Ringing in 2010!

Half an hour to midnight. I am at home.Alone.
I would have liked to say with some candles and roasted lamb and wine to keep me company. But no. I could not be bothered.

It’s the harsh white light and Letterman yattering on the TV.
But I do have something planned for the stroke of midnight.

Thescarletrealm is going public. After months of writing in the shadows I am finally removing the access restriction. And no, it’s not a grand reveal.
I do not have a book of short stories on there. The few bits I have written and deleted few times are finally on show.

What has changed, is that I no longer care about who reads or does not read my blogs. There was only one opinion I cared for. And as that is now distant...I am abandoning control. I hope to write more next year. Less seriously. Less self-consciously. Who cares!

Happy New Year.


_

After you, Ma'am

When was the last time you used the word chivalry ? Were you lamenting about its death or indignant that it is still expected in these days of gender equality. The chances are high that your usage was based on a popular and modern interpretation of a word with such beautiful etymology.

Borrowing from Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chivalry), chivalry in the medieval ages was classified into three.
Duties to countrymen and fellow Christians , duties to God and duties to women

The third connotation is the strongest survivor but it is struggling to find patrons to the doctrine. A rare few have it ingrained, but most guys I know don't know and don't care about holding doors open for women.
There are some guys who hold chivalry in reserve for the hot chicks and some who know it oh-so-well but rebel against it.


And who can blame them? It’s all so confusing. Let me explain.

All of us grew up in families where the father was head of the family. We have seen men in the roles of providers and protectors. So somewhere in the sub-conscience we have accepted the man as the boss. But our educated sensibilities try to promote equality towards women , accept them in those very same roles. Realize that they can be independent and capable of taking care of themselves.

Now throw in some expectations of chivalry in the equation and then you will understand the conflict. Why should a man be expected to drop-off a lady colleague first on a late cab ride back home? The same lady whom, his HR tells him, is to be respected and not differentiated against.

It’s unfair you guys say. Probably. Speaking for myself and other women who feel the same way - If you are going to take a shot at women's lib each time before you stretch your hand out to help a lady over a high step, then don't do it.
It is not chivalry if you have any hesitation in doing it.


Having said that, if you are the kind of guy to whom these social graces come easily, my deepest respects to you. I know you don’t have to do it and precisely for that reason, I feel grateful each time a guy waits for me to step out of the lift. It's a tiny gesture and I salute the sublimity that empowers you to make that gesture.

No more sab chalta hai

Today, I was proud to be an Indian. In a teeny tiny way - the typical manner of inconsequential nothings, a glow crept into my heart for the land I call home and the achievements of the people I call my fellowmen. It was not the stomping, chest-thumping pride of Pokhran or Chandrayaan or the glee of the first Olympic gold. In fact, a good many people will roll their eyes to see me make such a big deal of an ostensibly routine event. Well.. I'll let you judege for yourself.


I have always hated going to the bank. I can trace the origins of the associated butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling, way back to when I was nine years old and had a kiddies account in Andhra Bank. I remember dragging my feet on monthly visits to the bank to pull apart my piggy bank and rain down a small heap of 10 and 20 ps coins in front of the amused staff. And then , while they fixed their mock serious stares on me , I sat squirming in a large wooden chair, sorting and counting my precious stash . It all sounds very cute now, I know. But when you are nine , the feeling is the same as meeting your in-laws for the first time.

Anyway, things didn't get much better over the years. I continued to remain in awe and partial fear of the stern faces behind counters . I cowered at the snappy irritation and dreaded the high stacks of forms.

So imagine my pure delight, when I started working and came across my very first debit/atm Citibank Suvidha card. True to its name, this little piece of blue plastic was my ticket out of long queues and token counters and paperwork. I embraced the new age banking and its hassle-free style with glee.

An older ,wiser me today, I have come to learn and accept the benefits of banking with a nationalized bank . It’s still not my favourite thing, but I have made my peace. And so I walked in SBI's swanky new branch on Cecil Street during the lunch hour.

Expecting a convoluted circuit of shuttling between multiple counters - I was prepared. Armed with two copies of the form (one filled out), two copies of passport and EP, three photographs, two copies of the phone bill, I approached the reception desk bravely and asked to open an account.

