D for Drama

D for Drama

Oh come on now! You never saw this coming? I am Indian (and me) how can I not write about drama?

On the 7th of March 1992, in an unknown hospital in a dusty town in Kerala, I was delivered. With the first scent of the drama that my life is going to be, my little self launched into a long, tortured cry which was mistaken by the doctors to be a normal 'just-got-butt-slapped-by-the-doctor' cry. 

Fast forward to 2013 and here I am, a 21 year old wearied woman who has seen all the lemons that life has to offer. Well, most of 'em.

"What's wrong with this weirdo?", isn't that what you are thinking. No, don't hide it. It's too late. Plus, unlike Sheldon Cooper's mother, my mom didn't get me tested. So I can never really be sure if I am not the very house of crazy.

The thing is, drama pursues me no matter which corner of the world I go. My life has this very irritating habit of recreating worn out Bollywood clichés just for the heck of it. I can see your raised eyebrow, so here's an example:

In my 21 years, I can count on one hand the number of times I've boarded a train without, um, dying. The rest of the time, I've had to run like a crazy woman, buckets of sweat pouring out of me, and my fifty thousand bags clutched to my chest, finally to get into the train in the nick of time. And just when I am about the flash the victory sign I realize there's a good 10 minutes before departure. What am I to do with all the adrenaline lying around after a sprint through probably the most crowded railway station in the world? Well, my now jittery body decides I can just make it worse and hit every single person on the way to my seat with my bags, and maybe step on a few toes too. 

Oh my public transport woes don't end there! There was once when I ran behind a moving bus (like all good Indians do) and jumped into it. It was my first time and I was elated. Till I found out I was on the wrong bus. Imagine my embarrassment when after all this-oh, I don't know DRAMA?-I had to make the driver stop the bus. I could FEEL the disapproving eyes of the entire bus on me as I got down.

No, this is not the end either. My life decided that buses and trains weren't enough and I should embarrass myself in international airports too. First things first, my family has this very weird obsession of carting things back and forth between countries. By my family, I mean my mother. So every time we fly to Italy, to my dad, our bags are filled to the brim with all sorts of pickles that the world has to offer, CLAY POTS ( I am not joking, my mom apparently HAS to have it to make 'authentic Kerala fish curry'), and an assortment of  Indian snacks and sweets.  And from Italy to India she carts back Italian cutlery and culinary contraptions.  The worst thing is that we are almost always carrying more baggage than we are allowed. This inevitably results in a few frantic minutes of rearranging luggage (where we take out the excess baggage and stuff it into our handbags in front of the entire airline staff) praying we are let through. 

The worst incident so far happened on our recent trip to Langkawi island, Malaysia. We reached the check in counter exactly 15 minutes before the boarding time. So we weren't allowed to check in our baggage despite me procuring a few tears and begging them to let our precious bag in. The stone faced lady at the counter printed our boarding pass and told us we could just take our cabin bags in. This resulted in us basically just sitting on the floor right there and emptying everything in our suitcase. I don't know what people thought of us as they saw us stuffing  undergarments and sanitary napkins (which seemed to have reproduced themselves in the suitcase) into plastic bags. My beautiful red suitcase was left behind in the cold airport floor and we boarded the flight looking like a family of sweaty nomads.

What terrifies me is that this is probably just the beginning of a lifetime of last minute luggage betrayal. *Sigh*

And this, my friends, is just an extract from the 'Transport' section of the volumes that make the drama that is my life. 

Another section for another day...

C for Chocolate

C for Chocolate

My name is Nazreen and I am a chocoholic.

There. I said it.

It all started when I was still an embryo in my mother's womb. One day my mom tried to ward off a bout of morning sickness with a bit of chocolate. Little did she know that this tiny piece of heaven was going to be the cause of a genetic mutation so severe that in the future her daughter would susceptible to life threatening diseases if deprived from chocolate for long.  And thus, was I introduced to a lifetime of medicinal chocolate.

