Politeness or servitude? Rethinking 'thank you' and 'sorry' in everyday life

The other day, I found myself reflexively saying “thank you” to a friend for something incredibly small—something that hardly required acknowledgment. Her response made me pause and think: why do we feel the need to express gratitude or apology for every minor gesture? Are these phrases really about respect, or do they sometimes reinforce a subtle imbalance, a quiet servitude in everyday interactions? This realization led me to question the deeper dynamics behind words like “thank you” and “sorry”—and whether, in certain situations, they may serve to elevate others at our own expense.

In everyday conversations, expressions like "thank you" and "sorry" are deeply ingrained. We say "thank you" when someone holds the door, and "sorry" when we brush past someone in a crowded hallway. But have these phrases, meant to signify kindness and politeness, become symbols of something more complex—perhaps even a subtle form of servitude?

To understand this, consider how often you say "thank you" or "sorry" in situations where they aren’t strictly necessary. For instance, you apologize for taking a moment longer in line at the grocery store or thank a colleague profusely for something minor. In these moments, the words are not only polite but also reinforce a certain dynamic. The other person is subtly elevated; their minor act of convenience or forgiveness is acknowledged as if it’s an extraordinary favor. The act of expressing gratitude or apology becomes less about authentic respect and more about reinforcing their social position, leaving you in a state of perceived indebtedness.

Historically, phrases like "thank you" and "sorry" served as essential forms of etiquette to smooth social interactions and minimize conflict. In societies built on rigid hierarchies, such phrases functioned as a way for people in lower social ranks to show respect to those above them. A servant would express gratitude toward their master not merely to be polite but to reaffirm the master’s elevated status. Though society has largely shifted away from strict hierarchies, these words still carry a trace of this dynamic. When used in excess or in situations that don’t warrant it, they might suggest an unintentional servitude, reinforcing an imbalance of power between individuals.

Interestingly, studies have shown that people who frequently use self-deprecating language, including "thank you" and "sorry," may subconsciously feel that they need to earn their place or prove their worth in social interactions. This isn’t to say that politeness is inherently negative; rather, it’s about the context in which these words are used. When we apologize for trivial matters, we may inadvertently reinforce the notion that our actions are intrusive or inconvenient to others. Similarly, over-thanking can suggest that we see ourselves as the undeserving beneficiaries of someone else’s time or attention, reinforcing a subordinate role.

In relationships where one person frequently expects apologies or expressions of gratitude for minor matters, a subtle power dynamic can emerge. The person receiving the constant “thank you” or “sorry” begins to feel superior, as if the other person owes them something, even if only subconsciously. This dynamic can lead to a sense of entitlement on one side and servitude on the other, affecting the balance of respect in the relationship.

So, how can we shift our perspective? Perhaps it’s time to reclaim the power behind these phrases by using them with intention rather than habit. Expressing genuine gratitude and apologizing when truly necessary remain important. But when used too freely, these words risk reinforcing dynamics that benefit neither party. Instead of reflexively saying "thank you" or "sorry" for every small gesture, consider whether a nod, smile, or simple acknowledgment might be more appropriate.

When we begin to choose our words with care, we avoid reducing ourselves in the process. By seeing "thank you" and "sorry" as tools for genuine connection rather than servitude, we uphold a sense of equality and self-respect in every interaction.

In the end, words like "thank you" and "sorry" have a unique power to both elevate and diminish us, depending on how we choose to use them. By being mindful of when and why we use these phrases, we can foster relationships built on genuine respect rather than perceived indebtedness. Manners, after all, should be tools for mutual acknowledgment, not mechanisms that subtly place us beneath others. When we speak with intention, we not only honor others but also uphold our own sense of self-worth, transforming these words from habits of servitude into expressions of true connection.

After all, the only way we can expect others to value our words is when we first learn their value ourselves. And something of value should not be strewn around recklessly, no? It should be handed over carefully to only those, who we are sure, will respect and acknowledge its value, and in time, pass it around with equal care and affection.  

The futile search for new beginnings

Everybody wants a new beginning. We all make mistakes, big and small, and then want to start over. Turn the page. Change the course. Turn over a new leaf.

But what we are forgetting here is that there can never be a 'new' beginning. New beginnings do not exist. It is practically impossible. We will always carry with us bits of stories we have played a role in; people we have met, relations we have fostered, experiences that have enriched our lives.