And there began the magic. In a twinkling of an eye appeared a brisk and pleasant lady who rifled through my massive trove of documents. Nimbly, she extracted the form and passport/EP and with a smile waved me to a comfortable alcove. I was flabbergasted! What? No demand for rental agreement? No corrections in red to my form ? And that’s just not it. There was a bigger surprise in store for me.

Let me spend a quick minute on some comparative analysis here. The last time I opened an account , it was with dbs. Singapore's largest and most prestigious retail bank. I waited for 15 minutes to get a token number. And then another forty until I had an audience with the cust service rep. I was able to open my account, but had to wait for 3 days for the atm card (with name embossed) and another week for the internet banking account. In the end, for all the red carpet ambience, the experience left me a bit weary.

So, ten minutes later, when Ms Deepti Sethi walked in with my atm card , internet rsa token and a receipt for the deposit of 500$ that was yet to hand over -
I fell in love with her. With her, and every cog behind that steel facade of sbi Cecil Street branch that made the operation so smooth.

Yes, I agree it’s an unfair comparison. Any other local bank is servicing an infinitely larger customer base. But if this is the face of Indian nationalized banks today, then I welcome the change and am proud of it.

The Soloist

I have been thinking, how much our existence is defined as a complement of others. Parents, partner,peers, pals they are so essentially woven in the threads thats make each day. Can you imagine going through your day having no one else to think about, no second opinion on what to have for dinner, no one to answer to at work, no contention for which movie to watch in the weekend. These are not the most pressing decisions of ones life but isn't it these tiny little nothings that amount to so much in the end. When you make life changing decisions, you certainly dont think about how much you are going to miss that phone call during lunchtime everyday. But you move on, and try not to focus on the vacuum.


One of the most irksome things you encounter are the curious eyebrows shooting up. Its tireless how nosy people can be about the businesses of a complete stranger. So your vast list of outdoor activities falls into two distinct categories. The things you can do on your own without inciting speculation and the things you venture to do on your own, only when pushed to the extreme.


Reading a book in a cafe, hiking, going to a museum or art exhibition , lounging on a bench smoking - all respectable single person deeds. But eating alone in a resturant , especially a lady - nope. Imagine the whispering and pointing if the solitary lass seated in the corner enjoys a slow, three course meal with a meaty tandori kebab for starters, a grilled fish entree and tops it off with a kulfi.



Ironically, watching a play or a concert is accetable but slink into a movie theatre without company and people take notice. Which I don't understand, because other than the occasional jibe or joke shared, its more or less on way communication between screen and self.



Contrary to popular feminine beliefs, shopping is an ideal one man job. You can zip in and zip out as many stores you like, you can linger if you like or zero in on your purchases with robo-like precision, you don't try things on for others, you don't offer suggestions. And no one can fault you for your mono-meanderings through grocery aisles or clothing racks.


Let me go back to smoking. Thats a classic loner lane. Reclining lazily against a faded wall drawing mesmerizing twirls of smoke that waft up into nothingness , gazing into the distance with a faraway , lost look. Tell me , wouldn't you want to be that elusive enigmatic stranger? Yeah , yeah I know .. Its not a politically right or socially right thing to say. But there are so many times I wish I smoked.

And then there is this league of extraordinary diversions , these wild , artisitic things that I would love to do and be the eccentric recluse - but I am too run-of-the-mill and ordinary to venture into. Things like meditate on a cliff or set an easel up in a park and paint or start writing a short story watching the sunset from a beach cafe.

Sigh... yeah.. no... none of that for me. And I can't find anything more to say, except that I am reminded strongly of Wordsworth's Solitary Reaper.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
-- William Wordsworth

Boomerang

Every dart comes back later as thorn for you to tread on. As you sow, so you reap - such a severe lesson so simply put.


If I accept suffering as my penance, will it be more tolerable? For the wrongs I have done, people I have hurt and disappointed , for all the selfishness , I have to see pain as my punishment.

So yes, it seems inexplicable , unreasonable, unjust but the scales have to tip back. There is no one else to blame and no one else to lean on. A catharsis that must be endured knowing that each shard and pang accounts for a folly.

Yet, there is the unmistakeble sliver of doubt. If I had to do it again, would I change anything?

