A.R.Ts (138) Me and my Stylist

I first met her eight years ago. It was a chance meeting, I needed an urgent appointment, and she was the only stylist available. Are you ok to go with a junior stylist, they asked me. Yes, I said. I couldn't care less actually. And so I was introduced to Z. She was a petit little thing, fair, wore long tresses and black rimmed spectacles, looking every bit like the good girl who went by the book.

Now I have had a long history of distrustful relationships with stylists from various salons over the last two decades. My conversations with stylists usually went like this:

You have very dry hair. Which shampoo do you use?

Dove, I would say.

Stop using Dove, use this one instead - and a L'oreal product would be thrust into my hands.

Next time I would go to the same salon, but a different stylist, who would again start by asking,

Which shampoo do you use?

Loreal I would say, this time, pleased that I had the right answer.

But your hair is oily, why don't you use this one, and a Schwarzkopf product would appear.

But your salon said I had dry hair the last time, I would protest, half angry, half exasperated.

Well, your hair is dry ma'am, but your scalp is oily - so this is the best one for you.

And that would be the last time I went to that salon.

Z was different. She was the first stylist who didn't ask me the icebreaker question "which shampoo do you use?" What do you do? she asked instead. Work in a bank, I replied in a guarded tone, wanting to reveal as little as possible, still wary of her popping the "which shampoo you use question" anytime. So you must have a very stressful life, she said. Kind of, I responded evasively, refusing to let my guard down. What would you like to do with your hair?, she asked as if she realised I wanted her to get to the point quickly. I want to keep it long, rest you decide, I said firmly, as if throwing a challenge at her. In a way, it was a challenge, because none of my previous stylists encouraged me to have long hair. Your hair is thin, it flattens out, it will look limp, it doesn't have bounce, keep it short, don't grow it below your shoulders...... I was tired of hearing them all. I wanted long hair. And I was going to get it. Z, blissfully unaware of the rebellion simmering inside me said in her usually pleasing tone, So let me give it some layers, shorter ones near the scalp, and longer ones down, so that the length remains the same, and you also get volume. You mean I can keep it long?, I asked her in disbelief. Why not, she said, isn't that how you want it? Slowly my guard lowered and I smiled a little. Go right ahead, I said. When we were done, I tipped her and left. It was my first salon experience sans the shampoo question and the product thrust.

My most successful relationships have been with people who have let me be myself long enough, after which they have had no option but to start bossing over me. Z fell into that category. But neither of us realised it was happening.

You still want it long? She asked me when I met her next. Yes, I said decisively. Ok, but try something different, she prodded me. Can you give me bangs I asked. I can, provided you promise to style them everyday, she said. That I can't do, everyday styling is not for me, I retorted, expecting that she would refuse the bangs and we will be back to square one. Ok, I will give you the bangs still, but don't blame me if they start turning outwards. I noticed how she got out the situation swiftly and made it my problem. My mom did that. Your life, you decide, you pay the price. I started liking Z.

Can you recommend a shampoo for me, I asked her, almost shyly. It was the fourth or fifth time we were meeting, and she still hadn't recommended a shampoo. I hadn't bargained that she would defy so many conventions, and suddenly I wanted her to conform. The tides had turned. Z was making me feel like I was in safe hands. I was learning to trust.

Your scalp feels tight, let go of the stress, she said, while giving me a head massage once. By now Z knew her place in my life. What was your biggest stress, I asked her. When I quit my job in a huff, and had to set up my own salon in four days time, she said. How did you handle it, I asked her. I didn't, people around me did. For four days, my friends, family and well wishers did nothing but help me do the fittings buy products, and set up the decor. Z, the petite little thirty something was a fighter.

I met Z yesterday. After a gap of 6 months. All your friends came and went, she chided me. Including the ones from Pune, she added, as if that should make me feel more guilty. Yes, I've been busy, plus you really cut my hair short the last time, and I had to wait for it to grow back, I said, trying to shift the guilt. You asked for a short haircut, she reminded me. You didn't exactly say No when I asked for it, I replied, implying she was my partner in crime. I didn't, and you know I won't, she said.

