Saturday, 22 December 2012

THE WOMAN'S APOCALYPSE



"Some say the world will end in fire
 Some say in ice...."


Doesn't look like it will end either way. Fire and ice are too mild and tame for mankind's brutal strength.
21st December 2012 came and went and here we are...ruthless as ever, shameless as ever, drunk in our vulgar bravado...continuing with our wretched lives. There is no Apocalypse for us. Nothing can kill us. We will live on and on like cockroaches. The only way we shall go, perhaps, is when we finish each other off.

When I titled the last post with a smiley, saying I will be back soon, I wasn't aware that a 23 years old, bright young paramedic, a victim of prolonged gang-rape and brutalization, will lie dying in a Delhi hospital with gangrene spreading rapidly inside her body. Her uterus will probably never work anymore and almost all of her intestines are gone.

I wasn't ready for this.

I am, like my fellow countrymen, pretty roughened and weathered by all those bold headlines I see in newspapers every day. Murder, rape, molestation, child abuse,theft, robbery, scams and other assorted national pastimes. Like the average Indian, these things do not shock me out of my skin. They used to,but not anymore. Two days without one bad news and I start thinking the news people are a lazy bunch.I have read the worst. The very worst. Brothers killing brothers, mothers selling off daughters, young girls beating babies to death, fathers raping infant daughters, innocent animals being set on fire, women being stripped and paraded...what have you. I thought nothing could shock me anymore. I thought I knew it all.
But nothing I have ever read in my daily newspaper, which I peruse religiously every morning, could have prepared me (and I am sure any of you) for this. NOT FOR THIS!

There is this young girl I know who has just entered her teens. At school she is learning all about the various body systems in details. Respiratory system, nervous system, circulatory system et al. Sometimes she shows me the complicated biological diagrams she has to draw. Veins, organs, arteries. But a thousand times more complicated than any of her intricately accurate bio diagrams was one simple remark she made after hearing about the Delhi gang rape case.

"How can her intestine get ruptured through rape? Isn't the intestine a part of the digestive system? Isn't the digestive system way different from the reproductive system, which is the primary system involved in cases of rape?"

This one doubtful question from one teenaged girl (who dreams of becoming a doctor someday), underlines, highlights and focuses boldly the sheer brutality we harbour in our hearts for one another.

Drunk uneducated male rapists are the worst of the lot no doubt, but remember baby Falak? The infant who was thrashed by a teenaged girl? Fractured skull, broken arms, human bite marks, cheeks branded with hot iron, the baby left for a better world after battling with death for around 60 days at AIIMS. A charge of culpable homicide was slapped against the teenager who had thrashed and beaten and vented all her anger on the baby. She, this 14 years old murderess, herself, has been abused, assaulted, raped and made to have sex with at least seven men per day for as long as she can remember.

Given a chance, it seems to me, that each one of us - irrespective of our gender - will not bat an eyelid before tearing another human body to pieces. Reasons could be so many. But it all results in brutalization in one way or another.

Why are we so violent? So brutal? Why are we so angry? Where is all this angst coming from? How can we have fun tearing someone's uterus and intestines apart with an iron rod? Is it funny? Will it make us laugh? How can we have fun slapping, hitting, kicking, screaming, punching and struggling? The act of sex wasn't meant for this.Even if I cut out all the romance and affection we generally associate with sex, even if, for argument's sake, we see sex as only an animal method of procreation, violence and brutalization were never meant to play any part in it.

There was, there is and there will be no need for iron rods in sex. Or even rape.

And if this heinous crime which has rocked us was an act of venting out anger, then we go back to my first question again...why are we so angry? Why are we so angry with women, babies and men who try to defend them? Why do we always want to teach women a lesson? What is wrong with us? Who is messing our brains up? Or were we like this since the beginning? Is civilization only a veneer as thin as a virgin's hymen? If not then why does it give away at the slightest of excuses and expose our bloody ugly faces?
If a woman cannot stop herself from being dragged and raped can she please please please beg not to be ruptured, torn and infected in every possible manner? Can rapists please be content with focusing on sexual intercourse and not harm heads, ears, noses, stomachs, hands, legs and every thing inside them? What is the next level, after iron rods? Nails and hammers? Road levellers? Crushers and shredders? Chainsaws? Mixers and grinders? A whole range of industrial machinery to assist with brutalization after rape?

Why are we hurtling so rapidly back to the dark ages?

People come up with loads of papers and articles on the psychology behind rape. How a rapist's mind works. How it is not about sexual pleasure but about a demonstration of dominance. How some men are angry at the mind boggling progress women have made over the last few decades and being unable to compete with the girls on an intellectual plane, they want to "teach them a lesson" physically.

But brutalization? How do you explain that? Let me talk in crude, vulgar, downright shameful words and make you cringe a little. Let me spell out in clear, sharp words what we all know of this case and will not lucidly state.
How do you explain the sadistic need of inserting a rusty iron rod inside a woman's vagina and jabbing it into her with so much anger and force that it goes past the cervix, bores a hole through the uterus and embeds itself into the small intestine, after you are done raping her with your biological organ?

I will tell you why those monsters did not feel for one second that the person lying naked and bleeding under them was a person at all. Because women are a different species altogether. Women are not what is scientifically called Homo sapien (Linnaeus, 1758). Only men make up Homo sapiens. Women are just two things - a pair of breasts and one vagina. THAT IS ALL.

We women are not human.

That is why the same friends and relatives who will innocently play with a female infant cannot stop ogling at her breasts once she reaches puberty. Women are not human. We are not living creatures, in fact.
We can't think, we don't feel pain, we don't feel hunger or thirst, we don't laugh, we don't cry, we can't learn, we can't love, we can't hate. we can't decide...and the best is, if you cut us open we won't bleed, like you will. We can't walk, run, sit or stand. Oh come on! A pair of breasts and a vagina cannot cry, laugh or feel. Even to feel pain they have to be connected to a brain via some nerves. But we do not have that as well. We are just two functional breasts and one functional vagina connected somehow by a rubber or wooden structure. Rubber and wood don't bleed or hurt, do they?

And therefore, what is so wrong and strange in abusing us, cutting us open, humiliating us, raping us, burning us, slitting our throats, rupturing our organs (again, all rubber), tying us up, parading us, killing us?

Sometimes, just some times, when you are in a better mood, or when some woman has allowed your sperms to mingle with her ovum and handed the resultant product over to you, you may be benevolent enough to call us goddesses, put us on a pedestal, write poems and songs, call us THE MOTHER, make films and stir up storms over coffee tables about our greatness.

And then, it is back to abusing, cutting, humiliating, raping, burning.

I am sorry I was born a girl. And then dared to grow up into a woman. I apologize. I will try not to be a female next time.
But this time I don't want to spend the rest of my life doubting every male I know. I don't want to love and live half hearted, with a quiet fear in the back of my mind that I can be brutalized the moment I need to be "taught a lesson".
I don't want to close the door on every unknown person's face, who comes asking for a glass of water. I don't want to travel around with an arsenal of weaponry like Swiss knives and pepper sprays to hurt people around me. I want to meet new people and make new friends. I don't want to spend all my time clutching my bag to my chest so I can avoid being groped there. I want to travel without bags and scarves sometimes at least. Sometimes I want to just look ahead towards the road I am walking and not keep engaging my side vision. I don't want to be on the lookout for people who may hurt me all the time.
I don't want to indiscriminately hate an entire gender. Don't make me. Please.

I have just one more question. Is there a "God for women" too? Do women count on God's list as living things? Or is the "God for women" dead? If not, then why hasn't He (or She) equipped us with any natural form of defence against the atrocities the "God for men" has designed for us. Almost every other female animal is equipped to protect herself from violation - a lioness, a tigress, a she-elephant, a leopardess, a cat, a bitch - speed, strength, teeth, claws - they all have some means of protection or the other. The only population left defenceless and helpless is the human female.

I don't know if the Mayans knew anything about the end of human life and I don't know if they were really entirely wrong, even though 21st December is gone without any noticeable change on the face of Earth. Because if you feel enough, you will know that for women it is the end of humanity as we knew it. The prediction was correct.

The "women's" apocalypse just went by.


Tuesday, 6 November 2012

:)

RELOADING ....RELOADING....RELOADING....AND COMING SOON!

Sunday, 23 September 2012

The Ice Cream Seller's Song

Do you have a similar memory from the days of your childhood? Could be anyone...someone who sold candy floss in tiny packets, or candy, or mint or tiny black sweet and sour balls made of tamarind and other unknown things, or may be a tea shop you visited often, or a seller of sweets you couldn't do without...someone? Something?
Did you come back from school, throw your bag somewhere and rush out to play with your group of friends (as opposed to going for endless tuitions or whiling away time playing computer games)? Do you miss those days?


(By the way, the ice cream seller did not sing...that's a poetic licence I have allowed myself to take.)

I do not know if this poem has much of what seasoned poets would call poetic brilliance. The language is simple to the extent of being plain and there is no intricate or complicated wordplay.
It will also be of no use to you in increasing your vocabulary. Still, it is close to my heart. Very close. Don't know why.
Perhaps somethings are best expressed when they are expressed in the simplest possible manner.






THE ICE CREAM SELLER'S SONG


I


Jingle! Jingle! The bells ring out
And all of us, we run
The Ice Cream Seller! Here he comes!
Oh dear, what fun!

