Yenna Rascala From A UP Waala Bhaiya--What We Really Need To Know About Stereotypes!

Choti Mata’s Note: Stereotypes suck donkey balls. But the whole idea of sucking donkey balls—so long as it is someone or something else that is doing it—is funny. In a disgusting, disturbing sort of a way. But it is. Which is kind of the point of this post. And there is a moral too…if you last long enough!

Yenna Rascala!

SRK is a genius. He does nothing in half measures. Including acting. Lesser enlightened mortals mistake it for over-acting. Alas, poor souls! What do they know?

SRK’s pervading awesomeness is, however, not the point of this post. He is here because, well, he is SRK. And because a stroke of his genius offers the most apt starting point to this post.

SRK is a genius. He does nothing is half measures. And so, when he resorted to a stereotype, it inevitably turned out to be the most perfect stereotype in the history of stereotypes. Which means that it summarized every single thing that is wrong with every single stereotype in the World. Factually wrong. Mostly a lie—or a truth exaggerated beyond recognition and fit to qualify as a blatant lie. Excuse for lame humor, lamer judgments. Recognizably wrong. Still resorted to by everyone who can afford to—meaning everyone minus the section that is being stereotyped. In this case South Indians (not just Madrassis mind you!) who obviously did not see the joke.

See, I told you, SRK is a genius.

For anyone looking for an in-depth understanding of the Yenna Rascala phenomena, I direct you to this absolutely brilliant piece on Heartranjan’s blog that summarizes all that is wrong with every single South Indian stereotype.

But South Indians are hardly the only ones in the league of extraordinary stereotypes. They are of course most vocal in their protests. Protests that do not shy away from employing the exact same stereotype fuelled bigotry that they are purportedly protesting against, only in reverse. Case in point is this now iconic open letter by Madrassan to a Delhi Boy which had multiple knickers in proverbial twist. After all, the stereotype of a cleavage baring, man-boob flaunting, SUV wielding, forever lecherous, loud mouthed, abusive Delhi boy with questionable educational background (Alternatively, direct your attention to Yo Yo Honey Singh’s latest ‘musical’ outing. Although I am very sure that this exercise is counterproductive to the point I am trying to make here) is about as true as noodle with curd eating Madrassi immortalized by SRK.

Well, slightly more true. But not entirely true. And that is the whole point. There is a reason why kettle does not have the locus to call the teapot black. That they continue to do so is a different story…and is the reason why this post has to exist in the wilderness of the blogosphere.

Stereotypes are all pervading. Everyone, I repeat, everyone at some point of time or other resorts to them. By extension, everyone is subjected to them. Being a Bengali, for instance, has to entail that you are a fish eating maniac whose life revolves around the letter ‘O’. Being a Sardar means Bhangra is the only thing you care for in life. That and butter chicken. Being a Gujarati means you will tie your purse strings tighter than your underwear strings—which in turn implies that you wear an underwear with strings. And of course, you would break into Garba everytime something remotely remarkable happens in vicinity.

My personal favorite, however, is the one about us UPites. We all are Bhaiyas, completely discounting the fact that over one third of the population of this state is female. Actually, the range for us is pretty extensive—talking in a sing-song, being generously lecherous, paan chewing, angocha (desi towel cloth, if you don’t know) wielding pre-dominantly Bhojpuri dude. That Bhojpuri is a language shared between UP and Bihar does not seem to matter. That less than one fourth of the population of UP actually has anything to do with Bhojpuri is irrelevant. That UP and Bihar are two different states with significant cultural difference, however subtle, and not conjoint twins that they are made out to be, is obviously pointless.

Forget UP and Bihar, East UP and West UP have such a vast difference in terms of cultural calibrations; they can as well be two completely different states. But then, it would be over-expectation and a tad bit nit picky. Especially for a general understanding that refuses to recognize the massive distinction that mark various territories down South. They are all Madrassis. Period.

Illustrations are countless and stereotypes based on regions, are the tip of the tip of the iceberg. And that was not a typo.

Stereotypes exist because we are different. And since this is a fact that is not going to change, stereotypes too are here to stay. Not just because majority of us are petty, judgmental, knuckleheads—but also because that is how we cope—with the mind boggling variety that characterizes human species. Stereotypes are our attempt to rationalize the differences. Not in a completely healthy way. But it is. Which is the reason why it is not a phenomenon that is going to die anytime soon.

