Hand stains. Mug shots. Winter is soon gone.
Rebirth.
Encore. 

To those we loved, and never lost. 

What They Understood of Feminism.

I often refrain from offering critiques on philosophical and literary theories. The reason is simple, everybody can have a point of explanation about what they understand of an Existentialism or a Surrealism or a Cubism. We all can draw numerous interpretations about how we connect to these or vice versa.

However, today I just feel like talking about Feminism. And largely, not in its favor. For one, I'm the least of a feminist. Yes, I promote gender parity at most platforms; but I refuse to discount another person's importance as an individual only because he belongs to the opposite gender. This warrants for a lot of reaction, mostly. And I like it. Because mostly women, largely identifying themselves as feminists do the following -

1. Write extensively about exploitation of women - sexually, mentally or physically. About women being victorious over men. About women rights and legal status that prevailed in ages far beyond their own birth date.

2. Write the above mentioned on visible social media platform, provoking other women and sometimes, men who are probably not that articulate. So that the latter join hands with them and acknowledge (read like or retweet) the same.

3. Share facebook pages created for the woman's cause. And they do so far more rapidly than you can blink. Ask them what and when was the First Wave Feminist Movement and ...

4. Discuss harassment incidents that flashed on news channels last night. It is the intellectual subject matter to quibble about at social gatherings.

5. Fight about the state of security in the city and seek out to claim the city by its streets. This, they do on news channels and everywhere else.

I know this is probably the most generic and as the purists might put it, nonsensical explanation for feminism. But this is perhaps how the concept is understood by the masses.

So basically, it is an arm chair philosophy. You sit, talk over coffee and move on to shop at a fancy mall. And then you critisize men for not vacating seats in general compartments of the Metro after gobbling a whole god damn coach. It might even seem blasphemous to call it a dysfunctional idea, feminism. In the wake of rising incidents of rapes and sexual harassments, even more. That does not mean I don't feel for those victims. But merely talking and preaching is highly hypocritical.

Case rested. 

Seven Reasons Why Winters are Wondrous.

Winter is the best time of the year. The best. Needless to say it is my favourite season of the year. I won't even try and sound like the English and say how much I appreciate the Fall, because come on, there is no such thing as Fall in the Indian seasons. It's a good thing to accept your indigenous happenings. So yes, winters. It is that time of the year when mornings are chilly and evenings are chillier. And afternoons are sun-soaked. But that would be like stating the obvious, wouldn't it. That's not why winters are kickass.

Some say these cold months are so romantic. Perfect for an evening date and so on. Well, probably. I cannot picture myself wearing something glamorous in the teeth-clattering night just for a date. I'd rather layer-up to enjoy. Some have even criticised the season for causing them discomfort - they have to wake up in the morning and go for work in the cold. Yeah, as if the rest of the year, your files and projects were shipped at your doorstep by a valet. Come on, work is work. Summer is too hot, monsoon is too wet and winter is too cold. Excusitis might be the cause, rather than the season.

Anyhow, winters are awesome. I got my reasons in place.
One, it's the best time to gorge maximum. Food gives energy and keeps you warm. I'm giving you scientific backing for it. What else can you ask for.
Two, you don't gain as much weight by eating extra. I read this somewhere that the body uses those calories to beat the chill. Science, eh.
Three, Christmas and New Year's fall in winter. Peak time for celebration and more food.
Four, there is so much to shop for. Mufflers, sneakers, jackets, pullovers and accessories to match. Girls, be happy !
Five, winter is equated to wedding times in India. Every day, every week there is somebody getting married. More food, more shopping, more celebration.
Six, It's Old Monk time for alcohol lovers. They swear by it.
Seven, nights are longer during winter. That means, MORE SLEEP. This ones the best, is it not?

In literature, winter is equated to death and endings. Where life withers and things come to an end. But it seems like a carnival time here, man ! Everybody is drunk with joy and celebration; there never is a dull moment. That's how it is for me.

Word.

"Karma is a cutie."

I read this somewhere, and I couldn't help but smile. And smile more.

There is so much to share and smile about
So much to rejoice about. Happenings that are beyond the politics of the politik. Beyond the grim hustle that consumes us, rather hypocritically. We critisize only because we are at a comfortable spot.

Appreciate and be grateful. No life-science preaching, this. When you will go around happy, it will come around to you !

She Lives. She Loves.

There is something about some people you come across. Something unusual. They might not be your closest friends but you know they are there. Their presence is inevitably known to everyone in that space. In some way, they just have to be known by everyone around them.

I had one such girl during my graduation. We weren't the kind of friends who would share our problems or secrets the way girls do. Or maybe I never did. Her presence just made me happy. Whenever she was around, I expected a stream of laughter to start echoing in minutes of our interaction. She was always ready with a story to tell. And her story, a rather simple one, drew people towards her. She loved narrating them in fact.

In a span of three years, I had become privy to so many stories about her life, that I felt I was close to knowing her well. From how she smoked her way to college in an auto, to how she passed days in her depressing convent school, to how she danced all slutty at the party last night and rushed for a morning lecture. She was a favorite at the cafeteria. Sipping iced tea even on the coldest mornings, she carried a bag with no books, a wallet flooded with loose money and a story. I never saw her tell a sobbing story though. It was as if in her mind, she was a celebrity being chased by the paparazzi of the city.

Initially, I hardly spoke to her. In fact it took me time to understand her sometimes-blunt responses. To the ones she loved, she loved immensely. To the ones she disliked, well. The heaviness of English Literature was whisked away in her humor and lines we made jokes of. It's not like she didn't face problems or was never broke or didn't have a fight. It's just that she was the way she was. Always on a high.

I'm glad to have spent my days of graduation with her. I don't remember not recalling any incident that she shared with me, and not laughing. I don't think I came across anyone like her again. I'm at a loss of words when people ask how was she so different. I'm just glad I met her.

To you, pole. I wanted to write this much earlier. 

The Man and The Photograph.

Everyday, he woke up to a photograph of her. Rather, the photograph. He lived with it. It was a part of him, now. Even after so many days, so many years, the picture remained his loyal. Her expression in it never changed. She never argued or questioned him. She never replied back during his conversations. She was the silent woman. Smiling, as ever. Available, as ever. The woman, every man like him would desire. Blessed with the power of submission. Submitting, while smiling calmly in that photograph, to her owner. There was never a spark of the feminist rebellion in her. Obedience was her motto, as it were. And peace, her existence.

He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.

New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.

Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.

The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.

But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.

After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.

He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.

Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.

The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.