Not buying it? Well, this is the story that seems most plausible as in the face of my irrational love for chocolate. People who have seen me with Chocolate will back me when I say I need it in my life. From the time I can remember it has made me weak in the knees like no man has ever. I won't be far off if I say in my world all the love sonnets and songs are dedicated to my beloved chocolate. If I could write odes, I would. Chocolate, dear reader, is my best friend, lover, muse, inspiration and at times my worst enemy. Of course, I don't take it personally, because I knew what I was getting into when I first got into this relationship. Even though my heart sang when we were together, my body didn't like it in particular. Especially since I completely neglected my body once Choci came into my life.

courtesy: Alicia D'souza

It really wasn't deliberate. When it started it was something innocent. I mean, I never thought it would get this serious. I should have heeded the warning signs but by the time I realized, I was head over heels in love. And you know how it is when one is in love, everything else just blurs and you and your beloved are all that matters; all unicorns and rainbows, I guarantee. With my love, my waistline also expanded. Exponentially. But for centuries people have died for love, so what's a few extra pounds in comparison?

I was so smitten that I stood by choci not matter what form he took. I was loyal through the milk chocolate, dark chocolate, Hazelnut phases. I did falter once when choci turned up at my door with those twins of questionable repute- fruit and nut. But I didn't turn Choci away because that's what love is, embracing your partner- flaws, nuts, raisins and all. After that incident Choci was so grateful that he didn't tell me about his 'experiments' with mint, coconut and orange, because he knew that would break my heart. That's our love, strong and intolerant to weird people trying to make my choci someone who he isn't. Come on, you all, who in their right mind would ever think that my beloved choci can gel with that annoyingly upbeat mint? That's as blasphemous as it can get. I think I'll leave it at that because my blood pressure rises every time I think about what they tried to do to my poor choci.

The thing is, I knew Choci like no one else does. People like to think he is great when accompanied with these silly nuts, but he is best natural. Just pure Choci. He's loyal. And he is by my side as I brave through depression, fall outs with friends, fights with my body....and he NEVER avoids me when I am PMSing. That's love right there.

However, evil that the world is, people have begun to call our love an 'obsession'. Then last time I was looking at choci adoringly in the supermarket someone told me it is 'Unnatural'.  It's a wonder that I didn't faint right then. This isn't natural? Choci and I, we....We are meant to be..Right?

But the doubts had now begun to wriggle their way through our love and to make things worse the weighing scale landed a heavy blow. As I stepped on the scale, my world fell apart. I began to see where this would lead. I could see myself, a few years down the line, stuck in a relationship where the only thing I gained was weight. Don't mistake me, we are crazy about each other, but our love can only destroy me. Completely.

That's when I decided, it's time to end it. And just like that, I let Choci out of my life.

For a few days.

I am ashamed to say that I cheated, more than few times, by letting Choci in again. But what was I to do when he looked at me with that dark, brooding face of his? How could I not give him one more chance?

But it was a cycle. And I found myself again on the scale- which was now about to give in to the weight- wondering how could I mess things up so badly, TWICE.

So here I am, dear reader, spilling my heart to you, hoping that you will help me out. Let me out of this misery, tell me if this love is worth it. You will be honest, won't you? 

B for Bollywood

B for Bollywood

I do not take well, to the question where I am from. We have moved so many times that there is no 'permanent' home. Just a string of homes which were inhabited for three years each. If you persist I will let you know that I am Indian. Back in Malaysia no one would believe me when I told them I am from India. It's the headscarf that threw them off. See, they can't believe that there are Muslims in India. The first time I went to the 'International' (my foot) café in my Uni, the Bangladeshi server at the counter started speaking to me Arabic. It's highly possible that I ran away that time, leaving his 'ahlan wa sahlan' hanging in the air. Since then I've had loads of people come up to me and play the guessing game with my nationality. 'Are you Yemeni? No? Omani? Saudi? Sudanese I know! Pakistani? ' They almost never get it right. And I love to see the game draw to an end as I reveal to them my real origin. 'What? NO WAY! So you are Hindu?'.