Protesting against stereotypes is fine. Losing sleep…or self esteem over it, not so much. Recognizing that we all do it helps. The enormity of how wrong it is seems to strike us only when we are at the receiving end of it. Recognizing this helps too.

But what helps the most is to be able to laugh. At your own expense, not just others. The first part needs conscious effort, the latter already pretty good at. And all those looking for a lesson in laughing at themselves, should turn to the inimitable Sidin Vadukut  who teaches us how it is done, in style.

Like everything in life that cannot be cured—stereotypes too need to be endured, with humor of course. In any case, if you can’t win them, laugh with them. Or at them. Whatever works. It is a masterstroke that changes the dynamics. And it is essential. In riotous times that we live in, there is enough intolerance around to wipe a couple of generations off the face of this earth. The least we can do is not add to it. And the least here is pretty simple—not take stereotypes seriously, irrespective of which end of it you are situated.

The conclusive moral of this post however lies in a true story of my neighborhood back in Lucknow. A Bengali neighbor once jabbed a finger in general vicinity and proclaimed—tum UP waala, sab saala chor—uttered with adorable guts considering that this guy had spent his entire life in Lucknow and had visited his beloved Kolkata about one and half times in his entire life time. The neighborhood laughed, clucked and laughed some more. Two days later, his vintage scooter went missing from his courtyard.

Stereotypes, sometimes, are self fulfilling prophecies. I hope you will remember that.

Yenna Rascala! Mind It!

How Kantaben Swooned, Got Marooned And Did Not Get A Life--All By An Anti-Homosexuality Verdict!

Choti Mata’s Note: Homosexuality has been recriminalized in India. A huge majority of the country has gone insane with outrage. 377 is on its way to beat ‘selfie’ as the word of the year. But Choti Mata is all about finding a silver lining everywhere—even in idiotic murk that is the latest Supreme Court verdict.  And here, she talks the silver lining. Or rather, the silver Kantaben!

Choti Mata is a lawyer. Which is old news. Which is also a fact that is definitely not going to reflect in the rest of this post. If you are looking for intelligent legal critique of the Naz judgment, you can stop right here. There are plenty of absolutely awesome pieces out there that have ripped the judgment apart for the absolutely untenable bullshit it is—on grounds both legal and otherwise. But, this is not one of them.

This piece is about something which may be not as intelligent or analytical—but has a huge psycho-social symbolism that has surprisingly been grossly overlooked.

This post is about Kantaben.

Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as the movie where SRK went the Anand way, albeit via Love Guru path. Kal Ho Na Ho will also be remembered as a movie that had two uber metrosexual men bonding over wooing an uber nerdy turned uber hot woman in most uber metrosexual (read: impossible and strictly imaginary) ways possible. Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie where Preity Zinta qualified as uber hot.

Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie where Saif Ali Khan was still (thankfully) urban—miles away from tamancha if not disco.

But above everything else, Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie that talked gay way before John Abraham became the poster-boy of talking gay and made it the hottest thing around.

Kal Ho Na Ho will be remembered as a movie that introduced Kantaben.

Kantaben—the stout, wide eyed woman that swooned every time she saw SRK in vicinity of Saif Ali Khan. Normally, we wouldn’t have blamed her—not at that point of time, considering that at least then both the men in question were indisputably hot. But Kantaben did not faint due to sudden rise in temperatures. She fainted because she suspected…nay…believed something 'sinister' was going on.

Kantaben was funny in ways only Kantaben could be—without doing absolutely anything except make eyes as wide as a football ground and fall. Now, that is talent.

But Kantaben was much more than a comic plot device and an excuse for Karan Johar to talk gay. She was actually the most unintentionally deep and symbolic character ever created in the history of Indian cinema. Pity nobody noticed it.

Kantaben was us—us as in the society back when the movie was released. Kantaben was us in so much as refusing to even believe that something like homosexuality existed and promptly resorting to a reaction pretty much similar to her swooning every time the knowledge of its existence was thrust upon us.  Which is actually a pretty mild and censored way of putting it—the real range of reactions were pretty diverse ranging from minor indignation to major ostracism to full blown violence.

