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I mean, have you seen a baby that came out crying from its Mom’s messy womb with a smile on its face! Giving a high five as the nurse hung it upside down like a bat! No? Neither have I. Babies are born to make us realize that deviousness comes in small packages. Those barbarous little creatures are capable of bringing you down to your knees, gnash your teeth like Rakhi Sawant and drive you up the wall with their unreasonable demands that have lung power and no words.
But sooner than we could say Nirupa Roy, crying became a girlie thing. We the cute in our adorable little pigtails and pink frocks with flowers embroidered on them were suddenly at the mercy of nasty little boys, whose idea of fun was drawing a moustache on our pretty Barbies. We retaliated by wailing so loud that our parents had no choice but to slap those grubby monsters with little hygiene sense.
As we grew older our tear ducts found new avenues. And before we knew it we were shedding tears for a song sung well, a bird so beautiful, love expressed, unexpressed… Crying for our loved ones, with our loved ones and sometimes just for the heck of it. The other day I was sitting and watching Glee and started shedding tears just like that.
People say it’s the hormones. But I think it’s the water we drink. Eight glasses of it, come what may. Come rain, come shine, come earthquakes. Even when we are running down the stairs in panic, we say excuse me…let me drink another glass of water please? If I don’t, it will make me fat.
Now fat is another sore point. Especially that dumb thing, that’s always behind us, follows us like a loyal puppy and keeps getting bigger by the day. Humans call it the bum. We never miss a chance to check ourselves from the most unflattering angles. It always doesn’t have to be a mirror. Any reflecting surface is good enough for us. We most certainly don’t like what stares back at us, try to blame anything that moves for the added inches, publicly proclaim that we have learnt to embrace our curves, privately promise to go on a see-food diet. And then have a red velvet cupcake to soothe our frayed nerves.
Before we know it, we have gained another pound. And then we shed few more copious tears for the jeans, we may never be able to fit in again.
Ask any woman about the milestones in her life and one of them will most certainly be the first time the neighbour’s pimply son called her aunty. I distinctly remember my first time. I cried for years. And blamed my husband for marrying me and putting me in that disgusting category.
It’s imperative for humanity to know we are like Amul Chocolate – too old to play gulli danda but too young to be an Aunty. Especially fellow women.
When we venture into an unknown territory of unfamiliar faces and mysterious age-groups, our sensors start blinking like disco lights. For us it’s very critical to put our about to be friends in older/younger category.
Of course we cannot be blunt and ask directly. And so start the mind games. It starts with subtle interrogation about marital status and kids. We do some complicated addition and multiplication and sigh with relief. Ahh…she has kids in college! She must be a fossil. Then rises the panic attack. How do I tell these old hags that I am not as old as they look!! So we start looking for the first opportunity to announce, how early we got married. Just last week, someone claimed that she got married when she was just 17! I believe you girl.
It gets worse if we are with our husbands. They obviously don’t age well and look much older than they should. And to make it even worse, they usually forget their actual age and happily add a few more years to it. We are distraught, protest loudly and when we finally sit down for dinner, land a firm kick on his shin.
Do you realize that the entire room will go back thinking I am as old as you are!
This is worse than blasphemy.
Me, I’m different. Just like Maggi tomato ketchup. I make sure everyone knows how old I am and then wait to hear – gosh! You don’t look your age. If they don’t, I simply push them off the balcony. Just like that. But this time I don’t cry like Nirupa Roy.
Gold prices don’t make us cry. No, not even the mercurial Sensex. Not even the apathy, the senseless diktats issued for the good of the society. It just fills us with rage.
We cry out of relief, joy, sadness, loneliness, pain and sometimes to beat the stress. But if we cry, we laugh louder. We are women, we do not believe in keeping our emotions in check.