Dangal

The official meaning of the above said word is “the wrestling arena”. The Youtube trailers of this film has been awesome! Amir Khan and the 4 girls look like they have really worked hard on the whole film.¬†By the look of it, the story is¬†about two sisters and their father, where the father had a dream to make India proud. He is fulfilling his dream by training his 2 girls Geeta and Babita Kumari to be world class wrestlers. Here is the trailer:

So the weird thing is, I am crying after every time I watch the trailer. A wave of desperation hits me, a tremor of nostalgia engulfs me in its arms and before I know it, I am shedding tears.

How can a film trailer has such an effect?

I have always fought with two sides of my self. One side is strong and independent, indestructible, charming and stubborn, my man side. I am not saying that all men are like that, I am just saying, that being all those flaccid objectives dignify my iron side-man side.Pulling from the other end is another side- my woman side, which is also strong and independent, vulnerable and stubborn, indestructible and beautiful. My woman side is not iron, its like water- fluid. My woman side will take the shape of a bowl if confined to a bowl, and will mingle with the entire ocean if given the freedom. Neither of the side screams feminism or male chauvinism, they just co-exist in constant repel and attraction with each other.

So why the hell am I crying?

Its not a constant cry, its just tears after the 3 minutes or so trailer.

Maybe its because of my father who believed in me and educated me. He has trusted me and loved me. He has never left my side, and he has truly given me the wings to fly. He is that man, who bends his iron will for his children, is sensitive about me not calling him for a couple of days, who said that I am an investment with zero return but still sent my to the States to fulfill my dream, he is a brutally honest man. He is the man, who is my confidante and mentor. He is the man, of whom I have inherited my man -side. I have loved him more than I hated him, respected him more than I loved him and confided in him more than I feared him.  Am  I missing my father? Are those tears of happiness or sadness?

Any help here is highly appreciated…

 

 

Fin

 

 

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When I came to United States, you all know my room mate and I shopped our legs off at Walmart and I used to cry coming back from shopping everyday. Don’t ask!


The thing is, I built a home with her, piece by piece. Every little thing that was there in that apartment 917, was chosen by us. Not given to us. Not bought by my mommy dearest. Not handed down to us. Every little piece, be it¬†a kitchen towel or¬†a toilet bowl cleaner, was bought by us and we knew where it was kept. Isn’t that a big deal?

Over the years, it became aptly clear to me that the small things that seemed unnecessary and which I had vehemently opposed buying in the first place, were very important. So when it was time to move out of the place, my heart broke a little. We were discarding the things off like maniacs. We were handing over our priced possessions to nobodies and that made me crumble. Keep in mind that we were not shifting to another place, we were vacating it, never to stay with each other ever again.

Right there, Apartment 917, was my very first home. Not the house in Ajmer, where I had spent 12 years of my life. Not the hostel in Engineering college, where I had spent another 4 years and definitely not the paying guest situation in Gurgaon.

Home was Apartment 917, with a view of a lifetime. My two years of breakfasts were done with that view. The ocean was blue and the leaves were green in the summer. The green of the trees would slowly turn to blazing red, and yellow in the fall. The ocean would turn icy blue and the leaves would fall down like wandering souls until it was time for winter. We have watched snow storms from that window. We have watched sunshine from that window. We have watched rain from that giant ass window, and loved every moment of it.


Apartment 917 was where we both had our hearts broken. It was the same apartment where I wore my first dress. It was the same place where I was so drunk on my room mate’s birthday that I threw up all night, for the first time. Our humble abode guaranteed that I learnt to cook and¬†made out with my best friend(at the time).I learnt to make sheesha from scratch and tasted Old Monk the very first time in that apartment. Our apartment had NO furniture in the living room, I think that was the coolest. Well, now I think about it, there was this table that we hardly used which was obtained from the trash.



So yesterday when I was at Walmart again piecing together another humble abode, I had that longing ache in my heart because I was missing my room mate so much. More than that, I know what it feels like to rip apart a place that you had lovingly put together. Dreading that I might have to¬†move out again in a few months time, I feel the sadness looming over already. I feel my heart ache already. I had a roof over my head all this time, yet I¬†am hungry for the warmth of my home. The knowing¬†call of the home, the smell of your home, the walls calling you over, the¬†windows urging your soul,¬†every familiarity of it.¬†I¬†am starving, I had been starving all along without even realizing it. I am homeless. Oh, I am so¬†homeless…

 

Fin.

 

 

Ps: I obtained the idea to write from this awesome blog that I follow. https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/27030/posts/1259101456

 

The Love:Living in United States of America…

If you had been my faithful readers all along, you may realize that I do not shy away from the topic. It has been a roller coaster ride for me regarding love, with heartbreaks and heartaches. I have been in love, and sadly out of love as well. My depression  post breakup was an overkill, in brief.