Cut to 2013. Talking about homosexuality has been largely cool. Has been for a long period of time.  This is not a majority—not by a long shot. We are still talking urban, educated, mostly young populace. But still, they are significant enough to count. And that is saying something in a society where honor killings are carried on with impunity and love marriages—the heterosexual ones—are still a big deal for a large section.

And this is where the Supreme Court’s Naz judgement has done the greatest good. In messing up with the basic rights of equality, freedom, privacy and life in general—the court has actually generated an outrage that had pushed detractors to a figurative back-foot. In a  strangely reverse psychological sort of a way, that I am sure was totally unintended, the judgment has achieved exactly what it had not set out to do—grant legitimacy (however forced) to the existence of homosexuality, in terms of perception if not hard law.

Homosexuality was never exactly a dinner table discussion issue. But this judgment, together with the outpour of outrage from all corners (including surprisingly the political ones) has pushed this issue out in open like never before (God bless Arnab Goswami and his creed). Even more than the time when Delhi HC came out with its historically progressive stance. Then with all the liberalism in air, culture, as it is perceived in the narrow minded sense, was wronged. This time the issue of homosexuality is. And history is witness to the fact that nothing unites and strengthens public opinion than a well timed outrage in support of the wronged.

People are talking—loud and clear. People are listening. They don’t really have a choice. If they don’t like it, a stoic, indignant silence is all they can afford—or be ripped apart by the pro-homosexuality wave. Being an intolerant douchebag is not cool…and I know several out there would not want to run that risk. Being tolerant is in…and considering how important public opinion is for human self esteem in general—this is something that is bound to make a difference, however minuscule.

For the first time, the casual detractors are thinking twice. And self appointed moral police is thinking once…well, trying to think as much as possible with their one and a half brain cells.  BJP and its clan, meanwhile, are trying to figure what thinking actually implies.

Kantabens still exist. But have been pushed into the closets previously occupied by the LGBT community. They can’t swoon, not anymore. Again, does not apply to all of them. Not even majority of them. But still in numbers large enough to warrant attention.

Homosexuals in India are small but distinct section of population with…gasp…rights! And now everyone and their grandmothers are forced to purse their lips and listen to this fact being reiterated a couple of billion times on national television…and well every other media space they have inadvertent access to.  You may not like it. You may not agree with it…which means you are an absolute douchebag and should not be here lest you contaminate Choti Mata’s space. But, you have to live with it. It is a fact that is now out and is not going anywhere, not soon, not ever. Legal and judicial battles are merely a part of a larger narrative that has already been set in motion. This is a point of no return.

Now, Kantaben, you can go get a lifetime supply of smelling salts.

Romance, Mishti Doi Ishtyle! Lessons In Life And Love From A Bengali Wedding!

                        

Choti Mata's Note: This is a departure from what usually goes up here primarily because it was written two years ago, around the time Choti Mata had not really discovered herself and was still prone to taking herself and everything else a bit too seriously. That being said, it is still extremely heartfelt and I endorse everything in there--except that if I had written it today, it may or may not have said stuff (all in good humour of course) that could have potentially jeopardized my next trip to beloved Kolkata. 

Thank God for small mercies!

We should have known. We really should have.

She was the uber romantic, quintessential Bong for whom Amit Ray continued to be a realistic expectation even as rest of us had given up hope of finding our Darcy. She reveled in every relationship she came across, every affair that was gossiped of, every love story she perceived in making. She read love stories, hummed old romantic melodies and justified every cliché that ever was associated with romance.

But marriage! Isn’t marriage the end of all romance? Isn’t marriage the violent whirlpool that sucks in all the fantasies, leaving behind the rut of marital responsibilities? Isn’t marriage the ultimate suicide for all romantics; a second life one chooses to take on only when every possible avenue of the first is exhausted?

We were fresh out of college, well paid professional. Marriage at this point was an insult to our liberalization. Ironically, she, the most liberated of us all, had chosen to tread this path of cardinal sin.

It was as if she had skipped several steps in the flight of life and landed straight on the ground floor.

“Are you mad?”, her laughter rung on the phone, “ I know it is early, but I am very happy. Also, nothing is going to change, I am not giving up on life, stupid; just stepping into the next phase.”

I was not convinced.

The plane landed in the Kolkata airport.  The constant chatter at the airport had a familiar ring to it. Five years with a Bengali are sufficient to acquaint anybody with the sound if not the meaning of the language.