Quickly the box opens up
We crowd to see his wares
Our mothers shout "You greedy kids!"
We let them shout, who cares?

For every noon when the sun is up
And we are down in dumps
With jingling bells and ready smile
The Ice Cream Seller comes

Little hands inside little pockets go
One pice and two and three
"I'll have butterscotch", "Vanilla here!"
"May I have one for free?"

Orange bars and Mango lollies
And lots and lots of cream
Frozen ice to melt in your mouth
Its like your sweetest dream.

My lovely days of childhood
The touch of my Mother's hand
The group of friends, the Ice Cream man
It was a fairy land!


II


As we grew, the times changed
I saw my friends less
School and books and marks and grades
And subjects, all a mess

When in the noon, with books closed 
I'd pretend to snatch a nap
My eyes gazed at the lane below 
From the narrow window crack

No rushed footfalls, no endless chats
Just the Sun and the sultry noon
We had more important things to do
We were growing up too soon.


III

Two decades went by (time never stops)
Our childhood group now scattered
Some dreams of mine had come true
But, all child-like fancies shattered

My big old house, the faces known
The thoughts of a carefree mind
Adulthood, money and success, made
Me leave them all behind

I got in touch with old friends
We spoke of long ago
What became of the ice cream man
We never came to know

But we knew we had grown up
On his tasty treats and songs
For those simple treats that made our day
The child in my heart still longs

Years have passed and we all are now
Important, rich and strong
But as long we live, we shan't forget
The Ice Cream seller's song!


Pallavi  
(Composed in  2005...or 2004, 
don't really remember), Pune



I know, I know! This poem is pretty crude. The build up, the language, the flow of thoughts. I am open to admitting that. My apologies for this childish, simple verse. But that ain't the point!

The point is, what have we achieved and what have we left behind in order to achieve that? Was the barter truly, honestly worth it? How have you really changed the world for better after you bade your own world, your own people, farewell? Why can't we have it all? Family, childhood friends, people we know, people who make us feel comfortable and our career - all in one place? 

But I guess,when the time comes, birds must fly away from the nest. 

That is the point. 

*******************************************************************************
P.S - Thank you for taking time out from your busy schedule and reading my blog.
 If you are enjoying reading these articles, may I request you to please follow this blog by signing into Blogger with your Google ID and share the link to any article that you like the most here - on Facebook, Twitter, Google plus and any other social media you may be using...so your friends can visit too? :)
I am a new author and I would be grateful for any kind of encouragement from my readers. It is a tough world out there for new authors!
Thanks once again! Hope you love reading my articles as much as I loved writing them!


Pallavi

Friday, 17 August 2012

The "normal" Indian woman and the D word



No no no. Stop before you think too much...it ain't 36 DD or any other D of the same genre I am referring to. But now that I have your attention, what the heck!

And my definition of "normal" Indian woman is -

Not a model (and with no aspirations to be one)
Not a movie star (and no such aspirations either)
Educated
Working (aspirations don't matter...bloodsucker of a job!)
Living in a metropolitan or one of the new "pretend" metropolitans (e.g Bangalore, Hyderabad, Pune etc)
Life rapidly progressing from active huff-puff of a university student to the sedentary sighs and yawns of a person with a sitting job (like sitting 10 hours a day)
Earns well (relatively)
Spends better (absolutely)
Unmarried, single, zero relationships (don't know if that is due to lack of interesting people to meet or lack of time, a constant state of burn out and no enthusiasm for anything other than crashing on the bed and snoring away as soon as she gets home)

Can you now begin to guess what the D word is? Yes? Clever you! No? Let me continue the foreplay for some more time in that case.

Living the stressful, sedentary, unproductive life our "normal" woman lives, she soon finds herself on the...let's say, out of decency....voluptuous side of the spectrum. (Nah...the metabolism isn't really what it used to be at 18. Really, office formals can be so deceiving. )

She immediately joins the poshest health club in town.It claims to have an Olympic sized pool (which is "under construction"/"closed indefinitely for cleaning"/"closed indefinitely for inspection by the health officers"/any other reason). It claims to have an organic juice bar ("but that's open between 5:30 am in the morning to7 am"...our heroine goes in at 7:30 am.), a steam and sauna facility (come on, this one works...you cannot already be thinking nothing works in posh Indian health clubs!), plus many other latest gizmos, amenities and magical secrets to give you a body Claudia Schiffer can kill for.

The first thing our "normal" woman notices on her first day (for which she has virtually bought an entire Reebok shop. Or is Puma more in fashion these days?) is that the people who come to that health club are lycra and spanx clad lassies and hunky, beefy, muscular lads - who do not seem to be in any need of the services a health club offers.

Our lady reasons out her observations in the following manner:

a. What the %$@#. Life is unfair.
b. Ah! This is what I too will look like within six months of my rigorous training schedule.
c. Wow! Inspiration. (not only for exercising, also for latest trends in gymwear)
d. If not anything else, at least I am starting my morning in a holistic environment with gorgeous people around me.
e. What if I meet someone really interesting?
f. What the %$@#. Life is unfair.

                **********************************************************

A month later.

Voluptuousness - pretty much the same
Tired - like a washerman's donkey (wasn't exercise supposed to make her feel energetic? Oddly enough, it doesn't)
Set of gym clothes - around 5 (sweaty, stinky, wash repeatedly)
Number of days she went to the health club - 15
Number of days she skipped going - 15 (those 4/5 days of the month, early meeting at office, late night meeting at office, don't feel like going, working on important assignment from home, don't feel like going,body full of aches and pains, getting late for office, it's raining, it's too sunny, it's too cold, it's too pleasant, don't feel like going, friends at home for a weekend....and well, just don't feel like going. Not going to become a model anyway....what's the....YAWN....point?)

So what next? Clubbing and gyming clearly weren't our lady's cup of tea. Or decaf coffee...no sugar, no cream.

NEXT ON THE AGENDA IS THE D WORD.

DIETING.

Defined by Wikipedia as - "the practice of eating food in a regulated fashion to achieve or maintain a controlled weight."

LIARS!

Controlled weight???? CONTROLLED WEIGHT??? The very need for dieting comes from the fact that the weight is OUT OF CONTROL!

Having chirpy and eager girlfriends fed on a steady diet of glossy women's magazines helps our lady to zone in on what's latest in the D world, across the world.

Atkins Diet. Pritikin Diet. South Beach Diet. Jenny Craig Diet. Weight Watchers Diet. Sea Weed Diet. Raw Diet. Starve-yourself-to-death diet (OK I made that one up) Negative calorie diet. Zero Calorie diet. GI diet. Detox diet. Mediterranean Diet. Ornish diet. Zone Diet. Gluten free diet. Rosemary Conley's Hip and Thigh diet (now I am laughing myself silly...but no I haven't made this one up).

One says stuff up on proteins, another says stuff up on fats only when you think you are dying, yet another encourages you to gobble everything up raw (consuming an ample load of microbes and pesticides seems to be a part of this diet), another wants to shock your body into starvation and yet another says starvation leads to fat storage. One says eat whatever you want and then gives you a list of food items even your dog won't sniff . One wants to change the ph in your body to alkaline and the other claims an acidic body resists infections. One wants you to go Italiano (though you live in Maharashtra or Andhra Pradesh in India) and the other would like you to weed out the sea floor and gulp down the muck.

But our "normal" Indian lady being eagerly committed to her plans of dieting is not deterred. Something can be surely worked out from this labyrinth of ideas.Visits to the poshest dietitian in the city, flipping through glossies and talking to girlfriends result in one common plan.

Salads.
Whole grains and seeds.
Lean protein.
Boiled Vegetables
Low fat skimmed milk in some form or the other, except butter and cheese.And Ice cream. And cream. And rich, full fat yogurt. (wonder what that some form or the other is?)
Fruits (except bananas)

NO COLA. NO PIZZA. NO PASTA. NO BURGER. NO FRENCH FRIES. NO CHOCOLATES. NO SWEETS.NO ALU PARATHA DRIPPING WITH DESI GHEE. NO BIRYANI. NO KORMA. NO KEBABS. NO WHITE RICE. NO PRAWNS. NO LOBSTERS.NO SEA FISH. NO LAMB. NO CRAB. NO POTATOES. NO BEETROOTS. NO OKRAS. NO WAFERS. NO BAKERY PRODUCTS.

AND NO CHEATING!!

BASICALLY NOTHING.

But this gutsy girl is still determined and has to plan precisely to avoid falling into the common trap "I ran out of veggies and had instant noodles. Just once."

So she logs in to the net and writes out her list of diet food to buy.

Later at the local vegetable market, reading out her list she sounds like someone who's shouting out exotic swear words to the irritated vegetable vendor.

Lollo Rosso lettuce? No? Iceberg lettuce? No? Romaine Lettuce? No? Radicchio? No? Red Oak Lettuce? No? Lollo Biondi lettuce? NO NO NOT ROSSO...THAT WAS THE FIRST ONE ON THE LIST. BIONDI? No. Lollo verde? OK I GET IT, NO LOLLOS. Batavia lettuce? No?

Watercress? No it's not a lettuce. It's simply watercress. No?