Sigh. Better than the time someone asked me if I 'speak Hindu'.

I can't really blame them though, to an international audience, Bollywood and curry blind all other diversity that exists within the great subcontinent.

I have never been able to escape the glittery shadow of Bollywood which follows Indians around wherever they go. I have had taxi drivers in Malaysia exclaim ' Amita Baccha! Sharoook Kaan!' when they discover I am Indian. Then there was a student (who went on to become a very close friend) who asked me if we actually dance on the streets in India. Thank you, Bollywood, for making us look like a bunch of loonies who just need a whisper of an excuse to bring out all the bling and bhangra on the streets. *slow clap*

Since going abroad and seeing everyone's fascination with Bollywood, I've really begun to hate it. And I mean some serious hate here. I hated Bollywood so much that I made sexist gender portrayals in Hindi films my dissertation topic. This is probably my second biggest regret in life (the first being getting talked into getting side bangs when I went for my last haircut). I now had to watch four Hindi films a million and one times. And I kid you not, this is some major mind numbing stuff. The last semester of my degree saw me in the library with my laptop, willing my eyes not to bleed as Salman Khan did yet another Physics defying, gag inducing stunt, hoping all the while I don't get caught with this.

Dabangg poster. Not my property bro!

This was when my other friends were rocking themselves to sleep with Marx and Foucault. They were courting all the theories and here I was, with the most ridiculous lyrics stuck in my head in a loop accompanied with all that screeching which passed off as singing... I really earned my degree, dear reader. This dissertation tested my endurance to the limit. There were moments when I thought I'd rather jump into the campus lake and let myself be consumed by the zombie ducks than watch Salman Khan kill yet another villain with his nostrils WHILE wooing his lady love who has an IQ in the negative. Then there was the constant teasing from my friends who went 'Oh, your thesis is so easy! You just have to watch movies!!'.  If I hadn't loved them so much I might have pushed them into the above mentioned lake.

What I realised, when travelling abroad and while bluffing my way through the thesis, was that Bollywood's reach is really unprecedented. In India and outside. And it doesn't make me proud one bit. It is embarrassing, in fact, because I feel it has just made caricatures out of us. In the international playground we are that weird kid who runs around screaming and finally falls off the slide head first making all the normal kids laugh. No, sir, I do not like it one bit.

I don't want the first thing people think when they hear 'India' to be 'Slumdog Millionaire'. ( I am not kidding when I say I have had people tell me "Oh, you are Indian? I LOVE Slumdog Millionaire!"  Oh really? that's weird, 'cause I don't remember producing, directing, or acting in that movie). We already have enough stereotypes to be mocked with till the end of time, so we don't really need a couple of hundred more each year (Fun Fact: Did you know that Bollywood releases 800+ films EVERY YEAR?).

You might be thinking 'now this is one angry woman!'. Well, I am angry! I had to watch Salman Khan kill people with his armpits for three bloody months!

A for Airplanes

Note: Since graduating I have at hand so much time that I've tried to sleep off most of it. Since sleep has the potential to become a mind numbing activity which can stifle creativity, I decided to get back to writing. However, excess sleep has already done some damage so I need to look for some prompts. Inspired by my cousin and fellow blogger Zainab's successful attempt, I've decided to embark on the A-Z blogger challenge. 
Every day I am going to select one letter of the alphabet and blog about it. Hopefully, this will stimulate my brain enough to come up with something good!

Here I present to you-  

A: Airplanes

As a scrawny defence kid who grew up near air bases in different parts of India, the sound of a fighter jet shooting through the sky brings with it a flood of fond memories. I remember wistful dreams of becoming a pilot who'll one day trail-blaze the same skies, looking down upon the minions still on earth. Okay, I made up the last bit.

