My friend Anita

We were not that close. Actually, I don’t even know what it means to be close. Did we know what was happening in each other’s lives? No. Did we like or comment on each other’s pictures? No. I was not even active on Facebook. Did we wish each other on our birthdays? No.

And yet we have had great memories together. How can I ever forget those late-night chats and our time together in DNA? Offices are not the place to make friends. We were never supposed to be friends. We were colleagues. But you know what? The only reason I liked going to that office was the people I worked with. I did not like my work. Sounds weird but it was the people who kept me going. I made some real good friends in that office, and Anita you were one of them.

I think our friendship progressed when I left that office. We always kept in touch and talked about random stuffs on gtalk. You introduced me to this song, Khamakha, and I listned to it everytime I fell in love. And everytime I listned to it, I thought of you. It’s a nice song and I am wondering how would I ever listen to it, now that you are gone. What’s hurting me the most is how I found about your death. Yes, you were there in my mind. I was thinking how, you, a beautiful girl, got hurt in love so many times. And I was thinking of it constantly. But it was that Netflix show that made me look for you. A character reminded me of you and I instantly googled. And that’s how I came to know Corona took you away.

I pinged some people on Whatsapp. Seems like they did not have the kind of memmory with you the kind I had. But then I spoke to everyone I knew in DNA and relived the time I had. And they still loved me. They loved that I still have that ability to make them laugh. I thought I am a different person now, but then I still had that ‘ budding reporter’ part in me.

I don’t know Anita, why I did not speak to them for such a long time. Maybe because I thought I have changed. I have changed a lot, I am not that same person anymore. What’s the point ? But when you talk to them , you realise , it’s not that bad to talk to people you knew you when you were not this better. When you are young and still not hit by realities of life. And it hurts that I will never get to speak to you. But you tought me to keep in touch with people you have had nice time with.

Bye Anita.

Smells like…

Certain smells invoke memories. They take you back to the places that don’t even exist in your subconscious mind. Yet a whiff opens the pandora box you did not know is still there. When I was dumped by this guy, I used to smell him in my clothes. I don’t remember now what he smelled like but I think if I smell someone with the similar scent , it would ring a bell.

But sitting at my brother- in – law’s medical shop , I smelled something that took me back to a sweet place. This man came to buy ondem md , a medicine that prevents vomiting but then ended up giving me this verbal diarrhea. He was smellikg like blue heavens power. Now this smell took me back to Varanasi where I used to spend my summers. I didn’t like it that much but then there was a house next to my nani that used to smell like blue heavens powder. This bengali family of four. A husband, a wife, a doctor son and a daughter studying to be one.

The family was known for their beautiful garden and discipline they maintained inside their house. They did not have TV and according to the family that was the reason why both the children cracked the medical entrance exams. The man was called ‘ Bengal uncle ‘ and the woman was known as ‘ bengali Aunty ‘. Yes they were bengalis settled in Varanasi. Actually, uncle had a job in railways and later son got a job as a resident doctor in bhu after completing his studies . The daughter was studying in Allhabad . So, yeah they had all the reasons to call that railway quarter their home. Although they were known for their strictness , their house remained open for us kids. It was in that house I had rusk for the first time. I loved it. I asked my father to buy it for me when I got back to Delhi. But no it was nowhere near to the rusk i had it there.

So, their children were the role model and we were expected to become like them. The daughter was masui to us and the son was mama. So my mother would tell me ‘ look at maina mausi . You should become like her. You should not watch TV ‘.

Every parent in that colony wanted their children to become them. The guy cracked BHU medicals while the girl got her medical seat through cpmt. Big deal.

Fast forward many years, and nobody talks about them the way they used to back then. They are no longer a role model but a failure.

Bengali Aunty died of anal cancer and it was said nobody was there to take care of her when she fell sick. ‘ she dedicated her life to her children and what did she get in return ‘ . That’s how people talked about her.

The daughter left her husband and joined an ashram. Later , we came to know she had depression. ‘ she had been depressed since her school days. Didn’t you see the kind of pressure her mother put on her. She was always a little nuts ‘. That’s how people talked about her.