Kolkata’s famous old world charm is the obvious first impression for any stranger. What is remarkable is the enticing expression that the city lends to the old times. While rest of the country is in a mad rush to multiply the latest models on the streets, Kolkata delightfully flaunts its multitudes of now otherwise extinct ambassadors with a charming pride. It is not a customary tribute; it is a celebration of the era gone by with a sincerity that tugs the heartstrings. The attempt is not artificial; it is the very nature of the city to preserve the old while the new flourishes. It is this harmony which has made Kolkata an eternal muse for countless poets, authors and artists.

Kolkata and its people do not alienate strangers; their spirit embraces everyone with an affable and reckless abandon. The narrow lanes of this city have the warmth of an old friend’s hug. The old constructions exude character and invite imagination to weave stories around them. The settlements are dense but their claustrophobia is poetic. Kolkata evidently nurtures romance in every form. Once in Kolkata, it was not difficult to guess the roots and reasons of her undying romanticism.

Her house was teaming with guests. The chaos and babble, however, was remarkably subdued in tenor. Unlike North India where weddings are the God sent license to sing, dance and make as much noise as possible; Bengali weddings are quiet, intellectualized affairs.  

I tried finding the proverbial glow on her face; locate some sort of difference that might have been triggered by impending marriage--I could find none. She was the same old girl who had sauntered on the college lane in a pair of jeans with us. The idea of her marriage refused to sink in even more.

It was ritual time. She came down dressed in a splendid red sari. Dressed to kill was a phrase obviously inspired by Indian brides. She looked resplendent in the perfectly balanced Bong bride make-up, designed to multiply beauty zillion times.

The photographer instructed her to pose variously for her album. After all, even memories for the eternity have to be planted. Her family was busy with the rituals amidst the loud sound of the ulu and conk shells.

A tear shone in her eyes as she smiled for a snap with her parents.

Everything suddenly fell into place. The rituals made sense just as the joy of her face as she gave borderline ridiculous poses for the photographer. The glow on her face I had been searching for was suddenly as evident as the satisfaction in her parent’s eyes. Their indecipherable pain of giving up their precious daughter to a stranger mingled with the satisfaction of securing her future, the hopes of her happiness. I could see the spring in her feet and the twinkle in her eyes when she talked about him- the lucky one who was to wed this precious being. Her excitement for the wedding trousseau made sense just as her disappointment at yet to darken mehndi in her hands. The conviction that led to her quitting her hard earned job was understandable just as the hopes for a happy future that awaited her.

She lowered the paan leaves for the first auspicious gaze on the bridegroom. Every romantic fantasy in the World culminated into one glorious moment. Her eyes fluttered. His gaze softened as he intently gazed at her.  

It was the moment when I realized that Amit Rays and Darcys of the World do not exist; they are created by the romance of women like her. In this corner of Tagore’s Kolkata, amidst the festivities and chants, quietly and discreetly, when nobody noticed, her very own Amit Ray was born.

What A House Hunt In Mumbai Taught Me About Life And Living!

Choti Mata’s Note: It is a truth universally recognized that a person in need of online recognition must be regular in posting content. I spent an entire year of my life in a brilliant startup that thrived on this very idea. I still needed to traumatize Jane Austen fans to remind myself of this basic tenet. I hope the irony is not lost on you. While I don’t admit to be in need of online recognition…or well in need of anything in general (this is Choti Mata speaking remember!), I have resolved to get more regular. Well, resolved to try to get more regular. I can think of a grand total of 3 people who would be extremely happy with this development.

Choti Mata loves her personal cheerleading squad.

Who would have thought that an insane, nearly pointless and absolutely harrowing real estate hunt in Mumbai could whip up some serious life lessons?

Last few months of my life have been a blur of random images. Oddball brokers, expensive flats, inhabitable properties—punctuated by a whole lot of taxi chasing and hair pulling. It was all my fault really.  I was first trying to rent a flat. Then the family back home decided they needed to throw some serious cash around and decided they will buy a property instead. The only trouble was that all the serious cash magically transformed into peanuts the moment Mumbai made its appearance in the transactions.

Hence, I was trying to buy a flat. And then rent one. And eventually at some point during this self inflicted confusion induced real estate torture, I found myself accommodation-less—rented or bought.