Let's try chinese. How about Pak choy and galangal? No I do not want spinach and ginger. See, the list says Pak Choy and Galangal. No?

Shallots? (I DO NOT MEAN ONIONS. KYLIE KWONG KEEPS CALLING THEM SHALLOTS ALL THE TIME ON THE TRAVEL CHANNEL.) No?

Ok. Let's try tomatoes. Cherry tomatoes? Not cherry the fruit. No? Grape tomatoes? No. Plum tomatoes? NO NO  NO...I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CHERRIES AND PLUMS AND GRAPES AND TOMATOES.

To cut a very long shopping spree short, all our lady brings home that day is cucumber. Plain, simple, normal cucumber.

And a cup of double cream caramel coffee at the local coffee shop. Come on, who doesn't get tired after veggie shopping?

Cucumbers are good. Nice and juicy and cool and watery. Lots and lots of cucumbers.Crunchy. Ummm. Crunch. Munch.

Well.

After having nothing but a plate full of cucumbers for lunch, for three days in a row our lady reasons out that it really won't be too bad to have a real thick, smooth chocolate mousse.And anyway she is on a strict diet. And one is human after all. Why would have God created the cocoa beans of the cacao plant if chocolate was that bad? Come on, who can question God's creation?

After the raw food detox is over, our heroine is supposed to eat boiled, blanched and steamed veggies. Or ever so slightly sauteed in olive oil. Do you have any idea how much good quality virgin olive oil costs in India? Well, a lot. It's a delicacy, to be tossed on ornate, colorful salads when friends come over. Not something to cook your meals in. We have Sundrop Sunflower Oil for that. Thank you very much!

And boiled, blanched or steamed veggies? They taste like hot glue. Boiled socks. Old jute sack. (please do not ask me how I know what hot glue, boiled socks and old jute sacks taste like.)

Boiled lean undressed chicken tastes like a wad of leather.

Low fat yogurt is neither here nor there. It's non existent. It is nothing. (what is yogurt if it cannot make you swoon with its rich creaminess?)

And what the hell do they mean by low fat cheese? That's the biggest oxymoron ever. The hugest double standard. Cheese...low fat. Those two do not go together. IT IS A CRIME.

Our lady's lady friends at office inform her enthusiastically that a new salad bar is up and coming in the office cafeteria.

When it finally does come up, all it serves is raw vegetables (cabbage, broccoli, bell pepper, tomatoes, cucumbers and the like) choking to death in a gloop of low quality (not low calorie) mayonnaise and blue cheese dressing. Oh! the salad bar also serves fruit juice. Packaged. Artificially sweetened. With preservatives galore in every sip. Yummy!

Her perusals through endless issues of Cosmopolitans and Prevention mags tell her that sea weed soup and quinoa seeds are the latest in thing. They are bound to work.

Though she knows she is going to be disappointed, the first trip is again to the local veggie shop.

"Bhaiyya, samundar ke neeche jo ghaas patte ugte hain, woh milega?" our girl asks.

(lemme translate that for you. "Do you stock the grasses and leaves that grow under the sea?")

This time he doesn't even bother to reply. He is more comfortable selling potatoes, onions and pumpkins to the benign looking normal people.

"Normal" woman asks around at office. Where do you think I can buy sea weed? What for? People shoot back. Bio fuel research?

Funny! Yes. It is a part of my diet. Bio fuel indeed!

Others tell her that sea weeds are used for industrial production of agar (that jelly like thingy microbiologists grow bacterial colonies on) and other similar horrible smelling things.

A friend suggests the Godrej Nature's Basket store (in one remote corner of the city) and specifically their "World Food" section.

Ummm....world food! Sounds so cool and fancy that this will surely work. I mean how can something that sounds as classy as world food not work!

It works. They have sea weed. For human consumption. Just that the price is printed in Euros.That one packet will set our girl back by around 2000 bucks in Indian rupees.

And it will last her for three seaweed soups.

Still, what has to be done has to be done. These are marginal costs. And she really earns well and spends better.
She buys it, comes home and cooks good ol' home style soup. Ah! The very sight of soup simmering away in a pot in the kitchen is so comforting.

The taste however,is a different story altogether. Have you ever imagined eating slimy, slippery, gooey algae which is an evil shade of green in color?
(Now, I know normal, mentally sound people do not imagine such things. But still, try imagining once?)
Yeah. That's right. Yes...that's exactly what it's like.

The next day it is the best friend's birthday and really, cribbing about food at someone else's party is not the done thing. It's horrible manners. So a large piece of the richest chocolate cake, mac and cheese, a big glass of the fizziest cola, butter garlic prawns and deep fried chicken nuggets is all she has. Later some ice cream.

It's ok. It is absolutely fine. God knows it was the best friend's birthday. And anyway, one is on a diet.

The dietitian goes ballistic listening to our lady's one time fling with non diet food.

"Do you know how much motivation this requires? How do you think all the actresses stick to their diets?"

The culprit who is the victim of her own crime hangs her head in shameful silence. But that's just out of politeness. She has the answer ready inside her head.

"If I was offered a million bucks, a foreign location shoot with the best looking actor, endless red carpet walks and unending attention in return for giving up food and living on grass and fresh air I too would be highly motivated."

                                ********************************************

And over the next few months our girl continues shelling out insane amounts of money and energy in pursuit of insane tasting food. Diet food.

Just that, she now feels sleepy in office most of the time. And when she is taking calls from home and sitting in front of the laptop typing away furiously until 3 am, coffee is the only lifesaver, no matter what the diet chart says about coffee. It lies. Coffee is good. It keeps your eyes open even when you want to die.

She starts to avoid going out with friends for the fear of being forced to consume non diet normal people food. Such accidents have happened in the past and she doesn't want to repeat the same mistake. So best is not going anywhere near the source of temptation.
The peachy glow on her face is gone and the bright sparkle in her eyes is dull almost beyond recognition. She looks unintelligent and always in a state of unrest. She looks stupid.

The clothes have started hanging slightly loose, though.

With the last remaining vestiges of motivation and spirit, our educated, working, juggling-ten-things-at-a-time, "normal" Indian woman who is still single, goes to the next level.

Quinoa seeds. Read Keen-Wah (psst...it is the latest buzzword. All the B-town beauties are hogging quinoa like there is no tomorrow).
It's a psuedo cereal, it's actually a seed, the friend who is doing her PhD in botany informs our girl. But it's supposedly very good.

Good? Good, my foot! One, it's hardly available. Even in the superstores. Two, it looks like Styrofoam granules.

And three....soak it for sometime and cook it....and ta da! you have something that has a 99.78% resemblance to frog spawn sitting in front of you, waiting to be consumed.

Ok...well...to be very fair, it doesn't taste as bad. It's kind of nutty and creamy and fluffy and everything. But it is nothing to a bowl of sugar frosted, chocolate coated, artificially sweetened, breakfast cereal!

(NB - THIS ARTICLE DOESN'T END HERE....DO CARRY ON READING AFTER THE LITTLE HUMOROUS BREAK.)




                     
                                  ************************************************

Six months pass by.

Our lady hasn't had one fizzy drink. One tiny piece of macaroni. One thin slice of cake.

But she has understood this.

Dieting is like widowhood. You are so numbed by the pain of loss that nothing matters anymore. What you are putting inside your mouth, what you are chewing, what you are swallowing is of little consequence. Because the one thing you loved, you truly dearly loved is gone forever. Life will never be the same again. You will never be able to go back to those days of happiness.

Your relationship with food is over. The aromas, the colours, the fragrances mean nothing to you.

Your mind is dull to pain.

Your taste buds are now useless. Mutated. Vestigial organs.

You are brain dead. Almost.

Our heroine is, at any rate.

That is until, one bright Saturday morning, while out to hunt for more sea weed, more quinoa, more raw veggies and lean chicken, she makes the wonderful decision of stopping by the local magazine stand.

Loudly, boldly, in the most vivid eye catching colors, the latest edition of the glossy that had been feeding diet tips to our girl for so many months, shouts out in the boldest possible print

"THIN IS OUT. CURVY IS IN"
"REAL MEN WANT REAL WOMEN"
"SHOW US THOSE CURVES, LADY"
"LOVE THAT CURVE"

Damn it!

%$#@$! &*^%! %$&#!

For lunch today - Prawns tenderly simmered in a spicy coconut cream gravy with fragrant white Basmati rice.
You are invited!

*******************************************************************************
P.S - Thank you for taking time out from your busy schedule and reading my blog.
 If you are enjoying reading these articles, may I request you to please follow this blog by signing into Blogger with your Google ID and share the link to any article that you like the most here - on Facebook, Twitter, Google plus and any other social media you may be using...so your friends can visit too? :)
I am a new author and I would be grateful for any kind of encouragement from my readers. It is a tough world out there for new authors!
Thanks once again! Hope you love reading my articles as much as I loved writing them!

Thursday, 9 August 2012

THE GHOST IN MY HOUSE!

.....is a thief of the first grade!!

For a very long time I have wondered where my numerous pens, pencils, erasers, handkerchiefs, hair bands, clips, bits of paper on which I scribble phone numbers and countless such knick knacks of supreme importance vanish off. I mean, whenever I buy a set of six hankies, by default within the next five days (or even less) one is gone.
My pens disappear from my table very silently and discreetly.
I have no idea where all those hair scrunchies and fancy hair clips which I started accumulating at the beginning of the year, have gone.
I do not use pencils and erasers much ever since I left college and don't have to draw intricate biological diagrams, but come on, once in six months I do give in to my artistic cravings and pretend to sketch in my rather school girlish sketch book! But then, hey hey, where are my pencils? And erasers?

