Monday, October 13, 2014

Fifty Shades of Dust

Each house is as cluttered, colourful, messy, freakishly organised as its inhabitants. More often than not, since it’s the female species that takes a psychotic interest in the colour management of the cushions with the carpets, expresses displeasure at the highest decibel level when she discovers a well hydrated toilet seat cover and is far from appreciative of various articles of clothing strewn around the house – let’s conclude for the time being that a home is more an extension of a woman’s personality than a man’s.

Men are a highly evolved species and they know exactly what they want. Unlike a woman, he has accepted that a clean house is a state of mind - all you have to do is close your eyes. He doesn’t break into tears when the maid doesn’t turn up for three days in a row and is perfectly at peace with the unwashed pile of pots and pans and grime stains on the kitchen slab.

It didn’t take him long to realize that the key to happiness is selective blindness.

Unfortunately for the woman, God didn’t just give her eyes but an X-ray vision that can spot dust under the table-lamp just as she’s about to sleep, under piles of books when she’s about to cuddle up with a book, on the blades of the fan facing the ceiling when she’s searching for the meaning of life. The sight of unwashed utensils gives her the sinking feeling. It's as if those smelly pans are not in the sink but on her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.Try throwing crumpled wrappers and papers on her floors and she'll come charging at you like a bull.

She may be dog-tired, ready to drop off dead, but she’ll ask for a 30-minute grace so she can tidy up the house before she can die. It’s a curse she has to live with. If she’s about to leave for a vacation, she makes sure she leaves behind an immaculately clean house, in case robbers decide to drop in. 

She knows everything we see will turn to dust and has quietly accepted that everything she sees will have dust.

A woman’s mind is a fertile ground for anxieties that multiply like rabbits, most of them fiction than reality. It’s always busy making meticulous plans for events that may or may not take place in the future. She has many fears, most of them unfounded.

So, every time the clutter in her head becomes too much to tolerate and she can’t bear with the mess, she sets out to clean the world. She unsheathes her broomstick, climbs on the step ladder and attacks cobwebs with gusto. She goes where no man has gone before and vanquishes mounds of dirt under beds and tables, empties closets and drawers and spends hours rearranging them, attacks grime and stains from all angles, rubbing and polishing with flourish, till she breaks out in a sweat.

She feels like a triumphant warrior who has just vanquished her enemy. Her heart soars like a bird as she walks around the house and sees her reflection on doors, windows, table tops, cupboards she has coaxed to their shiniest best. 

Only a cleanliness enthusiast can spend hours labouring over her home only to see it become dirty again. Only she can appreciate the beauty of neatly stacked books, stretched bedcovers, shiny table tops and floors that look clean enough to lick the crumbs off it, while the rest of her unfeeling family will say – Oh, I thought the house looks the same!  

In her quest to wipe the world of all its ugliness, she’s always on the lookout for her comrade-in-arms. Not for her the useless store bought fluff but someone with character that’s seen it all and done it all. So old that it has become loose and sagging, but so soft that it greedily soaks up the grime and dust with just one swipe. Her quest for the elusive one is never ending. Every t-shirt, worn out skirt and faded cotton nighty beckon to her, begging to be enlisted in her crusade.

So, if you wife tears off your shirt, screaming, I want it, I want it, don’t start getting ideas. She basically needs your baniyan to use as a dusting cloth. And, if she wants you to talk dirty to her, just whisper – top shelf, kitchen cupboard and her eyes will blaze with unbridled passion.  Just make sure you hold on tight to your soft as a baby's bottom pajamas.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Shut Her Up Before She Starts Getting Ideas

Everyone loves a strong independent woman as long as she doesn’t mind following the rules laid out for her good conduct. It’s like the matrimonial ad, where the handsome, fair, MBA seeks a convent educated, working but homely wife. A smart, attractive working woman earning a handsome salary but seeks permission from her family before she goes and shops for a handbag.

That’s what good upbringing is all about – to listen, obey, and accept whatever comes her way without a whimper of protest. So, when the fresh from college intern joins office, it’s a given that she’ll quietly accept the extra attention her boss lavishes on her. Since she has been made to believe that she’s responsible for everyone’s happiness, she should melt with gratitude when Gupta Uncle’s son stalks her.

She’s sweet, lovely and beautiful as long as she doesn’t turn a man down. All hell breaks loose if she suddenly develops a mind of her own and puts her foot down on her boss’s when his wandering hands land on her lap. He’s shocked that the chit of a girl had the audacity to turn down his affections and makes sure that the ungrateful girl is suitably punished. Look what happens to women who file a sexual harassment case. Her character and her past are dissected and her intentions painted as suspect. After all, no girl from a respectable family will raise a stink until she has ulterior motives. Women from good families do not get raped and if they do, they certainly don’t go to a police station to file an FIR. Instead they swallow the humiliation, trauma and anger to protect their family’s honour.