The son is doing well and he is a doctor in Lucknow. He is still in touch with my mom, but then he would talk about everything but the life he had in the house that smelled like blue heavens powder.

The role model family is a sorry case now. The smell of blue heavens powder is still the same.

How do they even do that ?

My favorite Carrie Bradshaw once said ‘ We keep the dresses we will never wear but we throw away our ex boyfriends’. True I have dresses that I will never. There’s this dress I got from Janpath that refuses to slip beyond my neck, and then there is one strappy dress which just flattens by boobs, and then there are pairs of Salwar Kameez waiting for the occasions. But trust me none of those dresses reduced me to tears and made me ask my self worth. None of them ghosted me and broke my heart. Some of those dresses are too small for my ass but none of them are assholes. So, yeah I will keep my old dresses that I will never wear and throw away my ex boyfriends , also Carrie Bradshaw can go to hell.

But then I have some friends who can’t write to save lives but are Carrie Bradshaw when it comes to keeping ex boyfriends. Mansi stopped talking to her ex boyfriend when he stopped talking to her. Her boyfriend, Suresh, dumped her for someone his family chose for him. After being with Mansi for five years, he decided it was time to get married and went for the fairest girl his family could find for him. But he always kept in touch with Mansi, and she was perfectly okay with that. And one day the wife, who was six-months pregnant around that time, found out. So Suresh blocked Mansi.

Mansi said it did not hurt her because she was already over him. And then she met Vishal via matrimonial site. Vishal, whose Tinder and Jeevansaathi profile mentioned XLRI, actually went to some private college in Jharkhand. Actually, Mansi met him via Matrimonial site, and I met him via Tinder. No I never met him, I just saw him on Tinder and send my friend a screenshot. He freaked out the moment Mansi mentioned Tinder to him. Because apparently, Tinder is the place where people go to laid, and Jeevansaathi is for some serious stuffs. And good boys don’t get laid, they always go for serous stuffs.

So, after initial chit chat, they met, and then they met again and again. Coffee dates became the lunch dates, the lunch dates became the movie dates, and the movie dates started ending in Vishal’s bedroom. And one fine day after carefully selecting his bread, sauces and filling at Subway, he told Mansi she is not selected for this competition called Arranged Marriage. ‘ Our horoscopes did not match’, he told her as he tore his Sub.

But then Mansi never stopped seeing him. I don’t know how to continue writing this without sounding judgmental. But then how could you continue talking to someone who dumped you simply because the Horoscopes did not match ? And that too after having sex with you ? And that too when you met for matrimonial purpose ?

Alright none of my business but then Vishal blocked her everywhere after he got married to someone else.

If you thought Mansi is some kind of pro at keeping ex boyfriends, wait till you read about my friend Ankita.

Ankita, an astrologer by profession met this guy on Facebook and by the time they met, they knew they were in love. But after three months they met, the guy, Mehul told her although he loved her, he won’t be able to marry her because the mother would never accept someone from the other caste. This was 2014. But then they continued being together for three years, and then Mehul decided it was time for him to get married. He started seeing other women and continued hanging out with Ankita.

Ankita, an astrologer paid her bills by reading other people fates, but somehow she could never made herself to read hers with that guy. Every time she was asked by her friends to finally breakup with him, Ankita would tell them how he was not like other guys, and how their relationship was not like other relationships. According to her not relationships turn into marriage and that’s okay. While I agree with that part, what shocked me the reasons she came up with to keep the relationship going without without any label. ‘ He dropped me to office sometimes, and he always took care of me when I fell ill, he never asked me to lose weight, and he always let me wear what all I ever wanted. Now tell me which boyfriend does all that’.

I wasted no time telling her what her boyfriend did for her was called BARE MINIMUM and if a boyfriend does not do all that for his girlfriend, he has no right to have one. And Ankita did not waste any time either telling me I was one angry bitter feminist types who would never experience the kind of love that she did. Thank god for that !