It happened in United States, where I knew that the followup “getting-back-together” calls would mean nothing more¬†than me being in the gutter once again. I cried my heart out and spoke to whomever that would listen that I am heart broken. I wanted to beg to the almighty above, that time should stop, that I needed to breathe, that I needed time to heal. I wanted to fall off the grid and become a monk, because for me this life was baseless. I started seeing my life in an alternate reality, parallel to my own. I would pity myself, and I would victimize myself. I had stopped looking at myself in the mirror, I loathed my face, my body, my whole being. However, the struggle reached its epitome when I could not sleep. I would close my eyes and hear the world sleep and get up again, when all this time I was wide awake. Finally, sun would hit the horizon and my body’s turmoil would reach an epiphany, and I could sleep for an hour or two if the days were good. It went on for months.Till now, after almost 2 years, when I have those nights when I cannot sleep, I completely and honestly lose it. My family, several continents away, did not know what their daughter was going through. I never told them, but I still ask myself, should I have taken the help?

I am currently staying with a girl, who ¬†is lovely and who spoke up about her love life. Rummaging through people’s profiles on shadi.com, she says that some people who register there do not intend¬†to marry. They are browsing instead of swiping left and right on Tinder. She mentions very jovially how she had been rejected in the past on the basis of her weight, her visa status, her skin color, and so on. She mentions the double standards of the candidates, who would be living in with someone and would still seek out “a marriage material” partner. She mentions about handsome guys, who have wives back in India and they still try to solicit with women for “fun” in United States. She talked about her previous room mate, who was sleeping with a guy up until one day before she was about to fly home. She was going home to get married to another man, the more stable one. She asked me today what do I see in a man before I commit. Without waiting for a beat, I replied, “Quality”. To which she asked again, “How do you ensure that the man is of quality?”

How?

Not a long time ago, I had met a friend of a friend, and he seemed interested. He had good qualifications and a great way of talking. He was smart, funny and courteous. He met my room mate and I met his friends, and things were fine. We also had some common friends, and I enquired diligently about his background, which never raised any red flags. When I asked him directly about his relationship status, he said he was single. The only time I felt uncomfortable was when his married friend (who was also his colleague) would always insist to hang out with us. We will be going for a movie, and I would find ourselves waiting for the other friend, also a woman. We will be going out for a dinner, and the other friend would be with us whipping out Groupon coupons. Those were the things¬†that bothered me, but I would eventually learn to ignore. I wanted the things to be slow. Lo and behold one day, when my “good on the paper” lad came to pick me up. Drunk to bits he mentioned that he had a wife back in Houston, which he married for Green Card. The wife and him were not getting along and were separated. By the way, the other married friend that busted our so called dates on many occasions, was his current sleeping partner. I had too much self respect to ask him, “So, who was I?”

On the other hand, relationships do work, but along the hinges of our visa status. One of my mentors, a strong woman, was living in with her boyfriend. Both her and the BF work full time for massive companies. Things were usual. The BF had the work visa, but the girl-my friend was yet to receive one. So on a day when her company told her to pack her bags and leave the country, she complied. She will leave behind her love, her life, her dreams behind . She will leave behind the security of being loved by a man. She will leave behind her faith in the system. When S tells me that he wants to shift to the other country for his further education, I go berserk. In a time, when finding a decent guy feels¬†like a mirage ¬†in the desert, when falling in love and staying in love is a lot of hard work and when you finally begin to trust the other person with yourself and your car,¬†the other person’s visa status comes into the picture, along with your own visa status. Trivial and strenious.

But I ain’t stopping smiling, aren’t I?

The 4 letter word. LOVE ‚̧ԳŹ


Fin

Note to the reader:This article is the second one in the series. If you are here by chance, I recommend the first  one The Loss:Living in United States of America.

Lets talk about Love <3


(PS: Picture taken by yours truly on the middle of the road around 3 years ago)

PPS: I did not want to talk about Bra Dystopia anymore…)

In the dreary mist of the morning due, I figure that the most dreaded 4 letter word has somehow become a luxury. A necessary luxury.

We love the idea of ‘Love’. We absolutely adore the fact that we will have somebody for the rest of our lives. We have somehow associated our minds with the thought that “Love is everlasting”. Well what if Love isn’t?

What if the pressure on Love is so much, that it crumbles under our expectations?

We place so much importance on the feeling of Love, that lack of the consistency of the mere ‘feeling’ leads us to break our relationships. Love is like wine, it tastes better with time but it does not guarantee long lasting intoxication. We are so drunk with the whole idea of falling in love and then being in love, that we feel guilty if we perceive something else. We feel judgmental about couples who aren’t in love anymore but choose to stay together. We feel nauseous¬†when¬†your friend comes to you and announces that she is bored of her long time partner.¬†We feel so trapped in our own relationships sometimes that when the other person says, “I love you”, you feel almost compelled to say, “I love you too…” ¬†even if you don’t feel like you do. We all want to maintain a fairy tale, dancing with romance , making love on heart shaped beds, champagne¬†oozing¬†and rose petals¬†falling on you from nowhere. We want to be the Prince of the fairytale sweeping¬†our Princess off¬†her feet. We want to be the Princess,¬†being woken by a kiss from a¬†handsome prince. We want to feel alive and wanted. We want to feel special and pampered. We want to feel treasured and romanticized with long letters, flowers, vacations and I do’s.

Does that constitute Love at all?