Long story short, I did succeed in renting a place. I am definitely closer to an impending hypertension than I was a few months ago. But I did rent a place. And from what I can make out of the constant commotion in the house these days, the family seems to have managed to almost buy one too.

But this piece is not about mine or the family’s real estate conquest. This is not about the heart attack I almost did get but then didn’t. This is about something slightly more significant; slightly more meaningful.

This is about the illusion of control. And the idea of letting go.

In one of those paradoxes that seem to be a product of some sort of cosmic joke on Choti Mata, the property I eventually rented was the one I had seen in the very first hour of the very first day of my house hunt. I rejected it. Not that there was something gravely wrong with the apartment. It was actually pretty decent by Mumbai standards. It just did not fit my ‘vision’.

Then began my quest for a house. I ran around the lanes of Mumbai like a headless chicken. I cursed. And then ran some more. On account some strange, fancy (Sigh! human foibles) and frankly rather stupid whim, I made into a sort of personal ego issue to not take up that house—the one I had seen in the first instance. This despite the fact that there was nothing majorly wrong with the house and even more importantly, it fit into my budget perfectly.

It was personal. I did not want that house.

Driven by this sense of challenge , I pushed myself beyond limits of any reasonable sense. And looked. And looked. And looked.

Obviously, I failed. It was as if the entire Universe had conspired against me to make sure this was challenge I did not win.

By the time I was done, my aforementioned ‘vision’ had dissolved so well and proper, I could not recall what it looked like. And my ego had taken a beating so bad, I was surprised my identity responded to my own name.

 I had lost. To a house. To a damn house!

It was much later that I actually registered the larger lessons that were far more important than my ego-bruises. It was a trivial house hunt—but the resulting realization was massive and disproportionately humbling.

The realization of how little control I had on something as minor as a house and what did it really say about my life as a whole!

Almost all of us lead our lives with a prevailing sense of control—on our decision, on people, on almost everything else. Once in a while something happens that reminds us that this life is much larger than our individuality allows us to realize. Sometimes it is something momentous—like a tragedy. At others, it is trivial, like a house hunt. But these periodic reminders, their scale notwithstanding are extremely crucial. Crucial for us to remind ourselves that we are mere players in a larger game. The game of life. Ultimately, it is the life that plays out. There are things-- sometimes everything that is beyond our control. And this is one fact, if taken in the right spirit, that can be extremely liberating. It can free us from the burden of consequence driven actions—obsessing over results, obsessing over success and failure, obsessing over our control on things or people in our lives.

It is one simple realization that can actually allow us to not worry. To live. And enjoy while we are at it. 

If any testimony for the success of this formula is required, my experience is an illustrative example. After all the struggle and pointless torment, I eventually realized that letting go was actually the best option. And the house that was offered up by the conspiring forces of the Universe is not so bad after all. All I actually needed to do was to let go of my need to control and accept gracefully. 

Barring the graceful part, I have nailed the acceptance. And you know what? It works.  

In Defence of High Heels

Choti Mata's Note : In light of Nandita's Das' latest and absolutely appreciable campaign 'Stay Unfair, Stay Beautiful', Choti Mata was inspired to talk about her tribe as well. And so, here is the long and short of surviving in a 'tall' world.

This blog belongs to Choti Mata. ‘Choti’ being the operative word.

Which in itself justifies this post on this blog

.

Evidently, high heels have been a regular in my life ever since I can remember. It all began innocuously enough around the time when my family figured that pumping me with fabled ‘height increasing’ medicines was actually doing no good. The repertoire of the armoury that had been collectively employed to achieve what was then a family ambition was fairly impressive and nearly intimidating. The agents of coveted inches were awe-inspiring to say the least—allopaths, homeopaths, naturopaths, voodoo practitioners and a couple of others, still awaiting recognition in the narrow minded mainstream society of intellectuals.

The end-result, despite such sincere efforts was massively disappointing. The promised inches were never delivered and my vertical dimensions never moved up into a respectable slot.

Come to think of it, may be, we took it all the wrong way. Maybe the result was not that disappointing. Given how effective all my height meds claimed to be, I presume I was on my way to the midget book of records before they came to my rescue.

  

I think I should be thankful.

Efficacy of my height regime aside, once I came to terms with my height (or the lack of it); in true survivor spirit, I decided to deal with it in the most resilient possible manner. I went to a shoe-store and bought a pile of most hideous looking platforms.