But flying was always a dream. A wishful dream until my 7th grade when we moved from Pune to Bangalore. What happens when a 12yr old, a 9 yr old and 6 yr old get on a plane for the first time? They embarrass their parents. I remember the three of us being super hyped while getting into the plane and then fighting over who would get the window seat. Finally I got one such seat, with my parents sitting next to me. Bilal and Shereef agreed to share the other window seat and ended up alternating every few minutes. When the air-hostess served us candies I took one, shyly, mentally kicking myself for not taking a few more. My brothers, on the other hand, decided to abandon all shame and grabbed four hands full of toffees and stuffed them into their pockets. The two hour flight was like a dream for the three of us (and an embarrassing nightmare for our parents). Floating above the clouds, glancing down at the outlines of cities, we sipped on (what we thought was) free coke, we really felt on top of the world.

courtesy- www.abcteach.com

We have come a long way since then. Since my dad left Air Force, we have been on the go. At first it was Saudi, then Italy, then Malaysia. Slowly one trip merged into the other and it didn't matter anymore whether we were in the sky or seated in the airport terminal as long as we could sleep comfortably. Of course the flying experience is different with different airlines. Trips to Italy are usually comfortable, except for the time I got a seat near the emergency exit and was left sitting awkwardly, envisioning in my mind scenes of the plane crash-landing and pictures of me splattered across front page of all newspapers next day- "Young woman saves lives with quick thinking", "Girl presented with bravery award for opening emergency door".... Ah well, haven't had many 'brave experiences' so far, you see...

Malaysia has always been with a budget airlines. And boy is it uncomfortable! Of course it's a great way to fly on a shoe string budget, but it sucks that I have to pay 100 rupees for 4 drops of water and  some bread crumbs. It also doesn't help that I have 0 leg space. The 4.5 hours in the flight are spent contorting my very inflexible body into positions which would put a Russian gymnast to shame. By the time I find that prefect pose which would let me sleep without breaking a few ribs, the seatbelt sign turns on: It's time to land. RAGE.

My prayer before flying is always that I get good co-passengers. I have been stranded next to newly married couples who are so lovey-dovey and gooey that they are at a serious risk of melting off the seat.I have also witnessed countless crying babies, a few grumpy old people, and snotty children running up and down the impossibly narrow aisle and between the legs of exhausted-yet-smiling airhostesses who tried not run them over with their carts (is that what it's called?)

Talking about aisles- I absolutely hate them. Why, you ask? Well, because I cannot walk without stumbling, falling on people, or breaking things in a football field. So how can you expect me to walk with my laptop (stuffed with excess luggage), my eight kilo cabin bag AND my handbag, without hitting a few people in the head with my elbow and maybe stepping on a few toes on the way. At trying times likes this my tongue sets itself on an automatic loop, playing 'sorry' till I reach my seat and plop myself down very gracelessly. Yes, I am that person you hate. Don't judge me

Illustration: Andrew Joyner. Courtesy- www.smh.com.au

Stuffing your pregnant bag into the overhead compartment without it falling and cracking the crying baby's skull deserves another post in itself..some other day, some other day.

My other nightmares include- sitting next to gassy people (or being that person myself), snoring and drooling on the shoulders of my co-passengers, burping or emitting any such questionable sounds, smells or substances which might jeopardize my standing as a model traveller of the world. I also dislike passing through the security checks because I becomes really self conscious and end up behaving in a very suspicious way. I give furtive glances at the exit, avoid eye contact with the security personnel and in general emulate everything a perfect terrorist would do (as observed in movies). Clearing customs is like a load of my shoulders as can be seen in the huge sigh of relief. I am sure those analysing the security cameras are keeping tabs on when I'll get stopped eventually.

Not all is bad though, there are some perks of flying too. I am one of the few people who likes airplane food (not the budget airline one, mind you). It's not just the food, I like the whole process. Peeling off the foil covering, tearing the tiny sachets for my coffee and finally digging for the tiny piece of chocolate hidden in plain sight. The mess afterwords doesn't really make it to the list of my favourite things. But, yeah, whatever.