To cut the story short, Mehul blocked Ankita because his fiancée did not like her. And guess what who is angry bitter feminist types now ?

Arranged Marriage and the city

It might come as a shock but it was in 2017 that I watched Sex and the city for the first time ever in my life. I grew in a conservative family with only one television set which was dutifully kept in the ‘drawing room’. Yes, we did have cable connection and I was allowed to indulge in those Saas Bahu serials during dinner time, but never those English series. But I don’t think so I should be blaming anybody for that. Most of the people I know watched those series when they finally got full access to the internet. I remember how my friends used to download seasons of Friends, How I met your mother, The 70s show and of course , my favorite Sex and the city.

So, I was telling you about the summer I watched Sex and the city for the first time. I was rejected by a boy who I met on Tinder earlier that year and by the time I was done with the show, I was a different person. Yes, that was the kind of impact Carrie and co had on me. A hot writer, talking and walking about the sex lives of her friends and making money out of that- isn’t it something dreams are made up of ?

As Carrie would say, It got me thinking, what would I be writing if I were some sort of Carrie Bradshaw living in Lucknow, the city most single and happening people aspire to leave ?

I have some friends but there is hardly any sex in their lives. We do meet, but not for cosmopolitan, it is just Coffee and Kulhad tea here and there. My friends do meet men but not for dating, but for marriage. The meets are arranged by their parents , and unlike Carrie and co, my friends don’t have to worry where they will go. Because they know it has to go only one way. With each meet, comes the hope that it will be the last one, but the deal is never finalized.

We meet over coffee, and talk about the men who rejected us. But it is nothing like Carrie and co dissing the men they slept with, because here, the humiliation is not just faced by the women but their entire family.

Take this for instance. A boy came to meet by friend Chandni with his entire family. The family had the breakfast of Poha and Kachori prepared by Chandni’s mother. Chandni’s family could see them frowning and they could never decide whether it was Chandni’s shape or the shape of the Kachori that made them do that.

And then there’s a friend who met this guy in a restaurant with her family. That guy straight away rejected her after they finished the meal of Butter Naan, Dal Makhni and Paneer butter Masala . The least the family could do was to ask him to pay for his share.

Rejection after rejection and yet there is no scope of giving up. Here’s to our parents who never even allowed us to talk to boys when we were growing up, and now they are desperately looking for that perfect stranger to make our sex lives happening!

Prison no. 100: An Account Of My Days and Nights in an Indian Prison

This, by no means, is an easy read. You will open the book several times, be thankful for the clean drinking water and food you have, and put it aside, only to open it again. But then why would expect a prisoner’s diary to be an easy breezy read ? And that too of a Kashmiri Muslim woman booked under POTA? To her inmates, she was a traitor and a terrorist from day one. For her organization, she founded and tirelessly worked for, she was completely dispensable. To her family, she meant everything. And this was what that kept her going. 

Translated by Sahba Hussain, Prisoner number 100, is a spine chilling account of a Kashmiri political activist, Anjum Zamarud Habib, who was wrongly booked under POTA act in 2003. The five years she spent in jail left a scar on her mind and heart for the lifetime. When you read the book, you know why. 

She was ostracized the minute she entered the jail. Nobody understood her case but they all knew she was a Kashmiri Muslim and hence a terrorist. ‘ All Kashimiris are terrorists and traitors’, the inmates would say.  There were women convicted for murder, theft, drug and body traffacking and yet Habib was made to feel that her ‘crime’ of being a Kashmiri Muslim was the biggest amongst all. When there were bomb blasts, all the inmates would turn to Anjum and question her as if she was the one who went outside and planted those bombs. And not to forget the search operation conducted by the jail authorities every 26th January and 15th August. Let me mention here that it was only Anjum’s cell that was searched that way. 

As you read further, you will be surely reminded of Orange is the New black, where women from different backgrounds and strata live more or less the same kind of life.  Anjum writes how a riot broke into the prison after a young Afghan national died in the prison. That was the one time when all women came together forgetting their differences and demanded justice for their inmate. It was just like when Poussey died in OITNB. 