Yes I know that, Z never said No to me. Long when I wanted it long, and short when I wanted it short. But finding a way to keep the long between the short, and the short between the long. The edges a little uneven. A few strands uncut. Leaving her mark on me. Reminding me that a perfect haircut doesn't exist. And that someday, it will all grow back or grow out. So make it your style till it lasts.

A.R.Ts (137) - The neuroticism of holiday planning

With Amitabh's baritone voice saying "Aapne Kutch nahin dekha toh kuch nahin dekha" in the background, our Rann of Kutch plan was getting made. The dates...the cars we would take...the routes we would follow. I can't drive a four-wheel, I declared, making my limitations clear. Your car cannot take more than four, said P, sizing up all the vehicles. You better come, we need a driver, said J to T. Apply for leave in advance, said G to S. Make it Feb, Jan looks tough for me, said M. We planned it for weeks. Checked the calendar for full moon nights. Imagined ourselves driving for miles, mouthing soulful lyrics. Lying on the white sand and staring into the moon. Eventually, our plebeian commitments got the better of us. The trip never happened.

Planning holidays is our curse. It is what we seem to be born for. A bunch of us, forever living in the mountains, the beaches, the snow, the sun, the sand, and the hammock. Like it is a parallel life. A life where crazy is sane. Night is day. Where, between the rainbows and sunsets, we see the dance of our dreams. Splashed over the horizon of our lives, spanning eternity.

We plan atleast ten holidays a year. We know we will do only one. At best two. Failed Goa holiday plans top our list. A typical Goa holiday conversation goes like this -

J posts a link "A chic yoga resort in North Goa". Trying to lure some of us budding marathon runners into a fitness filled holiday. The recent fad in our lives.

Yoga in Goa? Nah! says P.

Yoga and run on the beach, says N.

Followed by beer and nap, says J.

No running for me, says G.

Let's go anyway, It's been a while! says S.

When, asks M.

June, says T.

Come May, T has a project, G has her son's exams, S is in between jobs, P has double booked herself on a road trip, M forgot the plan was made. And J - she has already posted the next link - this time it's the Kerala backwaters.

We forgive each other these gaffes easily. The only pact we have is to never let the dream down. Make the plan. Dream about it. Create a story. Add to the album of the memories built. Execution, after all is serendipity. It makes us weird, this living in a parallel universe. Like we are in a constant state of stupor. Caressing our dreams, making sure they don't get crushed between the folds of reality. Dressing them up, parading them in front of the mirror, and keeping them ready for the big day - maybe tomorrow, maybe never.

It doesn't bother us in the least. The uncertainty of fulfillment. On the contrary, we want to be a little hungry. All the time. Another sunset. Another valley. Another trail. And another. Just one more. It keeps us connected. Our need to see the world together. Sometimes through each other's eyes. Makes us a family. Wrapped it it's own neuroticism. Maybe we will grow old doing this. And look back and laugh at ourselves. At our unadulterated zest. Our humongous stupidity. Our crazy impulses. And raise a toast to doing more of it. I can see it happening.

By then, N and I would have done our Midnight Sun Marathon in Norway, P and M would have done their epic road trip, G and S would have lived in Leh, J and T would have soaked in the sun in Greece. We would all be sitting next to a fireplace, sipping wine, mouthing our favourite line "So many places, so little time." Many lives, one ending. Only one. No matter when, that's the only way this will end. So many places, so little time......

A.R.Ts (136) - Living with Parents

I was the quintessential Mumbai single woman living by herself. Envied by all, bound by no one. No questions asked if I skipped coming home one night. No compulsion to fix a broken light bulb for months on end. Surviving on eggs and maggi for dinner. Greeted every other evening by a Blue Dart courier slip stuck at my door saying "We missed you".

One year back, my parents moved back with me. A lot of people ask me "how is it to live with your parents after eight years of living by yourself? Today, I tell you the story.

It starts with the difficulty of believing how easily you become a child once again. How so many years of separation does nothing to the parent child equation. Years later, Mom still stays up in the night with me because my coughing bouts keep me awake. Often, she slips that banana into my lunch bag to make sure I am getting my daily dose of vitamins. Dad insists on heating the food and serving me at the dinner table. Occasionally, I become the parent. Chiding Dad for spilling the water all over the dining table. Or bullying Mom into taking a break from her long hours spent working online.