Strangely enough, when I have absolutely no necessity of these small things, I can clearly see them lying in abandon on my table - pens, pencils, erasers, hair clips, hankies and what have you. But the moment I need anything direly, you can bet your salary, it is gone. It's abso-freaking-lutely gone. Which is so humorously frustrating! (though not all that humorous when I have to note down this urgent number and I can't locate either pen or paper)

And I know who is behind this disappearing act.

It is the ghost. First rate thief ghost....sorry, ghost thief I mean. Whatever.

It never haunts or scares us.Neither does it cackle in spectral laughter in the middle of the night nor does it drape itself in a white chiffon sari and hold a candle in its hands to stroll around the entire house singing songs full of pain and longing in the distinct voice of Lata Mangeshkar. It is not even a handsome ruby-lips-diamante-skin vampire a la Robert Pattinson.

In fact, I have no idea what it looks like.

IT'S SIMPLY A BLOODY THIEF!!

Though I know how it came into our lives - well, my life to be precise.

Long long ago when your's truly was a toddler in pastel lace frocks, knickers and bibs, mommy dearest absolutely detested if any benevolent relative handed me a chocolate or a bag of potato wafers. Mum believed in Mother Nature and healthy home treats more than she did in Cadbury's or Lay's. So out the goodies went through the window...or in they went to the trash bin. And all I got to hear from her was "Boo Boo ate the choco." And the idiot that I was, I fell for it every single time.

And now, Boo Boo has grown into a full blown Frankenstein's monster.

Boo Boo now steals pens, pencils, erasers, bits of paper, hair bands, clips etc.

Of course, now when my mother asks me about my many missing things I do not blame the ghost. The one time I did, she looked at me as if I were a retard. Nobody will really believe that my knick knacks go missing because Boo Boo steals them.

Sometimes, though, I think the ghost is only trying to help me, you know. By giving me the perennial excuse for buying shiny, new, nice smelling things. Come on, how is a girl supposed to write if she can't find her pen? Or her five pens? Or seven? What can she do under such circumstances but go and buy herself a shiny new one!
And what about handkerchiefs? Am I not a well groomed lady of fine manners who carries dainty floral hankies with herself wherever she goes? Also, I happen to have some kind of collector's mania for handkerchiefs - the lighter, the whiter, the daintier the better. So when these cloth beauties are nicked by our ghost-in-residence, I need to replace them by...yes...purchasing more!!

I also think that the ghost is trying to make me aware of the many technical wonders of my mobile phone (apart from calling and texting) - so I can give up scribbling numbers on random bits of paper and can save them in the phonebook of my cell at the first go!

And anyway, somebody somewhere probably doesn't want me to ring up all those numbers I lost on random bits of paper.Divine conspiracy....or spectral...uh oh..don't know which.

                ************************************************************

My life with Boo Boo wasn't very bad you know, it was quite tolerable. Till Boo Boo crossed a line!

(pssst....I know it would have been better in terms of composition had I written the entire first part which you read above in past tense....but some how I didn't feel like using past tense.)

It so happened that we were told at the office to submit photocopies of our academic certificates and mark sheets starting from those of 10th standard. Therefore, one Saturday morning, at around 11 am, I hunted all my old certificates and score cards out, got sentimental looking at them and then walked off to the local shop that would make the desired number of photocopies and walked back home at around 12:30 pm.

LUNCH TIME!

I quickly dumped slash threw all my original mark sheets, certificates and their copies on my table and sat down at the table to hog. Weekend lunch....yummm....

Later in the afternoon, I caught a Weekend Special movie on a random TV channel and snoozed for about 45 minutes. After downing a plate of fruits around 5 pm, I put on my fancy Nike shoes and fancy clothes and went for my routine evening walk/jog/run (depends).

I came home at 7:30 pm (having stopped on the way to treat myself to an ice lolly), hit the shower and then prayed for a while. It is mandatory for everybody in our family to attend the evening prayer. I basically spend this time in begging the Almighty for a lot of things that I am not sure I deserve...or need. (I mean I have never worked hard enough to own a Mercedes. And nor do I have that kind of parking space.)

Then I pretended to help Mom in the kitchen for a while, stuffing random eatables into my mouth, before declaring that I was starving!

Dinner! Then some TV.

By 10 pm, when I finally retired to my den, I noticed my certificates and score cards (records of my merit, diligence and hard work and...well, a lot other sentimental things) lying in wild abandon on my study table. I felt bad for them. Poor certificates.

As I bunched them up, separated the photocopies that I had to submit the coming Monday and was about to tuck them safely back into the top drawer, I froze in terror!

The top most certificate on the pile of certificates, my class XIIth mark sheet, my ORIGINAL class XIIth marksheet was missing.

I look around like a fool for sometime and try to recall if I may have left it at the copier's store.

ummmmm......

ummmm......

No. I haven't. I am sure I haven't.

THAT WAS THE LAST STRAW! Clearly the ghost in our house had exceeded its limits. Pens and clips are fine. But important make or break mark sheets with nice marks? NOT FINE!

              ************************************************************

The next day, Sunday, when the domestic help arrives, Mom orders me to push my study table aside from its years old position and asks her to clean behind and under the table.

HORRORS!

I assure mom again and again that I will accomplish this very task the next weekend myself. Without anyone's help. (I am not really sure I want my table to be removed in front of my mom and the domestic help....I should have kept cleaning under and behind it at more regular intervals than.....well....than....well....once a year)

But she will have none of it. She wants it done right here, right now. My mistake. May be I shouldn't have let it out in the morning that I cannot find my XII Boards mark sheet.
And so, with a great deal of energy and all sorts of sounds, I push my heavily laden study table from its old position.

The next few seconds pass in slow motion as three pairs of eyes collectively gaze down at the unraveled scene.

THERE IS POTENTIAL FOR THE GROWTH OF A WHOLE NEW CIVILIZATION DOWN HERE!

Over the next two rather long hours, I watch our resident ghost being exorcised slowly yet thoroughly.

Five pens long considered lost, seven handkerchiefs covered with layers of time (read dust), four hair clips and an equal number of hair bands, two permanent markers, one old CD (with a crack), three pencils, one eraser, one pencil sharpener, two combs and an old key ring. Along with random bits of papers with phone numbers and messages scribbled ("going to movie.back by 5", "keys in top drawer" etc), which have blown off or slipped from my table and gone under it...........and the most prominent item of them all, the mark sheet of my XIIth standard board exams. (It must have blown in the wind and slipped and fallen under the table yesterday, when I had dumped all the certificates on my table and gone ahead with the rest of the evening)

In short, I get to see all my things, treasures, knick knacks and stuff the ghost in our house had stolen over the course of the last year.

While dusting the dust out, the maid is repeatedly questioning me about what is to be kept and what is to be discarded.

Let me not go into what I heard from my mother as these things were in the process of retrieval. Its not really the proudest moment of my life.
The only hint is that words like "careless", "lazy", "useless" featured largely in her impassioned speech.

                   *******************************************************

Now I keep all my things sorted and do not dump anything and everything on the table. I make ample use of its three spacious drawers and I check under and behind the table regularly for small things that may slip off and fall. I also keep a track of how many pens and hankies and clips and stuff I am purchasing and how many I actually have in my possession. I do not lose things anymore.

And with that the ghost in our house is gone forever. It is dead if ghosts can die.

Just that, it wasn't the thief I always thought it to be.

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P.S - Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule and reading my blog.
 If you are enjoying reading these articles, may I request you to please follow this blog by signing into Blogger with your Google ID and share the link to any article that you like the most here - on Facebook, Twitter, Google plus and any other social media you may be using...so your friends can visit too? :)
I am a new author and I would be grateful for any kind of encouragement from my readers. It is a tough world out there for new authors!
Thanks once again! Hope you love reading my articles as much as I loved writing them!

Sunday, 24 June 2012

The Rainbow in My Heart - an ode to unrequited love

The other day I was talking to a close friend of mine about broken relationships and broken hearts. I heard some very romantically heart-wrenching real life incidents during that conversation. Things about people moving on and never looking back at the devastation they caused. Stories of people living in the present clinging on to the memories of their past. Of people who are never able to move on. Of people who move on in the blink of an eyelid. Of relations that were meant to materialize and didn't -causing immense suffering to all involved. Of relations that weren't meant to materialize and did - again causing immense suffering to all involved.

I am not unromantic myself. I feel too deeply. I care too much. Though I reasoned out with my friend using cold logic and said that I do not advocate people wasting their entire lives for the sake of unrequited love...in my heart I can understand how it feels to be discarded, rejected and left behind...to be made a partner for some vividly colored warm days and then, to be left alone forever...to face the cold, grey days of loneliness. 
I haven't tasted it yet,but I know its bitter. I haven't touched such loneliness, yet I know it is cold. I haven't seen such devastation with my own eyes, but I know it's shade is a morbid, dirty grey.