Why just blame the boss? What about the woman who finds out her husband has been having an affair! In many cases, her first reaction is to blame the other woman for ensnaring a happily married man with her manufactured charms. Badly brought up children, an unkempt house, an unhappy husband are all a woman’s fault.

Monday, September 22, 2014

OMG, It's Cleavage Mahabharata

All hell broke loose when Kaurava Times of India (KATTI), Bharat’s most defiled Daily decided to do a cheer-haran of Draupadi Padukone’s cleavage. Given she’s in the entertainment business that requires an actress to reveal her proportionate assets and acting skills with equal zeal, it’s a given that her assets are public property, meant to be leered at by all. Men and women have equal rights to gaze at them including KATTI that has the right to flaunt it on her behalf.

Just like the guy in the Metro who thinks it is his birth right to take candid shots of that girl’s cleavage that pops out when she bends down to pick up her book. In fact, every woman who flaunts her curves in a fitted dress and dares to reveal her legs is giving an open invite to men to come and pay their respects. Walk around town in an attire that displays even a hint of your cleavage and you’ll have a dozen pair of eyes boring through your dress, willing it to fall apart.

Didn’t our history of repeat offences teach you that anything’s that’s not covered invites appreciation of the lowest kind? 

So, when Draupadi wears an outfit that reveals more than just her face, she should expect KATTI to run an OMG slideshow of her cleavage. And if she objects to it, it’s obviously well-timed to garner more publicity for her Fanny.

Image courtesy -

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

The Mad Hatters Party

Miss Tee had a life altering experience when she attended her cousin's birthday party.

Disclaimer: The following is based on a true story, though the author may have been liberal in her use of the poetic license.

One of the many revelations that accompany adulthood is a growing appreciation of your parents. It is when you live on your own that you realize that clothes don’t pick themselves off the floor, that bills don’t pay themselves. Our parents have seen some serious shit, literally as well as figuratively.

Let’s give some context: the setting is a pretty little cafĂ© near North Campus. Paper lanterns and arty mosaics adorn the walls. In the midst of this semi-bourgeois environment, clustered in a corner, a microcosm. It is a birthday party for a newly-minted 5 year-old. The table is encircled with mothers and their volley of children, and in the corner is little ol’ me, my possessions held close to my chest. Even as laughter erupts from the other end, the drooling demon baby seated on the table sends my phone flying from my hands and onto the floor, where it falls with a sickening crunch. There is one behind me, climbing my chair and one across me, chocolate smearing its face like war paint. The scene is strangely reminiscent of a horror film, gurgling laughter and satanic screams, emitted at a volume and pitch that seems disproportionate to the tiny body that is the source. The banshee-child’s friend suddenly starts a hip-hop routine on the floor, at which point its mother runs in, shouting apologies and dragging it off.

The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party is a cakewalk (though why anyone would walk on a cake is beyond me) in comparison. I feel as though all of those women are a little mad, their tired eyes screaming for help, switching between cursorily scolding their children and laughing raucously at one of those Whatsapp jokes.

“But I don’t want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat: "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."
"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Why Nice Guys Come Last

The end of innocence is when you realize that your knight in shining armour was more fiction than reality. Where friendzoned is a stigma worse than a woman running after you with a Rakhi. Where men make you feel guilty for not falling in love with them.

Miss Tee talks about heartbreak and douchebags.   Image courtesy

Disclaimer: This is not a generalization, but rather an observation borne of some years of life experience, a few of which were spent in the dating circuit.

If I lost a brain cell for every time I’ve heard “nice guys always come last”, I’d be Rahul Gandhi. From whiny posts about the Friendzone to vitriolic rage in the YouTube comments section, females of the human species are frequently made to feel guilty for all the nice guys they reject in favour of apparent douchebags.

Let me clear up something before I’m accused of being a feminazi, or worse, an empowered woman who doesn’t need the validation of a man to live: douche-y people can come from all backgrounds, ethnicities, cultures and yes, genders. There may actually be guys out there who are genuinely nice, and got dumped for someone they perceived as undeserving. However, from overwhelming evidence based on personal experience, I have found the Nice Guy Hypothesis to be faulty. You may think you know a story, but you only know how it ends. So let me start at the beginning.

I grew up, like many girls, on a steady diet of fairy tales and in my naivetĂ©, I “dated” my first boyfriend when I was in middle school. He was the archetypal “nice guy”. Expressive, attentive, given to great displays of generosity. He called every night and even got me flowers on Valentine’s Day. It ended with quite a bang, with yours-truly being declared a “slut” for breaking up with a guy who used guilt as a relationship tactic. I was shamed; a “bitch” that did not deserve him. I felt something was warped in this whole incident, but it took years of perspective to truly understand my first mistake.