Every morning as I get ready to leave, Dad asks, "Which office are you going to today, Powai or Worli?" "Worli" I say. "Ok", he nods and then goes back to reading his newspaper. I can see that he has made a mental note of the distance that I will be driving. And the traffic that I have to navigate through. I don't know why he asks me this. But he needs to know. Like his coffee, it adds to the predictability of his morning routine.

I catch him dozing off on the sofa while watching TV after a long day. I'm conscious he is getting older. I gently nudge him awake. He brushes the sleep off and goes back to watching TV, where a woman is howling her lungs out about how her husband cheated on her. In less than a minute, I start wishing he would grow up.

Friday night party invitations have now been converted to more respectable and sober "Sunday lunches". Food has become integral to the relationship. I just have to go around looking for sweets in the fridge, and the next day, I find Mom experimenting in the kitchen with banana muffins. I never fail to miss the betrayed look in Dad's eyes when I choose pasta over sambhar for dinner.

Conversations around investments and income taxes are the most deary. "Have you filed your returns for the year?" Dad will ask. I start looking for my sister. Not finding her, I politely tell him I will check with Nandita and let him know. "When will you ever be on top of your finances?" he asks half in jest, half serious. It gets worse. "When did you last update your passbook?" I blank out. Then I remember. "We don't need passbooks anymore Dad. It's all online." He grunts something which I know is a mish mash of "this generation-value of money-crappy technology-don't care-spend like no tomorrow." I know that he knows that I am no longer hearing him, and he knows that I know that I will never get a passbook, but the conversation will happen every six months. It is our father-daughter ageing ritual.

With mom it's different. She doesn't sweat the small stuff. I sent you an article link today, she will say. "It is titled 15 signs that you are born a free thinker. They all apply to you. Read them." I read it. One of the signs reads "You are the Pope of your life. You live by your own rules, and no one, not even your Mother can change that". "I'm not that bad, I protest. Well, I can be, she says of herself. She gets me. That feeling of being a misfit is our shared secret.

I know they are both treading living together with caution. Wanting to be around, and yet be invisible. Be the parent, and the friend. The wings, and the roots. On a Saturday morning, I tell them I have plans for the night. "Pub hopping again?" asks Mom. "Where? Asks Dad. "You will know from the check-ins on Facebook" says Mom with a chuckle. I rest my case.

A.R.Ts (135) The new dictionary of rape culture

On the occasion of Women's Day, I have compiled a dictionary of terms that have gained new meanings in the wake of the gender debate that was sparked off by the Nirbhaya gang rape two years ago -

Rape = An act that allows men to remain boys and have fun with a woman who doesn't know how to enjoy it.

Adventurous woman = Someone who stays out of the house till nine pm

Rebellious woman = Someone who stays out of the house till nine pm with a man

Rape victim / survivor = Someone who has committed the dual crime of inviting rape and then complaining about it

Cleavage = Something that men are entitled to touch, feel and grope publicly if not covered appropriately

Clothing = A piece of attire worn by women that transmits signals which men interpret seamlessly

Premarital sex = Something that strengthens a man's virility and weaken's a woman's character

Consent = What is that?

No = Yes

Woman = Daughter, mother, wife, sister, daughter. Of the man, by the man, for the man. (Sorry Abraham Lincoln)

Happy Women's Day to all those men and women who stick their necks out, fight these stereotypes, and do their bit to create new meanings. Every action counts.

A.R.Ts (134)

The world is filled with articles that test your worth as a reader on a scale from Bhagat to Tolstoy. As I reflect on my own reading habits, here are the books and authors I have tried to / wanted to / aspired to read, but somehow never made it.

The quintessential classics. The ones that always feature in the "Ten must-read books of the century". The Chaucers, Tolstoys, and Chekovs of the world who every reader worth his salt will swear by. I have read Shakespeare and Dickens in school, so you can imagine how abridged the versions would be. My greatest fear is that I will have trouble understanding such pure unadulterated literature after so much trash that I have read over the years.