At the end of the day flying has become a part of my life. Sometimes inconvenient, but it's still there, so might as well try to enjoy it. When I am up there, it's like everything else has been suspend. I am just a tired body cruising through the sky with others whose names I might never know, but with whom I share the excitement of resting eyes on loved ones, soon. As I get out of the terminal, my body all sore, my tattered passport in sweaty hands and my exhausted eyes finally find my parents faces smiling at me (of course it's the more energetic and vigorous, exclusively Indian, 'I am here!' hand wave that makes them stand out in a crowd of sober firangs), nothing else really matters. 

Where's your colour?

My grandma has a new hobby. A very amusing one. She likes to browse through old albums, pause at my baby pictures and say "Molku enthu nirram endayirinnu, ippo adokke pozhi". Literal translation: You had so much colour, everything's gone now. What She really means: You are not fair any more. You are...*cue dramatic music*...dark!
This obsession with fairness is not exclusive to my grandma, though I am sure a lot of it lies with her. I can't count the number of times I have heard people comment about the 'colour' of the babies and brides. "Did you see [insert baby/bride's name]? Theere nirram illa. Paavam. (She has no colour. Poor thing). Westerners might be amused with the Indian metonym of 'colour' for 'fairness', 'cause there it's the non-whites who were referred to as coloured!

To cater to these Colour Crazies (As they shall be referred to from now on), there is a HUGE market, providing different shades of whiteness, in different forms. Soaps, scrubs, facepacks, creams, lotions- all compete on the shelf to land on the under confident, desperately-looking-for-a-husbad/job. brown girl's vanity bag. All promising her better jobs, more suitors and general well being. Because, obviously it's the shade of your skin that will win over an interviewer, not your education, your skills or your confidence.

We have actors who have dusky complexion promoting such creams and it is SO obvious that it's photoshop and not the cream working its magic and yet we have millions throwing away their money at these products. For many it has become a ritual of sort. I remember a house help who used to live with us, along with her husband and son. Come rain or shine, every morning the entire family would religiously apply 'Fair and lovely', probably dreaming of the much coveted 'Fair' title.

A new Vaseline advert of an Instant Fairness lotion begins - "There is a reason why 4 out of 5 Indian women are getting fairer skins". It guarantees the user '4 times fairer skin. Instantly'. Leave alone the fact that 4 out 5 Indian women have much graver problems than the shade of their skin, like- I don't know: hunger,poverty, domestic abuse-can't those who rush to buy this just stop to think HOW this cream will give them instantly fairer skin? I would run the other way if something can change my appearance so drastically.

This ongoing Indian romance with fair skin is also shared by other Asian countries. I was surprised by the number of fairness products in the Malaysian market. It just makes me think that this is probably a manifestation of an inferiority complex by post colonial nations. All this screams- Strive to be like the white man (while he sits under the sun, desperately trying to get a tan)!

Indian people- we are meant to be brown- maybe of different shades, but that's who we are. We don't need companies telling us that we NEED to put this cream on to impress mothers-in-law, make our spouses 'lucky', or to ace at interviews.

Just chill and Be Brown. 

Key Board Warriors

Coffee cruises free
As keyboard warriors 
type away
fearless, spearing words
into sentences
till the topic cedes
and sense infiltrates 
what was just mindless mumble.
Until the elusive end 
makes it appearance
with an unceremonious 'Full stop',
We subsist.
Nay, we persist.

An Apology

I’d like to apologize
For a crime so great
That it demands punishment severe
I am sorry
For being born
With the wrong chromosomes
In my defense, I wasn’t asked to choose
‘Would you like an XY or XX?’
‘My personal recommendation is XY,
It’s hot in the streets I hear!’
I apologize that my chest isn’t flat
And that my hips form curves
I do understand that my body
Invites attention,
In fact demands it!
So sorry if I didn’t take your crude passes
With a demure smile
But I know better now.
I apologize for my presence
In the public space
It must take a lot
Not to pounce on me.
So sorry that I provoke
The caveman in you
Every time I step outside.
I apologize for demanding
That my sister gets rights
‘cause, in the end she asked for it.
After all, it was her fault
That she was born a girl.