Here's a poem. Dedicated to all those who have loved from the depth of their beings, from their core, from the deepest reaches of their heart...to those who know that irrespective of whether lovers meet or not...life and time aren't powerful enough to wipe all the remembrances away. Once touched by the rainbow hues of romantic love, a part of your soul will forever be vividly colored...no matter how grey the cold days of loneliness. A part of your being, somewhere deep inside, will be a tiny rainbow, as long as you live.

(pssst....this is the first non rhyming poem I have composed. I didn't have much regard for non rhyming poems till late. But I am opening up now!)


The Rainbow in My Heart

I

I still remember
Those days of old
When you and I
Walked hand in hand
Along sea shores
Collecting shells
Milky white and Chocolate brown
And oyster shells
No pearls inside
All cream and beige
And then we found 
One rainbow hued


Those days of old
When you and I
Walked hand in hand
Through green fields
Collecting flowers
Red and white
Purple, blue
Yellow and pink
With pollen dust
and fragrant dew
And then we found
One rainbow hued


When the days were young
And so were we
And hand in hand
We walked along
Through winding lanes
Treading gently
On fallen leaves
"rustle" "rustle"
Yellow, Orange
Autumnal shades
And then we found 
One rainbow hued


Borne along
In the cool breeze
Of virgin nights
You and I
Walked along
Hand in hand
Counting stars,
Little lamps
On ink blue sky
And those that fell
On Earth's breast
And then we found
One rainbow hued


On lazy, cozy winter noons
Wrapped in fluffy
Cashmere wool
You and I 
Walked along
Hand in hand
Watching birds
And counting them
Robins and sparrows
Parrots and koels
Flamingos too
And then we found 
One rainbow hued


On evenings drenched 
In the silver light
Of a full moon bright
You and I 
Walked along
Hand in hand
Picking pebbles
On railway tracks
Black ,white, grey
Shiny, round
And cool and smooth
And then we found
One rainbow hued


I can still feel
The first rainfall
That drenched us both
You and me
Our hands entwined
Loving the sight
Of raindrops weaving
Myriad patterns
On spider webs
Countless drops
Diamond flecks
And then we found 
One rainbow hued


In the warm circle
Of your arms
I first felt
Whatever it feels
When heart and mind
Lose partnership
When across distances
Meet two pairs 
Of restless eyes
That moment divine
Coloured my life
With vivid tints
All rainbow hued

II

Nothing lasts
Forever, I know
The brightest rainbows
Fade with time
And leave behind
Moments covered
With layers of dust 
The dust of time
Can't wipe this dust
It gets in the eyes
And tears fall
Salty droplets
Just a few
And amongst them one
Is rainbow hued


The shells collected
From the sands of time
The flowers - Red, White
Yellow, Blue
Fallen leaves and broken stars
And birds that have now flown away
The pebbles remain 
With me, still
But the raindrops 
On the spider's web?
I cannot find!
My arms outstretched
And your's withdrawn
I am a stranger now
To those restless eyes


But I am coloured
From head to toe
Violet, Indigo
Blue and Green
Yellow, Orange
And passionate Red
All rainbow colours
I stole from you
Oh! Owner of
My heart and soul
Just tell me once
You need not speak
A nod will do
Is a part of you
Still rainbow hued?

- Pallavi, 24th June 2012, Pune


Do you have such a personal rainbow somewhere in your heart too? Do you know someone who has?

No matter what the nature of your love story is, I hope you rate forgiveness and kindness towards the object of your affection, the highest on the list of virtues. Love that doesn't mold us into superior, better, more forgiving, kinder persons; cannot be love in its truest form. 

****************************************************
P.S - Thank you for taking time out from your busy schedule and reading my blog.
 If you are enjoying reading these articles, may I request you to please follow this blog by signing into Blogger with your Google ID and share the link to any article that you like the most here - on Facebook, Twitter, Google plus and any other social media you may be using...so your friends can visit too? :)
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Thanks once again! Hope you love reading my articles as much as I loved writing them!



Cheers!

Sunday, 12 February 2012

The Muse of the Taj - Mumtaz Mahal


17th of June in the year 1631.
It was a warm night in Burhanpur, a small Deccan town in present day Madhya Pradesh, and the most important woman in the sub-continent was about to give birth to her fourteenth child. It was not the place for her to be in. She belonged to the luxuries of Agra, not a war camp in Burhanpur. Yet, there she was, where her husband, the most important man in the sub-continent, was stationed to suppress a rebellion.

No one was excessively worried because her thirteen previous pregnancies had been pretty smooth and uncomplicated. Though seven children had either died at birth or within a few years, the mother had been in perfect health. (and why not? She was no ordinary woman, she was the sweetheart and chief queen of the heir apparent to the Mughal throne, Khurram - later Shah Jahan).

But this time, the slight shadow of doubt that gnawed at everyone's heart was that she was thirty eight  years old....almost forty. Certainly not a proper age for having children. Oh! But nothing could happen to Mumtaz Mahal. The Emperor's dearest consort. Why! The whole empire might collapse if anything happened to her. Who knows what Shah Jahan might do if he lost Mumtaz. Nah! She would come out of this slightly complicated pregnancy unscathed.

And yet, Mumtaz Mahal died.

And the baby she gave birth to, Gauhara Begum, lived. Lived till the age of 75 years. And lived with the accusation of having snatched away the empire's and the emperor's most precious jewel.

"After the passing of midnight...a daughter was born to that tree of the orchard of good fortune, Mumtaz Mahal, whereupon her feverish temperature transgressed the bounds of moderation...This unexpected incident and soul rending disaster filled the world with bewilderment.." - From "Badshah Nama" by Abdal Hamid Lahauri - as quoted by W.E. Begley and Z.A.Desai - Taj Mahal: The Illumined Tomb

     *******************************************************************
I am with an elderly lady. Her hair is white with experience and wisdom and her wrinkles only make her look more pleasant and motherly. She is simply dressed, though I am told that she wields immense power within the walls of the Mughal zenana and has a considerable income. But she has no airs. She is simple, warm and welcoming. Why not? After all, the story I have requested her to narrate is her own favorite too.

Her name is Sati-un-Nissa. Chief lady-in-waiting and personal attendant to Empress Mumtaz Mahal, from the time before she became an empress. She was also a teacher and governess to the empress'  children.

Sati-un-Nissa Begum is from a highly educated Persian family. She is a scholar herself, they say. Though not much of a looker, she is as perfect an assistant and as perfect a nanny as any new empress and young mother could wish for. She knows exactly what to say and what to do. And what not to say and what not to do!

So..from the beginning please.Its comforting to settle down cozily on richly woven cushions with a plate of the choicest dry fruits to munch on and an ornate glass of cool Khus sherbet...I always had a thing for such languid, comfortable story telling sessions. Only this time...it isn't a story...it all happened....centuries ago...for real. (And no! I do not smoke the hookah.)

"It was a love and arranged marriage."

That's new! No rebellion against the father? Isn't it mandatory for all Mughal princes to rebel against their daddy to win throne and ladylove?(my mind is partly fed on Hindi movies like Mughal-e-Azam and Taj Mahal). No schemes and scandals?

"Can I please continue in my own way, without unnecessary interruptions?" Sati-un-Nissa says in a strict, teacher like tone.

"Arjumand Bano was the daughter of Asaf Khan, Noor Jahan's brother. That made her Noor Jahan's niece. A position that sometimes went for her and sometimes against her."

"Noor Jahan was the most powerful Empress in the entire history of Mughals. She had Jahangir entirely under her control and was used to never-seen-before privileges like holding durbaars, giving orders to the army, signing the royal decrees and getting coins minted in her name. She was as famous for her tantrums, her temper and her shrewd political intellect as for her beauty and charms."

I know...I just wrote a long article on her. :)

"Noor Jahan had a daughter from her previous marriage to a Subedaar of the Burdwaan district in Bengal, Sher Afghan. Her name was Ladli Begum and she was forever under her ambitious and dazzling mother's shadow. But Noor Jahan had grand plans for her daughter."

"She was keen to make sure that her bloodline would intermingle with that of the royal Mughals for at least another generation. She carefully studied the four sons of Jahangir, with a hawk's eye...to determine who was being preened to become the next emperor."

"The eldest son, Prince Khusrau was already married and he was blind. Blinded by his own father as a punishment for trying to revolt earlier in life. The second prince, Parwez was hardly seen in Agra and was a Subedaar of some distant province near Surat. He was notorious for his love of narcotics and bribes. The youngest prince Shahryar was weak. He was called nashudani - good for nothing."

The one that remained then, was the handsome, brave, strong and well educated Khurram. The third son of Jahangir. It was Prince Khurram whom Noor Jahan earmarked for her daughter.

Ladli Begum must marry the Emperor's favourite son, Prince Khurram, and become Empress.

"Yes. Noor Jahan went to great lengths trying to secure Khurram's romantic affection for her daughter Ladli. To her eyes, nothing could be better. Ladli married to a brave prince who had a great royal career waiting for him. But fate had other plans."

Destiny was to usurp Noor Jahan's plan...in the form of her own niece - the exquisitely beautiful and almost ethereal Arjumand Bano.

Sati-un-Nissa's eyes light up at the mere mention of Arjumand.The memories she has of the deceased empress must be really fond.