The Pensieve

I let it sleep for awhile
Ignored its cries, and
Let it lie

I blew smoke in its face
When it pricked, just
Waited to fade

Unseen, Slowly, further away
Ebbs out the person
I once was

Then and Now

These are strange times we live in.

And when I say we, I mean us - the generation X of the 90s.

We, who never owned mobiles in colleges and thought denim was the pinnacle of hip. We, who as teenagers scrimped on pocket money only to blow it all up in Archies gifts gallery. Yes, us, who thought Fido Dido , the backstreet boys and coke in a can was 'cool'.
If you have sailed through the last few lines going - huh? then thats probably going to be your reaction to the rest of this blog. But if not, then you know what I am talking of. It all comes back in a flash , doesn't it? Those days of audio cassettes ,Sabatini posters and break dance .

Fast forward a few years into the age that the IT sector catapults urban India into ; where a good many of us enjoy a plush pay packet. So we don't worry these days about spending on insipid frappucinos or the OST of bachna ae haseno just to listen to khuda jaane.

So, whats so strange about that ?
Nothing much.

Just that, given the disparity of spending patterns we have witnessed in a short span of ten years and the ease with which we have slipped into 'yuppiehood', do you feel the incongruity every once in a while?

For example shopping. What a vast difference there is when you compare the mom and pop stores of yore to any uptown boutique. Even calling it a 'shop' is so crass these days. I miss shopping for clothes in those simpler times. All you had to do was walk in and leave the rest to the trusty 'salesman'. This kindly gentleman, now a relic of the past, would size you up, quietly proffer his advice to steer you and quickly proceed to empty the shelves and pile it all up in front of you - all with minimum fuss. So what if a good bit of the stuff bordered on tacky, at least it was not as stressful as shopping in one of today's upscale malls.

Now , I am not a big fan of these new age lifestyle stores. Don't get me wrong, I like pretty things as much as the next gal but the arcane code of conduct in these places just throws me off. What is the point of having a shopping attendant tag me like a shadow as long as I am interested in the five pieces of wares carried by her brand, but looks askance the moment I step out of her zone.

One can learn to make peace with the in-your-face sales or ignore the perfume spritzing but standing up to the eyebrow-arching dragons prowling the halls needs some gumption. You know the distinguished silver-haired gentlemen near the Cartier cufflinks who is exceedingly polite as he surreptiously takes in your handbag sans the LV insignia. His tone has just the right inflection to make you realize your mistake and scurry back to the familiar holds of more sensible and not-so-exclusive goods.

But I am not complaining. In a fairer world, we might have only community stores and set of stamps or ration cards , eh comrade?

Why does one write?

Of all the rages to hit the wired masses since the dawn of the internet, blogging is certainly one of the more unique phenomena. One can understand how social networking, matrimonial, gaming , shopping , porn, discussion forums caught on. All these e-activities are easy, available at a click and the most discerning factor - need minimum and frequently, mindless effort from the participant.

Blogging on the other hand is serious business. My salutions to all you mighty posters of the daily prose. When alternative entertainment is so readily available, it takes a lot of focus to keep your blog afresh. This indulgement by the average joe is indeed a heartening shift of trends.

This is my maiden post, and you might have noticed I am not creeping out of my shell. Its astonishing how bloggers can publicly discuss their lives , names , details and fearlessly open up to the world.

But my admiration is reserved for those lurking in the shadows. The anonymous authors who cannot hide behind a facade of facts. Whose blogs tryto be an interesting read while treading the thin line between obscurity and meaningless drivel.

Which brings me to my question - why do bloggers write? Do they write for the pleasure of a following? - The thrill of an audience who seeks you out regularly to know what you think?
Maybe it is a creative awakening ; an avenue to explore the talents forsaken long ago to make time for entrance exam coaching . Some, I think, blog to checkpoint a fast-paced life - which does make sense. Twenty years down the line one can look back in vivid detail and rejoice in the times well-spent.

Why have I taken the plunge now you might ask. Well.. I am not sure. I think it is an urge to keep that voice inside my head alive. You know the voice that all of us have, the one that has the ridiculous views, blasphemous thoughts and radical opinions. Here's to hoping the voice survives and does not cave in to the more primal instincts of lethargy.