PG Wodehouse. I may have gotten away as a Tam Bram who never had filter coffee, but I think this one has been my most unforgivable offence so far. I have spent many years in my college library seeing his books from a distance but I chose Freud and Jung over him so that I could ace my psychology major. As a consequence of not being able to contribute to discussions on the by-now-iconic Jeeves, I have faced literary ostracism on multiple occasions. One of my 2015 resolutions is to finally read a Wodehouse.

Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. I tried hard on this one. Like many books, I assumed this one too would grow on you, albeit slowly. But somehow, this magnum opus on the railroad network set in the pre depression era just was not able to sustain my interest. There were too many unfamiliar elements in the story which I struggled to piece together - the economics of the era, the political structures, the excruciatingly minute details about steel and railroad machinery - that I finally decided to save the book for another time.

Harry Potter series. I have figured I am not a fantasy person any more. So while I grew up on a steady diet of elfs, witches and wizards, I left them back in the enchanting woods and faraway lands created by Enid Blyton. Same reason why I never took to the JRR Tolkein series. I read one Hobbit to realise that the story of his bumpy journey through misty mountains fraught with goblins and dwarves is something I can at best read out to my seven year old nephew.

Agatha Christie. For a long time, I didn't know she was female. And then when I got to know that she has the dual distinction of writing detective stories and romantic novels, I was in awe. But thanks to my steadfast loyalty to my detective hero Sherlock Holmes and Watson, I lost out on the stories of Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.

As an outcome of some these reflections, my theme for this year's reading is "Retro". Send me your recommendations as I start with One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez today.

A.R.Ts (133) Those were the best days of my life...

Nair Aunty made the most amazing egg curry. The smell of the coconut and curry leaves frying would find it’s away from her kitchen to our drawing room where we would all be huddled up watching TV. Within an hour, the bell would ring, and Aunty would hand over a bowl filled with curry to us, which we would then savor with some freshly cooked rice.

In less than ten days, we would refill the bowl with some snowy white dahi wadas, topped with coriander and chilli powder, and send it back to her.  It was only a matter of time before the bowl found its way back, this time with Aunty's signature vegetable stew. In return, we would send her onion sambhar. We grew up with these bowls making their way between the two households. Bhajiyas traded for payasam. Curd rice for spicy yams. Garlic rasam for fluffy white appams. The unwritten rule in this exchange was that the bowl never went back empty. And it was regular to have one of their bowls always in my kitchen, waiting for the next delicious offering to fill it up.

Neighbours were an integral part of my growing up. In a tiny society of 50 flats, the doors of which would literally open into each other, the neighbour was the extended family. The neighbour's house had it all - the keys to your house, the movies you wanted to see, the foods you wanted to eat, and the games you wanted to play. Minimal physical boundaries to separate us. Their window almost into my drawing room. Their kitchen from my balcony. Conversations over drying clothes. Sign languages through the windows. A big fat joint family parading as 50 nuclear families. Intrusive sometimes. Intimate otherwise. Keeping your secrets. Leaking them occasionally. Watching over you. Taking care of you. Spying on you even. It was all part of the game. The family you loved to hate. The friendly neighborhood uncle who wished all the kids with a "Darling" that made them blush. The villainous Aunty who saw you coming back home with a "stranger". The grumpy old grandfather who yelled because your loud chatter deafened his peaceful evenings of watching Doordarshan news. The strict teacher like Aunty whose glass your ball always broke. The loud cheerful Aunty who would treat you to bread rolls everytime you went to her house. Joint families parading as nuclear families. Where you got your first taste of everything in Life. Gender. If you spend all your time playing cricket with the boys, you will be called a tomboy. Competition. Pradip's home has a VCR. When are we getting one? Camaraderie. Because you stayed up the whole night and put up the pandal for Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations. Studies. Because you exchanged notes. Money. Because you saved up to treat your friends to pani puri. Tradition. Because you celebrated festivals together.