Law A: Nice guys, under close observation, are not as nice as they think

Sure, he drove you home, he talked to you till the sun came up, he bought you a promise ring. But how “nice” is he if he threatens to kill you for daring to break up with him? And that’s the problem, right there. The most terrible people raise the most hue and cry when they think they are wronged.

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Al-Qaeda poised to launch itself as KFC of Terror Outfits

Courtesy - Google Images

Fugitive Al-Qaeda commander Ayman al-Zawahari announced the formation of a new wing of the feared terrorist group dedicated to waging jihad in the Indian subcontinent. This announcement comes close at the heels of Love-Jehad, a conspiracy waged by Muslim men faking love to get Hindu women to convert to their religion. Dismissing allegations that Muslim men are capable of love, Zawahari said “I call upon all unemployed Muslim men in India to join hands with us and spread hate”. “After all, this is our area of specialization”.

Al-Qaeda that has locations in Kabul, Jalalabad and Kandahar is on an expansion spree and has promised to open its branches in Burma, Kashmir, Bangladesh. Their new branches will offer special privileges like intensive training in duck and hide, hide bomb in garbage cans, how to survive in caves on a rat diet for its members. Their employee of the month will get an all-expense paid trip to Jannat and a night out with 72 virgins. Enquiries regarding the sex of the virgins were met with stoic silence.

Prospective employees have been requested to send their resumes attached to a hand grenade to HR manager Al-Gebra and email their latest unshaven mugshot to publicity and image manager, Al-Bum. Selected candidates will be made to clear stage two of the screening process – spot the drone. Only those who survive will be invited to join this prestigious organisation. Perks include undercover travel to foreign locations.

After losing their Lady Gaga status to ISIS, the organization that specializes in beheading innocent journalists and hiring terrorists with British accents, Al-Qaeda with its many wings hopes to become the KFC of terror outfits. As such only bucket cases enrol to be part of their esteemed organisation.

Al-Coholic, Al-Qaeda’s Spiritual Manager, announced plans to come out with a new fashion line featuring Beloved Leader Osama Laden’s favourite long sleeved, one piece dress that will be available in two colours - dirty and yellowed black. This garment is specially designed to keep Jehadis cool and collected. Anyone who buys more than a dozen Thowbs will be given beloved leader’s porn collection for free.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

When How You Look Is How You Feel

Image courtesy -
When I was in school, I had this classmate who was spunky, fancied herself as a great singer, and was a bitch. As in someone who did an effortless job of hurting you with words. I still have this image of her, sitting on a hillock in our school’s backfield, with her head tilted sideways, singing ‘Dil ke arman aansuon mein beh gaye’ in a Salma Agha voice. Let’s call her B. B was a chubby girl with an infectious laughter and would often take digs at my skinny frame. In class IX, when a particularly emaciated lady was appointed to teach us Civics, B happily scampered up to me and announced I’d look exactly like her in a sari.
Despite being the girl who never made fun of someone’s extra girth, the Chubby Academy for some strange reason had appointed me as their ‘skinny bitch punching bag’. So, I was often compared to a hanger, my not so well endowed self, a fertile ground for jokes.

Whoever said that overweight people are generally happier and more cheerful was obviously not skinny.

It’s been long since someone has called me skinny. In fact, I’m the size that’s always out of stock and gets sold out first at a sale.

I met B a few years back. She hasn’t lost the extra weight she promised to lose all through her school years. In fact, she has put on so much of it that she can be safely called obese. But what struck me most about her that she’s no longer the B I’d grown up with. Gone was the spunk, her loud laughter, instead I saw a very quiet woman cowering in self-doubt, hiding herself behind the not so skinny bitches when it was time for group photos. During our talks, she told me that she paints. When she finally agreed to share her work on Facebook, I was stunned by its vividness and beauty.
An immensely gifted artist, yet she chooses to focus on how she looks, letting others’ perception of her overshadow her true-self.

Actually, how others see you has a lot to do with how you see yourself in the mirror. If all you see is your eye-bags, big butt, an expanding waist and wobbly thighs, that’s what your friends will see as well. If all you talk about is your extra kilos, the many diets that let you down and how slim you were when you were 20, you will continue to be perceived as just another fat woman. And God forbid, if an overweight friend drops a few kilos, it’s all she’ll talk about for months and expect compliments and praise.

Of course I get it, what a happy feeling it is to finally fit into a dress two sizes small! Your heart sings when you see a fit and toned woman staring back at you from the mirror. All your clothes sit better on you. You look fabulous and feel fabulous. I can’t claim to be any different. I work-out come rain, come shine, come knee-pain and fret when I put on a kilo or two. But if I don’t lose it, I do not let it affect my state of happiness.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...