"All the beauty in Noor Jahan's family seemed to be condensed in Arjumand. Not only beauty of the form but also immense beauty of the soul. She walked on such light nimble feet that it felt she was floating in the air and she was ever so gentle with her words. If you ever saw Arjumand laugh, you'd want to laugh with her.She was like a beam of sunshine."

"She was merely 14 years old when he first saw her. He was just a year older than her.She was Ladli's cousin and friend and often visited the royal zenana quarters. The first time their eyes met, they were besotted with each other.Totally smitten. I am sure he must have inquired about who she was and then gone running to his father, the Emperor Jahangir, to declare that he really really liked Arjumand."

That simple?

"Khurram was Jahangir's dearest son. He had constantly proven his merit to his father and appeared noble, rational, intelligent and a deft warrior. Khurram's wish wasn't to be taken lightly."

"Empress Noor Jahan was not very pleased, understandably. She knew Ladli did not stand the remotest chance if there was to be a competition for Khurram's attention between her and Arjumand. She tried to pressurize her husband into ordering Khurram to marry Ladli."

But that obviously didn't quite work out, did it?

"The concoction of love, beauty and youth is the most powerful and dangerous potion in the world."

"Much as he was controlled by Noor Jahan, Emperor Jahangir was wise enough to see that. Why? Hadn't he himself got into trouble more than once with his own father, Emperor Akbar, over matters of the heart? He asked the young prince if he wished to marry Ladli. And Khurram refused in the politest possible manner. He only had eyes for Arjumand."

So what did Noor Jahan do?

"Oh she was clever beyond her years. She was not the one to be fooled by that thing called love. She calculated shrewdly and drew a compromise. If not daughter, then let it be the niece! Arjumand too was family after all. Her bloodline would still remain royal."

"And who knew? Khurram might not become emperor in the end.She now set her eyes on the simpleton Shahryar.With a little maneuvering, Ladli could still be empress...if Shahryar became emperor."

In the year 1607, Arjumand Bano, the daughter of Mirza Asaf Khan, the niece of Empress Noor Jahan, was engaged to be married to Prince Khurram, the third son of Emperor Jahangir.

"But they couldn't marry immediately. She was 14 and he was 15 when they were engaged. Emperor Jahangir had made promises to rulers and governors of other lands. Promises of marrying off his brightest son Khurram to their daughters, in order to become political allies."

"Through such political promises of the emperor, Prince Khurram married Akbarabadi Mahal and Kandahari Mahal. Kandahari Mahal Begum was the daughter of Muzaffar Hussain Mirza, the governor of Qandahar. Khurram was polite to them and fulfilled his conjugal duties. He made sure they were never out of money or fine jewels. But the person whose company his heart craved for was undoubtedly Arjumand."

Finally, after court astrologers calculated a wedding date for them, to ensure a happy marriage, five years after their engagement to each other, in 1612, Prince Khurram and Arjumand Bano were married.

"Oh it was a beautiful wedding. The bride looked like a dream and the groom couldn't be happier. I won't say it was the grandest wedding in all Mughal history, but it was full of joy and laughter. The preparations and the celebrations spanned an entire month. Everyone was more or less pleased with Arjumand and Khurram's wedding."

"Few marriages in polygamous households have been so happy....Arjumand Banu...surrendered her mind and soul to her husband..." - Beni Prasad - The History of Jahangir


"It was a very successful, very happy marriage." Sati-un-Nissa pauses, as she reminisces the royal romance she has witnessed from such close quarters.

"He bestowed upon Arjumand the title of Mumtaz Mahal. The best jewel of the palace. The Chosen One of the Palace."

"The pleasure and pride that filled their eyes whenever they so much as looked at each other was boundless."

I know from my own research into the Shah Jahan - Mumtaz Mahal story that right after his marriage to Arjumand, Khurram gained immense success in his military campaigns on behalf of his father, Jahangir. It was Jahangir who granted the young prince the honorific title of "Shah Jahan" in the year 1617, announcing publicly that he was indeed favored over and above his brothers as the heir apparent.

"But still, Khurram rebelled."

In 1622, Khurram, supported by the arch-enemy of Noor Jahan, Mahabat Khan, declared war on the imperial army. Arjumand was with him. Wherever he went, all the time, everywhere. And she was pregnant.

Why should he rebel, one thinks? He was already the favourite of the emperor, he already had his Arjumand...then why did he rebel against his father like most of his predecessors before him?

"Do not forget, Empress Noor Jahan was still the "power behind the throne". When she could not get her own daughter Ladli married to Khurram, she turned her favours and attention to Prince Shahryar. Shahryar was now Ladli's husband and so she pushed his case forward with Emperor Jahangir. Who was by now ill and totally dependent on Noor Jahan and opium." Sati-un-Nissa's voice is soft and cautious. As if she still fears the long gone Empress Noor Jahan might hear her and punish her.

"Khurram was now a man with a purpose. He had his Arjumand who kept telling him that he indeed was the best of the Mughal princes and that the only wish she had was to see him on the throne of Agra.A family man, with a loving wife and small children, Khurram now had to stand up and fight for what was rightfully his.He did not want to remain a by stander to Noor Jahan's sovereignty. He had to prove himself to Arjumand."

"Through those treacherous days and dangerous nights, in the rough terrains of the unfamiliar Deccan plateau, while Khurram planned his rebellion with a handful of trusted men, while he fought the hopelessness of the idea of challenging the mighty imperial army, it was Arjumand who kept him company. Faithful and rock steady.Not for a moment did she let him drown in pessimism. She never complained about her personal discomfort. Every ounce of courage Arjumand had, at this delicate time, she shared with her beloved husband Khurram."

This only strengthened the bond of faith and mutual dependence between Khurram and Arjumand. Their marriage had stood the test of tough times.

Finally, after struggling for five whole years, in a very hard won victory, in the year 1627, Shah Jahan (Khurram) became the fifth Mughal Emperor of one of the world's mightiest and largest empires.

"Nobody, but nobody could have been happier than Arjumand. Her dream to see her husband successful was fulfilled. And then, once on the throne himself, how could Shah Jahan forget that one woman who had fueled the fire of his success and happiness? He declared Mumtaz Mahal his Badshah Begum, the chief lady of the court and gave her the imperial seal - Muhr Uza."

"But privately he always called her Arjumand. Both of them preferred it that way.They read to each other, discussed philosophy and she sang to him when they were alone. She never pulled him away from the duties of the court...instead she took immense pride in the fact that her husband was proving himself to be an able ruler." Sati-un-Nissa smiles indulgently.

"And when free from work, it is anybody's guess whom Shah Jahan spent his time with. Arjumand. Mumtaz Mahal."

At this juncture, I want to go a little deeper than just the popularly known love story. What made Mumtaz Mahal the way she was? Her Aunt Noor Jahan was notorious for her political ambition. Her father and brother too were prominent members of the court. She could have used her powers on Khurram and her powers as Empress in any way she wished. Then why did Mumtaz Mahal remain a quiet supporter all her life?

"Arjumand was made of a different material altogether.Her love and respect for Shah Jahan were genuine. The true affection of childhood sweethearts. She wasn't the one to use her famous husband to fulfill her own political ambitions." says Sati-un-Nissa. And I am ready to take her word for this. For it was she who helped the young wife, mother and inexperienced empress to run everything smoothly.

"Arjumand was intelligent.Very intelligent in her own way. She had grown up watching her aunt, Empress Noor Jahan. And she did not approve of her unhindered ambition in a male dominated society. She didnot approve of how Noor Jahan made life complicated for everyone around herself. Arjumand knew, that sooner or later, with the kind of powerful enemies she was making, Noor Jahan would fall flat on her face. The men did not like taking orders from her and they doubly did not like the way she influenced Jahangir."

"Arjumand therefore carefully charted her own way to stardom. Super stardom. She knew that love kept people alive in public memory for a longer time that hatred or fear. And that's what she did. Conquered by love."

I know this for sure that Mumtaz Mahal was not only famous for her divine beauty but also for her graceful and kind nature. There were quite a lot of times she intervened on behalf of the poor and the destitute.In fact many believe that after his ascension to the throne, when Shah Jahan put his step mother Noor Jahan on trial, he was so furious that he was about to give her the death sentence. Till a gentle word from Mumtaz Mahal reminded him that he ought to be nobler than what his step mother had been. That intervention, that act of kindness by the Mumtaz saved Noor Jahan's life and she was exiled to Lahore.

Understood. Mumtaz Mahal or Arjumand as I prefer to call her, was angelic. Intelligent yet good natured. But I want to know what drew Shah Jahan so strongly to her. He did have other wives. And a Mughal harem was always full of dancing girls and concubines. So why was he so attracted to Arjumand? So much that he totally neglected his other wives. Like TOTALLY.
(Shah Jahan did marry other wives even after his marriage to Arjumand, but again, all of them were political marriages. He could never feel for any of them the way he felt for Arjumand.The wives that came after Arjumand were - Hasina Begum, Moti Begum, Qusida Begum, Fatehpuri Mahal Begum, Sarhindi Begum and Srimati Manbhavati Baiji Lal Sahiba)

Ever since Khurram got married to Arjumand his relation with the other wives,


"...was nothing more than just the status of marriage. The intimacy, deep affection, attention and favour which His Majesty had for the cradle of excellence (Mumtaz) exceeded by a thousand times what he felt for any other.." - Motamid Khan - Iqbal Namah-e-Jahangiri


"Has anybody been able to decipher the secrets of a happy marriage?" smiles Sati-un-Nisaa

"Tell me, in your mythology, there is this flute playing God Krishna. I read that he had countless milkmaid girlfriends and admirers, three wives and sixteen thousand women whom he rescued from the clutches of some demon king and married only for namesake. Is that true?"