Fast forward to today. Nine hundred flats. Two thousand people. Five blocks. A privacy I have never had. Boundaries that separate. Spaces distinctly earmarked. A play area for the kids. A running track for the joggers. A barricaded tennis court. An anonymity that estranges me. A neighbor I have never seen. A smell I don't recognize. A book I don’t exchange. A lady I hesitate to call Aunty. An old man I never wish. A doorbell I never ring. A group of us huddled in a lift, awkward in that intimacy, never making eye contact. And a bowl that never makes its way out of my kitchen.

A.R.Ts (132)

Three years ago, I pulled down one of my blogposts which was supposedly offensive to Bal Thackeray. I cant believe it is three. years. It feels like yesterday. The abuses, the trolls, the hate speech. Initially I remember responding calmly and focusing on facts to clarify my position, but then the insults got more and more personal and vindictive. “People like you don’t deserve to live in Mumbai…. Get out of the city”, screamed one of the commentators. Needless to say, I was no Sagarika Ghose or Rajdeep Sardesai who face a million such trolls every single day. Finally, deafened by the name calling and the foul language, I pulled down the post.

Last month, Perumal Murugan, a renowned Tamil writer, was harassed and bullied by extremist right wing groups to take down his book One Part Woman. The book originally published in Tamil, translated into English last year, covers a consensual sex tradition that existed in the Tiruchengode district in Tamil Nadu, while narrating the story of a childless couple battling the social stigma that surrounds infertility. The outfits allege that by talking about this tradition, the book shows the community and the women in that district in a poor light. I read the book last week (Kindle editions are available). If I ever write a book, I want it to be like that. Soft and sensitive, beautifully capturing the interplay of human relationships with the prevailing socio-cultural ethos. But more on that later. Perumal Murugan not only took down the book, but said he would compensate his publishers for the losses, and issued a public statement saying that he was quitting writing. “Writer Perumal Murugan is dead” read his Facebook page.

Last week, All India Backchod (AIB) – a comedy group pulled down their Roast video – which used crass, abusive and filthy language to crack jokes on a bunch of people from Bollywood people. They didn’t spare even themselves, and the show was meant to be offensive, in line with the traditional “Roast” format, but that was of no consequence to those who filed the FIR citing the show to be inimical to the Indian culture.

So what happens to you when you pull out something you believed in? When you encounter so much resistance that you are forced to question what you stand for? Just how easy or difficult it is to issue “retraction” “clarification” or “apology” statements, when you don’t even believe in them?

The first thing I acknowledged when I brought down my post was that freedom of speech is not absolute. No artist who thrives on creative expression for his living will ever want to admit that. Artists are conditioned to believe that their personal integrity depends on expressing what they believe in and standing up for it. No matter what. But the world outside does not corroborate that. And every artist learns it in his or her own way. With varying degrees of intensity. As an extension to that, the seed of doubt is sown, and sometimes even gets firmly planted in your head. After the Bal Thackeray incident, I had five people proofread my next blogpost for its “offensiveness quotient”. “Will this be perceived badly by anyone” you want to know.  One can be an idealist and say this signals the death knell for a writer. Which is what Perumal Murugan was. In one of his interviews he openly shared that this incident has sent his mind into a self inspection mode, and he can now start writing again only once he is completely out of this mindset. Alternately one can be pragmatic and say “Too bad it didn’t work. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.” Which is what AIB did. But between the idealism and the pragmatism are motley of complex emotions that no scale can capture.  The shame that you could not stand up for what you believe in. The disbelief that you buckled under pressure, self induced or otherwise. The rage that you live in a society which can turn against you in less than a minute. The helplessness of not being understood. The agony of dealing with what you fear is a sellout of our soul.

My own interest in the freedom of speech debate is fast fading, largely because of its application by self appointed censors who do not think twice before taking the law in their own hands, and the refusal of the state to intervene and protect an individual's right to express himself. I personally find Kapil Sharma’s Comedy show and Honey Singh’s lyrics far more offensive that the AIB knockout, but the problem is just that – the freedom of speech debate has been reduced to who is worse and what should have been actually banned – rather than having a discourse on how we as a society be more inclusive of varying forms of creative expressions, and more tolerant of dissent.

Until such time, for each artist who believes in his right to express his voice, however dissenting it may be, may the force be with you. And come back Perumal Murugan, even if it means you have to die again.