ten bucks than in me. However, to prove myself worthy of being the protagonist, I have decided to take up the challenge.

The Bird of Destiny

A shrill cry - desperate - reverberating from the cracks of a shattered soul

A shower of golden feathers,twisted at odd angles, bent, tattered and torn

wings flapping relentlessly, fighting hard against an impending doom

talons clawing at the empty air, searching for a nonexistent foothold

the vicious tongues of flame rise and fall as if to an unheard symphony

scorching, burning in every touch, hungry for the last shreds of hope

a lone tail feather catches flame, a momentary flash of brilliant gold

And then nothing but a trail of ash and soot, a stab of pain, a stench of fear

A sudden restless rustling of the wings,  a cry of new-found vigor

an inch of progress -  a possible escape - a  sudden glimmer of hope

But then the inevitable backward glance,the vision of all-engulfing flames

Terror - a flutter of panic - the gradual dawning of cold despair

Fatigue - wings beat out of rhythm, a realization of the inevitable end

the fierce cry of will fades into a mournful song of acceptance 

The flames approach, touch, advance - the waves of heat burst forth

and then the burning - somehow purifying each string of existence

The rising fumes choking, breaking, muting the last lament

Blazing fire weaving into the plumes of  dazzling gold

Flecks of ash swirling amongst the the ever-spreading flames

Before disappearing into nothingness, denied the truth of existence

A wing swallowed, then the other - body indistinguishable from its doom

A silent tear, vaporized before it could take its destined shape

A swirl of fire, smoke and extinguished life bursts into emptiness

And then the flames keep burning on, but the phoenix doesn't rise again

[Disclaimer: The content of the above text is purely fictional. Any similarity, to any phoenix, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No phoenixes were harmed in the writing of the above text.]