One harsh winter after another, one cruel summer after another, one illness after another, one court date after another, the wait never ends, leaving Anjum with no choice but to pray. It was only her prayers that provided her strength to go on and take everything that Tihar jail threw at her. 

Take this for instance, when a black woman named Sandra physically hurt her  for no apparent reason, the jailor, instead of taking action against Sandra, slapped Anjum with various additional charges. Yes, there were plenty of black women in the jail, who Anjum addressed as Habshi women. In fact, there were various foreign nationals in the jail and it was surprising for Anjum to see how their respective embassies took care of them by regularly sending them items like butter, oil, nuts and fruits. 

But then there were moments of solace too. Anjum describes how things one would not even care when outside become some kind of saviour in the jail. For Anjum, it was pottery and candle making. It was those couple of hours that somewhat made Anjum forget about the pain and miseries. There were various NGOs who worked for the betterment of those women but only a few were interested. 

It was so painful inside the jail that when Anjum finally came out, it took her a while to believe that she was actually out. It goes without saying that it was very depressing to read Anjum’s account but just because it was depressing doesn’t mean it should not be read. 

Read it to know the sad and inhumane status of Indian prisons and what it means to be a Kashmiri Muslim inside it. 

Achy Cakey Love – Part 1

I had wanted to bake cakes for as long as I can remember. I had always been in awe of people who could bake. Surprisingly, it was never those complex looking designer fondant cakes that caught my fancy. For me, cake always meant something baked with fresh locally available ingredients and lots of love. The way the whole house smells when the cake is in the oven can beat any perfume any day. Cake never meant celebration for me. It always meant love and I never believed there is a time to have a cake. The perfect time could be midnight when you are engrossed in your favorite book. Or the morning when you need something to eat with your strong bitter coffee.

I wanted to bake even more when he came into my life. The thought of waking him up with freshly baked chocolate cake and a kiss sent a thousand butterflies into my stomach. The beautiful colorful ones. Thousands of times I googled the recipe and thousand times I closed the pages after reading wondering if there is a thing called ‘baking instincts’. What if I didn’t have? What If I never developed? What if it’s lycra, either you have it or you don’t? Can I really make them in my microwave convection mode? If it was that simple, wouldn’t everyone be making them?

I let a thousand questions crop in my mind and not even once decided to take a leap of faith. And then he left.

I have had heartbreaks in the past but this one left me with feelings that were alien to me. For the first time in my life, I felt alone. I had been alone earlier. There were times when my flatmates went home leaving me alone with a key and house lizards. But this was different. I had my people around yet I felt I was on my own.
Gripped by a strange kind of fear, I started doing things that I loved. I was ready to do anything to fill the void that he left me with. I was surrounded by positive breakup stories. I had people telling me stories of pain and how they made the best of it. My mind was too filled with ideas and I decided to jump on them believing I had nothing to lose.

For the nth time, I googled ‘eggless cake recipes’ and this time I decided to give it a shot, worst if not my best.
The first cake I ever baked was a Banana cake made with whole wheat flour.

I quickly ran to the nearby grocery shop to get vanilla essence, baking powder, and Baking Soda. The shopkeeper gave me something called ‘Meetha soda ‘ saying baking soda and Meetha soda are one and same thing. Really? I googled to confirm and yes he was right.

It felt like half the battle already won. I had the ingredients and Google told me I could easily make cakes in my LG convection microwave. So it’s one-fourth the battle won if not half.
The recipe said 1 and a half cup flour. What does that mean? The only cups I had ever known were the ones I have my tea and coffee in. I knew there were measuring cups specially meant for bakers, but what if I didn’t have them. So, does that mean it’s one-eighth of the battle won?