So how then can we wipe the slate clean? Can we really ignore the past? Can we unfeel the things we have once felt, unsee, unhear, unthink what we have seen, heard, thought? That would be denial, wouldn't it?

What we can do instead is acknowledge our mistakes and try to rectify them as early as possible.

So this time around, how about we take all the lessons from our journey so far, old beginnings et al, review, retrospect, accept responsibility and finally take charge in order to   change the narrative of our story?

In place of the futile search for a new  beginning, why don't we try to reach a new ending...a better ending instead?

The disappearing artist

The power of social networks is that while it exposes you to the risk of scams and trolls, it also widens your perspective and humbles you in the strangest of ways. 

Some months ago, I came across this profile of an interesting artist who revealed almost nothing of his identity but almost everything of his art.  And that is where my fascination started. 

Everyday, this man (assuming it was a man from his hands, since his profile had no other indication of his gender or personality) would go live on Instagram and post impromptu videos of his art, his camera recording his every move on a simple A4 sized paper.

However, what was fascinating was that all his art was created on the spur of the moment with a sharpie (permanent marker). No rough draft. No pencilling in. No erasing. Not even once. The prompts would be submitted by those who joining in the live session, and he would get to work almost instantaneously. It did not take him even a second to formulate his thoughts and transport the pattern onto paper. 

Picking up his sharpie, he’d sketch away like he could see a pattern on the canvas, as if he was joining the dots that were visible only to him. 

The first time I saw him doing this, I was gobsmacked. I told myself it must be a one off thing that he had probably rehearsed before. It was unbelievable how his hand could work so fast to create something so beautiful. 

Nevertheless, I started following him, out of sheer curiosity. 

But senough, the frequency of his live sessions and the confidence with which he created art in each one of them convinced me that this could not be a fluke. This was undeniably a man of extraordinary talent. 

His art was simple, yet eyecatching. It wasn’t the fancy shaman you stuff some artists come up with after weeks of brainstorming, erasing, photo editing and the works. This man’s work was simple and genuine. It was the kind that would urge even the art illiterate to pick up a paintbrush or pencil and try his hand.

As he dragged smooth, well defined lines and curves on the paper with his sharpie, one could not help but see at the confidence and clarity in his ideation and design. 

A senior writer I met at an art and literature festival had once told me this. “It doesn’t matter if your art isn’t perfect,” he had said. “It almost never is. But if it’s relatable and inspires people to read, write, create, then you are already on your way to be an artist par excellence.” 

Just watching this person’s hands move so confidently on paper made me want to sketch like him. There was absolutely no doubt or hesitancy. No second guesses. As his sharpie drew out connecting lines and shapes one after the other, a pattern appeared, slowly filling the entire paper. He only stopped once he was finished. That’s when the sharpie would be put down and the camera turned off, leaving a sense of mystery hanging in the air. I attributed that to artistic eccentricity. 

But soon enough, I was in for another surprise. A few months of following this mystery artist, I woke up one morning and logged onto Instagram only to realise that the mystery artist had now disappeared, gone off the grid. His account had been deleted and there was no sign of him anywhere in the virtual space. I am sure, like me, a lot of his followers felt a sense of loss and disappointment that day but told themselves they should have seen it coming. I know I did.

This little extension of his idiosyncrasy (if I may even call it that), however, makes me wonder how this person must be for real, outside this small little art world he had created and which we had happily chosen to be a part of. 

Would he be as adept at taking life decisions as he was with taking decisions on his canvas, would his thoughts be allowing him the same confidence and lucidity...the same spontaneity? 

Would he never have felt the need for second chances? No rewind, no pause, no edits. Would his life, like his art, be running as smoothly as his art, sans afterthought, sans regret? 

I reprimand myself, “Separate the art from the artist.”

I have always believed that art, in any form, is a liberating experience mainly because it gives you the leeway of second chances, and maybe even third chances and fourth chances (depending upon which medium you use). 

In fact, that is why most people (including me) would vouch for art therapy as being the best kind. Art is like this getaway from your anxieties, an escape route from reality into a realm you can tailor-make at your own whim and fancy. 

And yet, there are people like this mystery artist, seducing the arts with an admirable sense of discipline, a distinctive clarity of thought, who know exactly what they are aiming for and do not believe in looking back part journey. 

I pick up a sharpie and try to doodle something small. But mine is not a still mind. It keeps flowing like a river, enumerating different trajectories a line can take until I can bear it no more. Keeping the sharpie aside,  I choose the familiarity of the more forgiving pencil...