And yet, its only Radha who is the constant companion of Krishna. In our prayers at least.

That is a new angle! I never thought of it that way. Despite the presence of many women in his life,Krishna's eternal love story was with Radha. Despite three wives, Rukmini, Satyabhama and Jamwanti, who were major beauties in their own right and despite all the women who literally swooned over him, for thousands of years, we have always worshipped and cherished Krishna with his childhood sweetheart Radha.

Could it have been the same way with Khurram and Arjumand? That despite manifold temptations and distractions, in times of happiness and sadness they only reached out to each other? That Shah Jahan had found his soul mate in Mumtaz Mahal? May be not. But may be! One has to keep an open mind!

"As a boy, Shah Jahan grew up in a palace full of women who kept no stone upturned to be the centre of the Emperor's attention.When he was a baby, he was taken from his own mother Jagat Gosini, and handed over to his grandmother Queen Ruqayya Sultan Begum, a wife of Emperor Akbar. Just because she felt lonely and wanted to have a kid around her to keep herself occupied. He never got the affection of his own mother. In fact, he did not even know who his biological mother was till very late."

"In his impressionable growing up years, Khurram saw the royal women do little less other than throwing grand tantrums, spending fortunes on themselves, trying to beautify their forms when no natural beauty was left and scheming and scheming and scheming. Sometimes the schemes were harmless enough like one woman  eavesdropping on another and sometimes, they ranged from smuggling unauthorized and illicit lovers into the harem, to causing deliberate miscarriages and induced abortions through herbal poisons and even murder. On tip toes of course. When such things happened, everyone came under suspicion, but hardly anyone was ever caught."

Wow! Mughal harems must have been rather interesting places! Everyone was out for everyone else's life. Since their very existence and the favours they enjoyed depended solely on their proximity to the emperor, there was nothing that grand mothers, mothers, step mothers, sisters, wives, concubines, mistresses, daughters  would not do to make sure they alone were close enough to the sovereign. From back biting and seducing  to downright poisoning.

"And then Khurram saw Noor Jahan, his step-mother. Though initially he was one of her supporters, because he thought her to be wiser and more astute than the Emperor himself, slowly he got embittered by her constant domination over all royal matters."

"And as a young prince, Khurram never quite understood the deep bond between his father Jahangir and that woman who came from nowhere and started ordering everyone about, Noor Jahan. He was forever in the dilemma. How could his father become so attached and so dependent on a woman who too would probably start scheming at the first given opportunity."

Anyone can imagine the image of women the young prince had in his mind from his growing up days. He must have determined never to take any woman seriously, never to take any woman beyond the bed, to his heart - or else they would turn into nasty, scheming, poison spewing vixens who'd ruthlessly use him to get their will done.Till he met the divine Arjumand.

"It took him very long to actually believe that Arjumand, with all that ethereal beauty that she possessed, was a very normal girl, who wished nothing more than to have a happy marriage and who actually prayed for her husband's success."

"Perhaps the fact that Arjumand had grown up in a normal family with a doting father and a loving mother, in a stable home, away from the palace zenana, away from the grandeur and power play, contributed to the fact that she was immensely well mannered, simple and good natured, didn't bother to spend her time scheming and planning wicked things and was pleased at simple acts of affection. She was no Noor Jahan. And that's how she remained till the very end."

"And this is what drew Shah Jahan magnetically to Mumtaz, even after they had many children and many years of marriage between them. When she said she cared for him, he knew no one could have cared better or cared more. He knew he could depend on her.She would never try to snatch power by unfair means or try to dominate. She had stood with him when he was facing the imperial wrath. She still stood with him when he was emperor himself. With her support, and her love, he actually felt like his title - Shah Jahan - the king of the world!"

Hmm...sigh...really, Mumtaz Mahal shouldn't have died. (An acutely selfish part of me thinks that we'd never have the lovely Taj Mahal if she hadn't.Bad me!!)

Perhaps it was the punishment Shah Jahan got for killing his own brothers and cousins to establish his right on the throne. (Not that they were any good themselves. Mostly useless.) In fact, so stark was the flip of fate that Shah Jahan lost his dearest Mumtaz in the very same town of Burhanpur, where once he had murdered his blind and almost demented brother Khusrau.

But it is unfair to sit in 2012 and judge people who lived in 1600s.  Judging historical people by modern standards is not correct. And moreover, one cannot be a ruler and yet be too kind. At least to people who he knows will draw out their daggers the moment his back is turned.There is a famous saying "Kingship knows no kinship".The famous Emperor Asoka was very cruel before turning to Buddhism after the devastating war of Kalinga (where he was the person who caused the devastation). So I am not sure how high Shah Jahan rates on the cruelty meter.(If you are already hinting at the story of his order of chopping off the fingers/hands of the construction workers who built the Taj, I am dealing with that a little later.)

But we'll go back to the rest of Sati-un-Nissa's narration.

"They had become Emperor and Empress after a very hard struggle. And they were determined to enjoy the happiness they both had fought for so long. But it was not to be."

"Arjumand, with whom Shah Jahan had wanted to share every bit of his joys as new emperor, was Empress for only four years. Death soon crept up stealthily on the happy couple."

It was such a shock to Shah Jahan that Mumtaz was no more, that he didn't believe it for many days after her death. He simply locked himself up in a room, refusing food and water, thinking that may be when he opened the door, the nightmare would be over and everything would be as it was. Mumtaz would be there, with her ready smile.

So great was his grief that court historians have recorded, he was not seen in court for a week, and for the next two years gave up listening to music, wearing luxurious jewels or even clothes of any other colour than white. He even considered giving up his throne immediately and living a life of seclusion.

"Even though the Incomparable Giver had conferred on us such great bounty, more than which cannot be imagined, through His grace and generosity, yet the person with who we wanted to enjoy it has gone.." - Abdal Hamid Lahauri - The Badshah Nama Of Shah Jahan 

An excerpt from a letter written by an honorary uncle of Shah Jahan reads,

"If he continued to abandon himself to his mourning, Mumtaz might think of giving up the joys of Paradise to come back to earth, this place of misery - and he should also consider the children she had left to his care"


Seventeenth century French traveler to India and a doctor, Francois Bernier recorded, that the emperor's grief at the death of the empress "crumbled his mountain like endurance" and that "when he unlocked himself from his room after many days of seclusion and mourning, his beard and hair that earlier had no more than twenty grey hair, had turned completely white from extreme shock."

The exact same incident is also recorded in the Badshah Nama, penned by Abdal Hamid Lahauri.

Is all this true?

"Yes it is." says Sati-un-Nissa.

Then she asks in a bemused tone, "But ,what do you want to believe?"

Beg your pardon?

"Its very rare to find companionship like that which existed between Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal. And so many don't want to believe it. People are more comfortable with stone-dry theories without an ounce of romance. Because that's how most people live out the entire course of their lives. Incapable of loving someone dearly and incapable of receiving love from someone."

"So eventually we believe what we think we are comfortable believing. What do you wish to believe?"

Uh oh! Sticky wicket! Much as I would like to believe it - really really believe it -my contemporary mind throws up many questions.

"You people love conspiracy theories don't you? When you have the court chronicles clearly stating Shah Jahan's love for Arjumand, you will still go looking for something sinister and come up with bizarre explanation of events."

What happened after Mumtaz's death? He did have a lot of women around him, didn't he? Am I expected to believe that Shah Jahan remained celibate from the time of Mumtaz Mahal's death till the time of his own demise? Not only do I know from my research that it wasn't so at all, even if I hadn't done any research I wouldn't buy that.

"When did I say anything like that?" Sati-un-Nissa is sounding rather amused.

"Are you confusing between physical needs and romantic love? Does anyone in your society remain celibate if their partner dies an untimely death? But does that mean they never felt anything akin to love for their partner?"

"And, is it sane, is it humane to ask the living partner to give up everything, stop feeling like a normal person just because he was unfortunate enough to loose someone special?"

Erm.....I guess not. Old Sati-un-Nissa seems to be more advanced in her thinking than I am.

"What you do not understand is, in our times polygamy was the accepted trend of the day. In fact, monogamy was an idea people weren't familiar with, neither men nor women. And for an emperor marriage was a key way of making political allies."

Shah Jahan was lost in mourning for about two years of Arjumand's death. And then he went quite wild. He was on rebound from Arjumand's loss.

"He was angry and frustrated. In every face he looked at, he desperately searched for something that resembled Arjumand. It was as if he was angry with her for leaving him before time. And so came the string of women. From the much ignored other wives, to concubines and dancing girls. For Shah Jahan to prove to Arjumand that he could live without her."

"The reality was, he couldn't. No matter who he tried to recreate that same kind of affection with, he failed miserably. These women could never replace Arjumand in Shah Jahan's life.The better he understood that fact, the sadder he became. And the sadder he was, the wilder he got. Women were brought to him in hordes and he overdosed himself with aphrodisiacs. Shah Jahan had clearly lost control over himself in a way he never had when Arjumand was around. But no matter what escape he sought, Arjumand's absence haunted him day and night."