My parents were away and my sister was hungry. That was the perfect time to not give up. I decided to go by those white mugs kept on my kitchen rack. I wasted no time in throwing one – and- a half cup of flour in my bowl. I set the convection mode, set the temperature at 180 degrees and let it preheat as the recipe wanted me to.
Next was mixing one cup of powdered sugar along with mashed bananas and 2/3 cup of oil. That was a lot of oil! But then I did as the recipe said. The challenge was not pouring that was of oil in a cup from a heavy can without spilling a drop or two.
A little less than a cup would be 2/3 cup, I assumed. Next step was adding one spoon of vanilla essence. I opened the little bottle and suddenly my whole kitchen smelled like Vanilla! Wow, that was so good. If I had to live with one smell whole my life, it would be this smell.
I carefully mixed the wet ingredients with dry ones. The batter looked thick but that’s what the recipe said. Slowly I was inching to that moment. I transferred the batter from bowl to the glass pan, put it inside the microwave and waited for the magic to unfold. The recipe said I should take a nap for forty minutes. But I prayed. And after forty minutes I checked the oven to see if my prayers were answered. I took out the hot pan and inserted a knife. The knife came clean and voila! My prayers were answered.
There it was, in the most beautiful shade of brown I had ever seen. I waited for 15 minutes to cool it and then scrapped the sides with a knife before inverting the pan. I tapped the pan slowly and then a bit aggressively but cake showed no sign of coming out. It was struck to the pan just like my grief was struck to me.
I left the pan for a while and then tapped again. The cake did come out but in pieces. But hey, that was my cake and I didn’t want to feel anything but proud about it. My cake was still warm but I couldn’t help but taste it. And man it tasted beautiful; who said broken can’t be beautiful?

 

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Yes Yes yes. I did it. Aata eggless banana cake! I thought baking is something I can never ever do. I don't have right oven and top of it all, we are vegetarian family. But then I had always always wanted to give it a shot and here it is…

A post shared by woman (@eatexploreread) on Feb 5, 2017 at 5:13am PST

My First ever cake, still in the pan 
Alright, it didn’t taste anything like those yummy Britannia cakes but come on, my cake was made with whole-wheat flour!
I got thumbs up from everyone who tasted it and with that came the confidence to bake again and again.

My cake was, of course, healthier than any other cake I had ever tasted and then I decided to make it even healthier by dutifully reducing the oil by half. The batter was sticky as hell and without wasting a moment I added a cup of milk to ‘fix’ it. Yes, some eggless cakes recipe I read online did ask for milk but not this one. Nevertheless, I put the batter in the microwave hoping it would be better than the last time and it wasn’t.
Not only it was flat but also was burnt from sides. Like my previous cake, this one also came out in pieces expect some of them were uncooked. Man what a disaster, much like my life- okayish at one moment disaster the next.
I threw away the whole cake and decided it was the just not my day. You can’t be winning all the time after all. There will always be next time. Except the next time was a disaster too.

I didn’t know where I went wrong. How come it was okayish the first time I made it and now it is not? The question kept haunting me. Being haunted by questions is a feeling which is not alien to me. Why couldn’t I see the signs, Did he even love me, When would I get over this, What if I never got over it, why can’t my cake rise?

It was New Year’s Eve when I found the answer to my question. The weather outside was bitingly cold and tossing turning on my bed with my mobile in my hand, I was beating myself up for not being able to get him out of my head when I came across a recipe for vanilla sponge cake… yet another recipe for vanilla cake.

I immediately jumped out of bed and measured out one and a half wholewheat flour out of the Dabba. Next, without wasting a second I added baking powder and baking soda. The yogurt was poured in a separate bowl, sugar was blended in the mixture and my enemy, oil was filled in the cup. A half cup of oil! I poured some vanilla essence directly from that little bottle. And the liquid mixture with that heavenly smell was poured over the flour. I mixed it well, greased the glass tray with oil, threw some flour and poured the mixture. And then I did something I already knew. I put the trey inside the preheated microwave and let it bake for 36 minutes.

That year had given me worst kind of pains. The kind of pain that changed a part of me and let’s not even talks about anxiety. ‘ Why is he behaving like that’, ‘why is he not replying to my texts’. ‘Am I even good enough for him? Damn …

There were days when I would do nothing but wait for a text from him. Man, what were those 36 minutes in comparison to what I had gone through?