Don’t judge me.  At that point of time, aesthetics were not the priority. Kinetics were.

I really wanted to buy the pretty ones. But then I figured they would be of no use if I were to spend the majority of my walking time sprawled flat on the floor. Hence, I settled for the ugly ones. At least I could walk. Generous instances of awkward tripping and stumbling aside. But so long as my chin was not brushing the floor majority of the time, I was fine.

Like every affair, my fling with heels started off with a motive. The motive of finally achieving the status of being 5 feet tall.

Sigh! 5. That glorious, elusive number.

My obsession with 5 has a touching back story. In true law school traditions, someone there figured that 4'10" was not insulting enough. And so, I had to have a height of ‘paune paanch’ (translation—quarter to five feet). That one simple master stroke elevated ‘paanch’ or ‘five’ to the position of the most desirable goal of my life—at one point of time, even more that a paying job!

The five zeroes in my initial paycheque did vindicate my obsession to some extent (which I threw away eventually—but more on that later) and it slowly wore off. The heels, however, stayed on. The platforms too stayed but now have some respectable company.

In philosophical mumbo-jumbo, the obsession wore off because like everything else in life, it too was a futile pursuit. It was akin to revelations that people have in old age—when they realize that all that they had aspired all their lives was actually pointless. In my case, this was symbolized by 5. 5 feet, 5 zeroes—pointless.

But this post is not about the philosophy of pointlessness. This post is about heels and will remain so till the very end.

And surprising as it may sound, there is a larger philosophy in my tale of heels too. Which is also the core point of this post.

Heels in my world were the trigger for a grand revelation—the fickleness of public opinion. The opinion that made a big deal of my short height. Just like everyone dealing with the absence of those inches would vouch for. But what was more intriguing was that when I resorted to heels as a permanent fixture to counter this ‘perceived flaw’; that very same opinion disapproved again. This time, because, heels were unhealthy—for my body and apparently for my self esteem.

Luckily for me, I realized pretty early on that the only thing that was unhealthy for me was taking these opinions too seriously. About my height. My heels. Practically everything else.

And so I gave up—caring.

Not my heels of course.

Heels have stayed on. Not because they make me any taller or more approval worthy.  But simply because I love them. They make me feel good. I wear them as a matter of choice. As a matter of assertion of the fact that I will not be judged. Neither for wearing heels. Nor for not wearing them. Or for that matter, being short.

Heels and heights are mere metaphors for what is more or less a universal lesson in life. No matter what you do, who you are and where you belong to, you are bound to be judged. Too short, too tall, too black, too fat or too thin. There is no escaping. And there are ultimately just two words that are your shortest route to a healthy self esteem and great confidence.

Stop Caring!

If Cities Were Men...

If cities were men, I would have dated Mumbai; I would have married Lucknow.

The statement above is not a quote. Unless of course, you already consider me quoteworthy. In which case, this is definitely a quote with a deep philosophical thought and must not be misinterpreted to implicate Choti Mata of lewd thoughts.

It is a Facebook status that I had put up a couple of months ago.

The reason why it is put out here is not to highlight the anthropomorphic albeit imaginary promiscuity of Choti Mata. The reason why it is the starting point of this post is because of the interesting thought that had triggered the compulsive need of letting out this very obscure and mostly irrelevant status for public admiration. The thought that said that every city has about as much character as a living breathing human being (I refrain from saying man because that would defeat the allusion)—the very same thought that leads to movies like Kahaani that actually treat the city of their setting as an independent powerful character or more recently Raanjhana.

I am no globetrotting soul. Apart from the fact that the phrase ‘trotting Choti Mata’ never created a very flattering imagery in my head; this was also because of an almost clinical travel phobia. Not ‘I get cranky when I travel’ kind of phobia but ‘I puke at the mere sight of an airport’ kind of phobia. And for that extreme, I have still managed to be at a number of places—Lucknow, Hyderabad, Delhi, Mumbai, Indore and Kolkata.

Cities vibrate with their own distinctive energy and character. Inevitably, they inspire emotions of myriad hues. And hence the thought—what if they were men? What if in some magical parallel world, these cities were indeed men?