The eraser lies nearby, assuring me it won’t let me slip up. 

In life too, perhaps, we are constantly searching for this kind of security. The security that will allow us the leeway of committing a mistake and yet not messing the final picture. 

We look for it everywhere, this security net—-in our relationships, finances, work. We pick the pencil and shine our erasers when we should instead be sharpening our minds and steadying our hand. 

Sometimes what is more important than fixing our mistakes is how we can work around them. 

5 ways we can still fix a broken world

We are all aware of what is happening in the world today. And I can say without doubt, we are not too proud of it.

After much contemplation, cribbing, and ranting, I have finally come to accept that the answer to all our troubles does not lie in looking back at the past and trying to correct it. (Because it may be too late to change the narrative of our lives, too much damage has been done for that already. )

Instead, it lies in ensuring that our mistakes aren’t repeated. That out faulty mentality and biases do not form part of the legacy that we are handing over to our children. That they turn out better than we turned out to be.

Here are five ways we can help the children we birth/raise/know grow up into better human beings: 

1) Build their trust: When a child smiles at you, smile back. No matter how your day is going. Maybe you are running late for work, or have missed the bus, or your boss is mad at you for submitting a work file too late. Maybe you have flunked a test, or have just broken up with the love of your life. But if a child smiles at you, smile. Children are innocent and often see the world as a compassionate place where what you give is what you get. Do not let them down. Let them believe that kindness exists. Do not shatter their expectations. Let them grow up knowing that the easiest way to make a friend is to smile. 

2) Introduce them to the magic of reading: Read out a story to a child, preferably one every week, with full animated gestures et al give flight to his imagination. Introduce him to the art of reading and story telling. You can read out to an adult too if you like. You’d be surprised how much they enjoy it.

3) Teach them the importance of art - Contribute to the world of art. Even the smallest of contributions make a huge difference—-Spend time sketching. Do a doodle. Paint a picture. Write a poem. Make your own music. Spin a story. Even if you don’t have an audience, create. For yourself. And for your kid who is constantly watching and emulating you. 

4) Break a taboo - this is a social change you can start at home. We have age old customs around everything. Replace them with stories of feminism and gender equality. Speak to your children openly on topics of menstruation and sex. Buy them games and clothes that are gender neutral. Hand then equal responsibility when it comes to household chores. We have enough male chauvinists in our patriarchal society. Make sure you are not raising one. 

5) Tell them it is fine. That it is fine to lose a game, fail a test, or make mistakes...if it ends up teaching you something in return. Teach them it is fine to feel different from the rest of the world as long as they lend a patient ear to those who ‘feel’ different too. Teach them that the colour of your skin, the labels on your clothes, the money in your wallet, does not matter. What matters is the strength of your character the fact that we all need the same things to keep us alive; blood in our veins, air in our lungs, and compassion in our heart.

“Old men can make war. But it is only children who will make history.”- Ray Meritt

Let’s ensure that the generations after us live a happier story right from the very beginning, and do not have to carry the burden of our sins.

What a wonderful little chance to rewrite history—-of course, you do not necessarily have to birth a child in order to raise it right.

The best teachers have embraced the onus of raising children...a responsibility that is sometimes tougher to handle than that of a parent.

Children are like water, taking up any colour you mix in them. A child can be encouraged with as little as an uplifting word or an act of kindness. Make sure you mix the right colours. Say the right words. Be kind and considerate in your behaviour.

Remember, the ‘future’ is constantly watching you.

Book review: ‘The Boy, The Mole, The Fox, and The Horse’

Title: The boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse.

Author: Charlie Mackesy 

Pages: 128 pages

Publisher: Ebury Press

“The boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse” is an allegorical tale, replete with flash insights on friendship, courage, life and our insecurities.

It is a simple story with invaluable lessons inscribed on every page, a story that can be read, interpreted, and understood by people of all ages. 

The story begins with a boy wandering into the wilderness, alone and confused, until he encounters a philosophical mole, a silent fox, and a magnificent horse. 

Each of the four characters represent extremely relatable human traits and behavioural patterns. The little boy, lost and full of questions, is trying to find his way back home. The wizened mole is obsessed with cake. The silent fox is jaded by the hurt he has lived in the past. And the gentle horse has downplayed his exemplary talents  in order to fit into an ordinary world. 

Together they explore the wilderness, which like life, is full of surprises-both scary and beautiful. 