Veere Di Wedding IS a chick flick and there’s nothing wrong in it

Four women constantly talking about sex, marriage, and men while having ample amount of alcohol and smoke and yet the makers didn’t want it to call a chick flick. Okay, it might be their marketing gimmick and I don’t know whether it helped to pull the crowd to the theaters or not.

 

Okay, Veere Di Wedding had flaws, I won’t deny that. It hardly had any storyline to talk about and had a very predictable ending. But that doesn’t take away the fact that there had not been a single dull moment in those entire two hours. The film had me in ten minutes and I knew it was going to be a flick to remember.

 

The film as you know is the all about lives and times of four female friends. Sakshi ( Swara Bhaskar), Kalindi ( Kareena Kapoor), Avni ( Sonam Kapoor ) and Shikha Talsania ( Mira) are childhood buddies who unite for Avni’s wedding. All these characters are absolutely different from each other yet had a common problem- men. Sakhi is a rich brat who married in haste and now all set to get divorced, Kalindi is somebody whose parents set a bad example of marriage when she was a child, Avni is a divorce lawyer and has a mother who continuously tries to fix her daughter with men she shortlists on matrimonial sites and finally there’s Mira who married a white guy against her parents’ wish. She has no problem with her partner but has her own issue to deal with like lack of sex after gaining weight due to pregnancy.

As the film progresses, the four women face their worst fears, layer by layer and by the end, everybody is happy. Sakshi is divorced, Avni finds a guy who she thinks can marry, Kalindi is married and Mira sheds her inhibition and clothes.  And all this happens amidst copious amount of alcohol and smoke, sexist profanities, ultra designer clothes and a holiday in Phuket.

 

 

 

 

 

Men have had their share of ‘bro films’, Right from classic Dil Chahta Hai to trashy Pyaar Ka Punchnama, Bollywood have been depicting men, friendships and their take on women and relationship. In the recent years, some bold filmmakers have taken the risk and come up with women-oriented films like Angry Indian Goddess and  Lipstick under Burkha. Both the films showed the side of women unknown to Bollywood and in both the films women had to fight really hard for their basic human rights. While those films leave you numb and shocked in the end, Veere Di Wedding will only make you smile or maybe laugh.

Avni’s encounters with men for arranged marriages were hilarious. Kalindi’s fiancé’s (played by Sumit Vyas) parents’ obsession with Big fat Punjabi wedding will definitely leave you in splits. Then there are dialogues and scenes which that some ‘Sanskar bound’ people might find too brazen.  But guess what? Women actually enjoy sex and they are not afraid to talk about it.  They know how to have fun with their girls and they are not apologetic about it.

All right, you can call it shallow with all your might but that the makers had been making it very clear that this is not a feminist film.  This is a fun film chick film and should be taken that way only. Don’t worry about the lesson and the messages. The message could be – have fun with your friends. Whosoever has amazing female friends will relate to the film.

 

The problem in Veerey Di Wedding

 

The trailer of much talked about film Veerey di Wedding is out and it’s quite refreshing to see industry’s big players coming up with a film where all main characters are women. And two of them are the mainstream actress and one of them is Swara Bhaskar, the very talented actor, and controversy’s favorite child. By the look of it, it looks like the Desi version of Sex and the city and I am not complaining. I often wondered how Carrie would react if her mother showed photographs of men suitable for arranged marriage. Or what would Charlotte say if society would blame her for being divorced? And Samantha, what does Indianised version of her look like? How would Miranda’s parents react to her cynicism?

It would always be fun to watch four women talking about sex, condoms, bras and everything else society doesn’t want them to talk about. I like everything about the trailer except for one thing- the copious amount of Ma Behen stuff uttered by everyone.

I know Behenchod or Ma chod is just a cuss word, just like ‘ damn it’ or ‘ holy fuck’. English translation of it doesn’t make it any cheaper. Of course, sister fucker doesn’t sound any better even if you don’t mean it literally. Last year I met an NGO owner who totally believed ‘if a person can say it, he can do it to’.  Now, that might not be true but it certainly sounds cringe-worthy when somebody who claims to be a feminist utters them. Feminists fight against rape, it’s every feminist’s dream to live on a planet where rape doesn’t exist. Then how can they utter cuss words that essentially mean rape?