And here, I reiterate, if cities were men, I would have married Lucknow. Dependable, sophisticated, suave and cultured. It has a bureaucratic disposition and air of royal authority. It might lack the wild ambition of high rise. But, what it lacks in ambition, it makes up for in its ‘take home to Mommy’ quality. But even more importantly, In other words, an ideal husband material!

Mumbai is quite the opposite. Given my penchant for men like Lucknow, it was ironic that my affair with Mumbai was love at first sight. Creative and throbbing with restless energy, it is the epitomic wild child—the kind of men that are fascinating and scary at the same time. If Mumbai were man, it would be the kind you have torrential affairs with. The man who is rich, innovative and wildly attractive. The man who can draw a portrait with as much panache as he strums the guitar which in turn is as smooth as his money filled coffers. Mumbai is the man of all dreams…and yet it is so unpredictable that there just cannot be a lasting marriage. Mumbai is the guy who takes you to bed (and you love it!) but you can’t take him home. Its enigmatic facets hide as much as they reveal and this enigma has a deadly air of transient attraction. Which is why, we tread carefully when it comes to Mumbai—the man and Mumbai—the city; or what is left behind is a scar that refuses to heal.

And then there is Delhi. If I were to roll all the clichés and notions associated with Delhi into a man, the result would be an unmitigated disaster of monstrous proportion.  Delhi would then be the man who earns truck-loads of money by the day (by means that sway dangerously from the limits of legality) and is a roving, raping, murdering psychopath by the night. Delhi can be a lot of things— a politician, a bureaucrat or a consummate businessman. But its identity during the nights—literal and figurative, remains unaltered. This is one city I am grateful is not a man.

But there is another Delhi, the one that is visible only when we look beyond the clichés and the pre-conceived notions. That Delhi which still has a heart that justifies the alliteration “dilwaalon ki dilli’. If I were to think of Dilli as a man, this would be the guy I would want to talk about. The guy with a raucous (sometimes cringe-worthy but fun nonetheless) sense of humor. And the guy with food…lots of food on the table…all the time! The guy who is an easy connect for all North Indians just because he symbolizes everything that is so ‘North’—from Punjab/Haryana to UP/Bihar. And despite this rather strong north bias, this is the guy who can practically get along with anyone, irrespective of their origin,  so long as they have a sense of humor.

The Delhi I am talking about is easy, helping and fun. It is the guy who loves money, but in a good way and is consequently very hard working, again in a good way.  This is the guy which cares for the people he gets to know—the Delhi which is uber modern in growth but has retained that fine touch of our culture and tradition. At its best, Delhi is the guy any north Indian girl would consider marrying.

Any north Indian girl—barring Choti Mata.

I like Delhi, despite all that is purportedly wrong with it. But, with Delhi, I could never have a roaring affair like Mumbai or a simmering connect like Lucknow. It may be partly owing to its reputation because even at its best, Delhi can never be the guy I would stay out late with—unlike Mumbai, which makes me feel safe, however illusory.

Dear Delhi, you know how they say—it’s not you, it’s me.

Delhi can be a great brother. Which is actually a good strategy given the reputation Delhi has managed to earn for itself. But as far as I am concerned, Delhi has been and will always be a great friend—even when it is not actually a man.

I can’t conclude this post without mentioning Kolkata—the only city which I think cannot be a man. If Kolkata has to be anything, it can be a woman. The very essence of this city throbs with feminine mystique. Kolkata is loud, cultured, intelligent, reticent, modern, cocooned, independent, enigmatic and feverishly clinging to its past—a bundle of extreme paradoxes only a woman can be.

Is there a point somewhere here?

Honestly, no. It was just an idea lying in my unused folders for really long. But to keep the tradition of always finding a point alive, no matter how forced—I will conclude this with a point.

We spent too much time in our lives going places—literally and figuratively. We hardly take time to look around. If at all we do, it is mostly and exclusively for serving our critical faculties. The place is too cramped, too open, too crowded, too quiet, too polluted, too clean…

If only we could take some time out and appreciate what each of these places stand for in spirit and in form, it might just be an absolute eye opener. Actually wanting them to be transformed into ‘man’ may be taking things too far. But who knows, you might just be pleasantly surprised!

'Laa' (Law) Chronicles and Happiness Aboard!