"Why he felt so perturbed was, that being Emperor, he could literally do anything he wished. Get anything and anyone he fancied. But not that one woman who had been his solace in troubled times. Mumtaz was gone. Forever. Life would never be the same again."

With the death of Arjumand Bano, an era of bliss has ended in Shah Jahan's life. His children were growing up and two of them, Aurangzeb and Roshanara, weren't showing the right traits.He hardly looked at the way the children were turning out to be. So lost was he in his own world of alternating grief and fits of angry passion. It was only the docile, caring Jahanara who was something like her mother and it was she who took over the duties of the Badshah Begum, the chief lady of the court, after her mother's demise. Jahanara and the saintly Dara Shikoh ("Darius the magnificent") were the only two children who had the angelic traits of Mumtaz Mahal.

In the meanwhile, Shah Jahan commissioned the construction of Taj Mahal. The land was purchased from Maharaja Jay Singh in return of a large, luxurious palace Shah Jahan gave him.

I have a question here. Was it Mumtaz's dying wish to have a "monument of love" constructed in the memory of her close relationship with her husband? Or did Shah Jahan go about building it own his own?

"No one knows." says Sati-un-Nissa

"The answer could be both no and yes. No, because normally one wouldn't think that in such weak health and pain, in such crisis, Arjumand would have thought of asking Shah Jahan something like that."

"And yes because, all her life, Arjumand had been a quiet supporter. She had been in the background. Silently and devoutly dedicated to her husband's cause. But in her heart, she must have craved for some show of her influence over Shah Jahan, some display of their love for each other - as she had so resentfully and quietly seen her father-in-law Jahangir loudly exhibit for her aunt Noor Jahan by making her his co regent.So perhaps when she sensed death was near, she made that last wish. No one will ever know."

Whatever be the case, the construction of the Taj Mahal started in the year 1632. Shah Jahan was excessively and personally involved with all the details of the building. He held meetings with architects and supervisors on a daily basis.

"When the courtiers came to know that the emperor wished to create a marvelous, never-seen-before mausoleum for his beloved empress, many suggested he should build a palace of gold and silver. But that didn't appeal to Shah Jahan."

"The Taj was to be Mumtaz's final home. It was to reflect her persona. And gold and silver wouldn't have portrayed  the gentle Arjumand correctly to the world. She was too soft and those metals too loud. The way Shah Jahan visualized it, the mausoleum was to stand for everything Arjumand herself personified in his life. Peace, beauty, chastity, modesty, devotion, compassion and untarnished purity of body, mind and soul.A drop of paradise on Earth."

"It was also to be a representation of heaven, where Arjumand lived on in eternal peace."

What else could be better suited to portray such a beloved empress to the entire world, than pure, milky white and cool marble.

Makrana marble was brought all the way from Rajasthan to Agra. For the fantastic and intricate floral pietra dura work, the inlay of vividly coloured stones into the white marble, semi precious stones were brought in. Turquoise from Tibet, jasper from Cambay, malachite from Russia, Lapis Lazuli from Ceylon, Carnelian from the bazaars of Baghdad along with jade, black marble, amethyst and quartz.

"You won't believe, but even the Yamuna river, that seemed to come in the way, was carved away from her millenia old original path to curve and flow gently past the Taj."

"An entire city of twenty thousand workers, masons, stone cutters and craftsmen - Mumtazabad - was erected around the site of the building."

"There were gold wall panels inside the tomb, the main doors were solid carved silver. A gold railing surrounded the sarcophagus. And right above the sarcophagus, a velvet canopy richly embroidered with pearls, diamonds, rubies and emeralds covered the sleeping Arjumand" - Indu Sundaresan - The Feast of Roses

The Taj Mahal was finally completed in the year 1653. Twenty two years after Arjumand left Shah Jahan. Arjumand had first been buried temporarily at Burhanpur, where she died, then she was buried at Agra while the Taj was under construction. Finally, she was moved to her permanent resting place, Taj Mahal.

"By this time, Shah Jahan was weak and ailing. And still very upset about Arjumand's death. His son, Aurangzeb was getting rather desperate to be crowned king."

"Aurangzeb, then Prince Muhiuddin, always thought himself more capable than all his brothers. And he did not approve of the amount of money and time Shah Jahan spent over the Taj Mahal. He arrested his own father and imprisoned him in the Agra fort, from where, it is said, Shah Jahan kept staring at the Taj Mahal. Aurangzeb clearly thought his father had completely lost that edge an emperor ought to have to be able to command the fear and respect of his subjects."

"And may be it was really so. After Arjumand's death, Shah Jahan wasn't really the strong, brave, intelligent, fire-brand emperor he had been."

There isn't much of the narration left after this. When Shah Jahan died on 31st January 1666, he was interred in Taj Mahal, beside his beloved wife, childhood sweetheart, trusted companion, confidante and soul mate, Arjumand Bano Begum - Empress Mumtaz Mahal.

That was the beginning of the decline of the mighty empire of the Mughals, which, on the eve on Shah Jahan's death, spanned about three hundred thousand square kilometers.

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THERE IS NO HISTORICALLY VALIDATED PROOF OR REPUTED AND RELIABLE SCHOLARLY DOCUMENTATION THAT SHAH JAHAN ORDERED HIS MEN TO CUT OFF THE FINGERS/HANDS OF THE WORKERS WHO BUILT THE TAJ MAHAL.

HISTORIANS ARE IN FACT OF THE OPINION THAT IT WAS A PROPAGANDA SPREAD BY THE BRITISH, TO KEEP AWAY PEOPLE'S ATTENTION FROM THE FACT - THE VALIDATED FACT - THAT THE BRITISH DID NOT ENCOURAGE THE ART OF THE WEAVERS OF THE FINE DHAKA MUSLIN CLOTH (so fine that an entire muslin saree could pass through the hole of a ring) AND CUT OFF THE THUMBS OF THE MUSLIN WEAVERS IN DHAKA (BANGLADESH)...TO KILL THAT ART ALTOGETHER AND PROMOTE THE TRADE OF LANCASHIRE CLOTH THAT CAME FROM ENGLAND.

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Whether you believe it or not, behind the magnificent Taj Mahal, lies a love story. That kind of sublime beauty cannot be visualized and created without love being the main inspiration.

The people in the love story had their share of flaws, but they were very much in love. If not, then tell me, why is it that we cannot readily (wihout googling) name any other wife of Shah Jahan other than Mumtaz Mahal? Why was only Mumtaz chosen to be the Badshah Begum, out of all the other women in the harem? She was no royal princess, nor was her father a mighty ruler.Why is it that Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal had fourteen children together, whereas we hardly know anything about his children with the other secondary wives?
Why is it that out of all the women in the royal harem, only Mumtaz Mahal lies in the Taj? Why is it that the Taj isn't built in glaring red sandstone like all other Mughal monuments? Why is it pure white? Because that is the only colour that represents with near accuracy the kindest queen in Mughal history.
Why is it that, while all other Mughal emperors have their own very grand mausoleums, where they lie alone as the supreme sovereign, away from their spouses, Shah Jahan never bothered to commission one for himself? Why does an emperor, and a mighty one at that, lie next to his wife in a mausoleum he built for her and not for himself?

Most importantly, if we can readily believe in the love stories of movie stars, common people, people in our neighborhood, people in our colleges and offices - then why do we find it so hard to digest that a king was deeply in love with his queen?

Arjumand, the beautiful and dutiful wife of Shah Jahan, the empress for four short years, would never know, that her Khurram would go on to create the magnificent, sublime and exquisite Taj Mahal in her memory and place her in eternal sleep there. That Khurram would make sure of all Mughal women, it was the shy, gentle and loving Arjumand who would be firmly embedded in the memory of time.

She would never know that when his turn came, he would be right there beside her, like he had been in life.This time, for eternity.

If in life, she had, in even one moment of human weakness, envied her aunt - the much pampered Noor Jahan - then in death, and hundreds of years after death, posterity would remember her in tender, endearing thoughts- Empress Mumtaz Mahal - the muse of the Taj.

Like the Nobel laureate poet Rabindranath Tagore called this dream in marble - A teardrop on the cheek of time.

I grant you that Shah Jahan's exclusive adoration for Mumtaz was unfair for the other wives. They lived out their entire lives in Arjumand's shadow and even after her death, Arjumand Bano reigned supreme. But love isn't a rational feeling. You cannot feel the same way for every person in your life.Can you? You do love some more, some less and some none at all. Don't you? Remember, its always Radha and Krishna who we love to see together in our songs, metaphors and prayers....never mind all the wives of Krishna!

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Ref: The History of Jahangir - Beni Prasad
       Iqbal Namah-e-Jahangiri - Motamid Khan
       The Badshah Nama of Shah Jahan -  Abdal Hamid Lahauri
       Travels in the Mughal Empire - Francois Bernier
       Taj Mahal - The Illumined Tomb - W.E. Begley and Z.A.Desai
       Beloved Empress Mumtaz Mahal - Nina Epton
       The Feast of Roses - Indu Sundaresan
       Shadow Princess - Indu Sundaresan
       Wikipedia