Those who know me or knew me in the past might think that I should be the last person to write this blog post. Yes, there was a time when I was known for my cussing. I could cuss like I breath, it came that naturally. In fact, I made my twitter account just to swear to my heart’s content. But then I realized my feminist ideologies and Ma behen gaalis don’t go together.

And that’s why I have a problem with Veerey Di Wedding.

Hi, what is your caste ?

 

The year was 2011 when I shifted to Jaipur from Delhi for new job. New city, new job, new hostel and new roommates, life couldn’t be more exciting . I had just unpacked and was getting ready for work when my roommate asked my name. Right after I told her my name, she asked me my surname. I easily guessed the intent behind asking my surname and then she made it quite obvious. “Are you Jaat or Rajput,” she asked as if she had to take some important decision. ‘None’, I said rather rudely as I finished my coffee and rushed to office.

I was a bit taken back. She was not some middle-aged khaap panchayat  woman living in a village but a young woman who left her city to study law. In Delhi, I shared room with two girls, one was a Kashmiri Muslim and another was from Shilong . None of them ever cared to ask my caste. Why did it matter to this girl ? I forgot about her as soon as I reached my office and when I came back, I couldn’t think about anything but food.  But it seemed like she was still waiting to finish the conversation I walked out of in the morning.

“ You eat non veg, “ she asked as she filled her plate with Allu Palak sabzi and Roti. “ Umm , yes but I love my veggies more,” I replied. “ Lekin Khate toh ho na,” she asked in a tone that can give any Mohallla Aunty run for their money.

I chose not to reply to her believing my silence will hint her that I was not interested in talking to her.But damn she was my roommate!

Lights were off and I was tossing and turning on my bed trying to sleep. And next to my bed was her bed where she was doing the same with her quest to know my caste.  “ Aapne batayi nahi apni caste. Apni caste batane me kya sharam , mein toh shaan se kehti hoon k mein Brahmin hoon,” she  said.

I was very sure that I am not going to tell her my caste but I thought having a chitchat wouldn’t hurt. She was my roommate after all.

“This is 2011, caste should not matter to young people like you, me and others in this hostel. We all left our homes to do make something out of our lives, we all are same,” I tried to explain her.

“ Arrey jisko apni caste pe garv na ho voh kya karega apni life me,” I knew I was wasting my time. I was turning towards the wall when she said , “ Kahin aisa toh nahi ke caste batane laayak nahi hai”.

I didn’t answer her. She was still sleeping when I woke up in the morning but was up by the time I came out of Bathroom. She was behaving in a strange manner and was washing the bathroom with phenyl. We were not supposed to wash the bathroom, there was a cleaner appointed to do the job. Other girls in the hostel found it weird too. Too busy to care, I got ready and left for the office.

Apart from a mess, we had a small kitchen in our floor where we had our own utensils to use. To my much surprise, my mug and plates were separated from the rest of the utensils. I knew the reason behind this but I didn’t know what to do. I had heard stories about roommates from hell and I bet my story was worst of all.

I decided that having a separate place for my mugs, plates and spoon won’t kill me. My soul purpose for being in that city was my work and that hostel was nothing but a place to crash. I was totally okay with it.  She can keep my plates away and wash the bathroom after I use it, she can do whatever she wants to, I won’t ever lose my cool.

Within a week, everyone in that  floor knew of my ‘caste’. Some people still insisted I might be Rajput or Jaat but my roommate had perfect comeback to that ‘Anybody can have that surname, Rajputs are fair skinned and Jaats don’t live in Lucknow ‘.

I immediately made friends in my Delhi hostel but in Jaipur, I never went beyond awkward smiles. To my much relief, not everybody identified me with my ‘caste’, in fact a few young girls actually criticized the roommate for her vileness.  But then there were others who believed ‘people like me’ took away their medical and engineering seats. Hell broke loose when one of the girls asked me if ‘reservation’ got me my job.