Choti Mata’s Note: This might look like a random piece of personal musings (ego-centric written version of a selfie fuelled by misplaced megalomania is more accurate—but I will stick to ‘musings’). But in spirit being a blog by Choti Mata, there is a takeaway. Who knows, this might just be that one thought which is about to change your life. Or add to your vast repertoire of Facebook like feel good gyaan. Either way, it might be worthwhile. So try to hang on till the end.

I am a lawyer. By qualification anyways. And this is a declaration that meets with a variety of responses. The most common one being “You mean a liar”, followed by a loud guffaw with a presumption, I presume , that it is something I have never heard before.

I had joined law school a couple of years ago when law schools and their associate perks (read—fat paychecks) were just about gaining some ground in students’ or rather their parents’ imaginations. One of the most memorable reactions to my decision came from an acquaintance back in my mother’s hometown—a smallish town in remote MP.

“You are doing ‘laa’!”,he exclaimed pointedly, “then we are all in the same profession!”. There was hardly anything remarkable about the statement as such until it was followed by this man’s ceremonial departure—in a tattered black coat on a forlorn bicycle that had long outlived its extinction date. I still remember the queasy feeling that refused to go for the next couple of weeks.

My misgivings vanished almost instantly once I landed in NALSAR, Hyderabad. Apart from the fact that it was and still is, the second best National Law School in the country (latest ratings will of course dispute this fact, but all of us know the truth, don’t we?), I think the sprawling campus and the apparent lavishness had a lot to do with my suddenly uplifted spirits.

They were eventful 5 years—my stay at the law school. But I will breeze over that part. I think we owe one to Chetan Bhagat for inspiring an entire generation of closet writers to come out in open. Considering that all the campus tales are about as unique as Karan Johar's directorial outings, I don't have to waste this precious blogspace in narrating my tale. I can and will simply direct you to the latest campus 'bestseller' on the stands.

The squirming soul of recently demised literary merit notwithstanding, there is a larger benefit of this trend--the benefit of having the stories out. And stories, no matter how much they induce the gag reflex in a discerning reader, are always good. They prevent the societies from closing their eyes and ears to the truth and imagination of their times.

Non-literary merits of campus stories aside, I will cut straight to the end of my tale. The part where every law student’s five years of mostly zero productive law school stay is validated by –wait for it—a job! A couple of zeroes in your paycheck is all that is required to establish you as a worthwhile member of your family and a legitimate part of the society—all your previous existential sins conveniently forgotten.

Zeroes and all were fine—blinding enough for me to not be able to realize initially that my law firm existence was hardly any different from that man on his tattered cycle. Except of course I had money. And he had a life.

Inevitably, I quit!

Which is not to say that it was the only way to happiness (more on that later). Which is also not to say that I always put myself to good use henceforth. For one, the zeroes took serious offence and went totally missing. The paychecks persisted—for a while. But of late, I seem to have offended their ilk as well.

But I have been happy. Surprising as it may sound (or not, depending on your self help general knowledge), it is a state of mind that does not concern itself with the state of my bank account. I found a job I loved, made enough to pull through decently and spent some great time, at a great place, with great people.

And then I quit—again. This time, not because I was unhappy; but because I was happy. Happy enough to make some quick introspection and take some more risks.

Has it paid well? I don’t know. Too soon. At the moment, I have lost myself in the wilderness of the unknown. And I repeat, I am happy—which I guess is a good sign.

In the spirit of my sobriquet and the note above, I will conclude this post with a point. And the point of this slightly long winded post is just this—life and happiness had obviously nothing to do with either my law school degree or the zeroes on my paycheck. It was in fact a ridiculous idea to actually think that zeroes could bring me happiness. They were after all zeroes. 

Most of us know this. And this post is essentially a pointless reiteration of information that is about as pervading as Facebook.

In a sense, our tryst with happiness and its core ingredients is like Indian legal system. Everyone knows about it. But no one bothers with implementation. And that is why this point needs to be made despite its ubiquitous existence.

Even if zeroes do matter in our pragmatic existence, they still need the validation of a happy existence. A validation that is largely ignored, overlooked or simply glossed over.  Law firm or for that matter any other place in the world, is a great place to be, so long as you manage to be happy. But if you can’t, no matter where you are and what you do, it is still going to be an increasingly lost cause—an almost childish attempt to convince yourself and everyone else of a false sense of well being. If you can really survive the facade for the rest of your life, it is all fine. But if you can’t, you must remember—there is always a choice.

Your choice!