Thus a symbiotic association is formed between them, ultimately resulting in an unusual but beautiful friendship.

Embellished with basic illustrations and minimalistic writing using swirly calligraphy and intermittent strokes of water colour in pen and ink drawings, Charlie Mac has brought out the beauty of the journey in a succinct yet engaging manner. 

The sketches gently push the story forward. The accompanying dialogue between the characters make you reflect on your own insecurities of fear, guilt, illness, loss, thus serving as balm to the aching soul. 

Lines like “Home isn’t always a place, isn’t it?” hit home and make you nod in agreement.

A poignant point which almost made me want to reach out and hug the author was when the boy asks the horse, “What is the bravest thing you’ve ever said?”, to which the horse replies, “Help”. 

A shout-out to all people belittling, underestimating, or shying away from discussing their mental health issues.

As suggested in the above illustration, the author seems to be a believer of beauty-in-imperfections, somewhat like the Japanese culture of Wabisabi. And this only adds to the charm of his storytelling. 

If you, like me, are a fan of Bill Watterson’s ‘Calvin & Hobbes’ series, then this is one book you are sure to enjoy. 

Translated in seventeen different languages, ‘The boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse’ is worth the space in your collection and your heart...to hand and hold, to treasure and cherish, and to return to every now and then, especially in times of uncertainty and strife. 

Seems like the apt read for now,  isn’t it?  

I rate it: 5 out of 5

You can buy it here

George Floyd and the Elephant #AllLivesMatter

Just when I thought the Coronavirus pandemic had succeeded in getting humans a little sensitive towards nature and other species, reality decided to prove me wrong. 

Take for instance the heinous crime against the innocent fifteen year old elephant in Palakkad, Kerala. 

It has been alleged that some unidentified locals fed the mute creature a pineapple stuffed with firecrackers. This resulted in her suffering from severe degree burns and excruciating pain in the mouth.

The pachyderm rushed to the nearby river where she stayed with her trunk and mouth dipped in the water. No amount of efforts from the forest officials could manage to get her out. 

She stood there silently, nursing her smarting wounds, hanging her head as if in shame at her faith in humans and their kindness. Until she breathed her last. 

Post mortem reports revealed she was pregnant. 

Cut to the far flung West, where an innocent man named George Floyd met a brutal death for no fault of his. Following a false allegation of theft/counterfeit for a petty supermarket expense, the police officer in charge arrested George needlessly and violently, pressing his knee into his neck. Handcuffed and bound in that vulnerable state, George kept gasping for breath, but his voice reached empty ears. The officer held him down for almost nine minutes...till he finally stopped breathing. 

The assault was caught on camera and has been a cause of widespread resentment ever since. All over the U.S, there have been violent protests and angry demonstrations from the black population. 

Why am I writing about both these incidents in the same piece?

My intention is not to compare the gravity of the two situations, no.

I’m aware that the murder of a human is a much more serious offence than the slaughter of any other mammal, at least in the book of law. 

However, recent happenings has forced me drawing parallels...between two incidents, in two unrelated parts of the world and yet linked by one common factor—-inhumanity. 

Today I grieve, for both, the Elephant in Kerala and George in Minneapolis. I grieve today, for the murder of their trust, their innocence, their vulnerability. At the hands of a diabolical and prejudiced mentality. 

The elephant had a tiny life growing within her. George had a family; a wife, children, an entire life ahead of him. 

Both were taken away before their time. Why? 

Does a life mean nothing to someone who is entrusted with the responsibility to guard it? 

In Pallakad, Kerala, it was the locals who considered themselves superior. In Minneapolis, the white officer found himself at a position of privilege. Does that mean they had the right to abuse this privilege...for their entertainment, to prove their supremacy? 

Both these instances were followed by mass social outrage.

All over India, animal activists cried hoarse over the elephant tragedy. They raked up old unresolved cases of similar nature and lambasted the Government.

Secular Americans did the same.

The Kerala Government pinned a reward to anybody who would identify the offenders. The NYPD sacked the officer from his post in the department. The protestors weren’t satisfied. Would that bring Floyd back? They wanted justice. They wanted the President to have their back, to promise them a society with no undercurrents of discrimination. Of course, it did not help that the POTUS switched off the lights and hid in the bunkers. 

Some demanded explanations. Some made it look like political propaganda. 

The excuses started to trickle in...excuses to cushion the savage nature of the murders, to explain that these deaths were not as intentional as they appeared to be.