That was the moment I revealed my caste. I had always believed caste discrimination is restricted to villages. Oh yes, I had heard people using castiest slur like ‘ Bhangi’, ‘Chamar’, ‘ Quota people’ etc. But little did I know I would get familiar with the severity of the issue in that manner and I am not even a Dalit.

That was the time when I came to know of my privileges. What if I was really a Dalit ? What would I have done?

My roommate, being the asshole that she was, was still not convinced. To be doubly sure, she reached out to the hostel owner to confirm if I was actually a Rajput. Later, she apologized for keeping my things away.  Also, she returned the phenyl bottle to the cleaner.

I gave her my piece of mind but all in vain. She had no explanation for her behavior. She simply said she was a proud ‘ Brahmin’ and ‘ Scheduled castes should have separate things’.  I told her it is crime to discriminate and being a law student she should know this.

Next day, came a new girl and she was greeted with the similar question as I was.

 

No Jihad, just love

TV actor Dipika Kakkad got married to her muslim boyfriend Shoaib Ibrahim and Fanatics have gone crazy . Ibrahim, like Deepika is also a TV actor and they both worked together on a hit weepy show called ‘ Sasural Simar Ka’. I don’t know how their love blossomed but I am assuming it might be during working for the show they were part of. They met, they fell in love and they got married. True that she ‘embraced islam ‘and even changed her name and you can call it ‘Love jihad’ with all your might. But the fact remains the same she is just a woman in love and love has got nothing to do with religion. Then why embrace Islam, you would ask. Why didn’t the husband’s family accept her with her own religion?  Why did Kakkad have to go through such a drastic change?

 

 

My friend, let’s call her T, lived in Singapore all her life. Marwari by caste, T met someone in Singapore itself and the two decided to get married. The man is also Marwari and they make awesome couple together. After marriage, T shifted to her husband’s hometown Jaipur to help him open a restaurant.

Living with in-laws after having independent life in Singapore was not easy but she tried. She eats vegetarian food and doesn’t wear shorts and dresses when with in-laws. T, who loves her drink doesn’t drink at home.  But when in-laws go out of the town, which happens more than often, the couple parties like there’s no tomorrow.

This is how my friend adjusts who married the guy of her choice. People do make some or the other kind of changes in their lives when they get married. So what if Kakkad embraced islam ? She is an independent woman who was earlier married to a Hindu. That marriage didn’t work out and then she met Ibrahim. It was the person she fell in love with not the religion. And embracing Islam was more or less a formality, just to make Ibrahim’s family happy. Don’t women do things they don’t even want to just to make their partners’ parents happy? Most of the arranged marriages are designed that way. Women leave their parents, they change their eating habits and they dress the way their in-laws want them to.  All of us know at least one woman who has had horrible time adjusting with her new family.  My atheist friends often complain about overtly religious in-laws who expect them to be part of every religious function whether they like it or not.

And Kakkad did it willingly. She is smart and has a great career and she knows what she signed up for.

And it’s not only women who ‘convert’ for love. I know many men who ‘embraced’ Islam before they married their Muslim girls.  Shaurya, a defense personal is one of them.

Shaurya fell in love with Fareeha who was his sister’s friends. After courting for three years, they decided to elope because they knew their families would never agree to their union. So, one fine night, Fareeha packed her bags and caught train from Lucknow to Jammu where Shaurya was posted. They got married under special marriage act but later Fareeeha’s family insisted them to get married formally which required Shaurya to go through a conversion ceremony. “ Fareeha ran away from her home to be with me. Of course I could take part in that religious ceremony to marry Fareeha ,” Shaurya told me.  “If religion mattered to us, we would not have run away to begin with. We both knew that it was just a ceremony. People can call me Muslim or whatever they want to, but the fact remains the same that it really doesn’t matter,” he concluded. His family was not convinced in the beginning but after the birth of their first child, everything got fine.

It’s 2018 and people are still putting religion over everything, even human lives. There is no better way of changing this than inter-faith marriages. Let’s not condemn them.