Someone claimed the pineapple was a trap for wild boars and the elephant ate it accidentally. 

Forensics reported Floyd as Covid positive and although they did not dare to associate that as the direct reason for his death, they insinuated that his lungs had not been strong enough to take the strain of the knee-neck lock.

But isn’t that exactly what excuses are meant to do—-make it seem like the victim’s fault? 

What is to come out of all this then? 

A few weeks down and the chaos will settle. The activists will tire. The voices will fade. The protests will lose their energy...and our sorry lives will go on like they did before. 

OR

The offenders will be punished. People will realise that they cannot take the vulnerable for granted. The Government will know it is answerable to a public that votes for it...that it can run but it cannot cower down and hide. The public will understand they deserve more than they get and they have every right to ask for it.

One pregnant elephant. One black man. They can either be a statistic in the record or can change the entire face of history. 

However, it is only when we voice our opinion, when we take a stand for the injustice done to others that we can expect someone to voice their opinion against the injustice done to us.

Whether it is happening to a mute creature in a remote village in Kerala or it is happening to an innocent black man in Minnesota, Minneapolis, bullying is brutal and should be challenged not by silence but by confrontation, by awareness, by supporting the victims, by punishing the offenders.

Let’s make some noise about the issue. It’s time to wake up! 

The one that got away

Ant(I)social did not want to be a slave for the rest of his life. He believed he was meant for bigger things...better pursuits, if only he could break from this hegemony and explore his true potential.
However, the social hierarchy prevented him from breaking this chain. The rigid rigmarole of daily life demanded that he slaved, while the upper echelons got served.
Every time he tried to struggle his way up in the colony, he got pushed down, shoved aside brutally by those above him.
And then one day, his eyes fell upon her, Gyne...
He knew immediately he was in love. But how could a slave dream of a beloved of royal lineage? Gyne was the queen ant and hardly mingled with the worker ants of his class. Although carefully camouflaged as an eusocial species, the social division in a colony of ants was as bigoted as that in man.

This being his first time in love, Ant(i)social tried to seek his superior’s help in the matter. However, when they paid a deaf ear to his concern, he decided to address the matter by speaking straight with his lady love.

Always believing in black and white and never treading on grey, Ant(i)social now faced the worst dilemmas of adult life. He knew he had the courage to profess his love to the queen. But those belonging to the lower echelons were not allowed to venture close.
“The only way I can speak to her is by getting promoted and making myself worthy of her notice,” he thought.

Day by day, Ant(I)social started putting in extra hours of work. Even when his comrades were asleep, he would continue to work with utmost earnest and diligence.
A month passed. The ants of the upper echelons who initially ignored him now started taking notice. Looking at Ant(i)social toil night and day, their curiosity piqued.

“Hey, you, yes you, worker no 127,” the chief hollered. “I see you slogging incessantly without even as much as a work break. What is the matter with you, I say!?”

“Yes Sire, I know no other way to reach Gyne, my queen.”

The chief was shocked.
“And pray why do you want to reach her?” he scoffed.

Ant(i)social blushed. “I...I...am ..in love with her. And want to make...myself..w..worthy...”

Hearing this, the chief and his colleagues guffawed. Their laughter resonated all around.
“Stop dreaming, slave,” the chief ant bellowed. There is social hierarchy for a reason. The duties are assigned as per where you lie in the work pyramid. You may have the courage of a lion, but that will not make you a soldier. Remember, you are a mere worker, and no amount of slogging will get you the queen’s attention, leave alone her love.”

Broken hearted, Ant(i)social wondered about the unfairness of this social system, of how it did not allow even the most diligent to step up outside his designated level. Why wasn’t anybody revolting against the injustice? Complacency or subjugation...could he provoke the other workers to join him in a rebellion?

That night, Ant(I)social gathered all his worker class fellow mates and told them about his plan. At first, there was silence. Then one by one, the excuses started pouring in.

“But what if we cannot manage on our own?”

“This division of labour has been going on since ages. What makes you think we can bring about change now?”

“I am a family man. I join you and my family starves to death.”

They nodded in unison, not seeing sense in rebelling against an age old hierarchy that they had finally learned to become comfortable with. Nobody dared to usurp the order that had already been laid out. Why bring about unnecessary anarchy, when chaos is all it will cause, they thought.
A couple of worker ants could not make up their minds but they were soon convinced by the majority.

After the gathered congregation retreated to their respective sand-dunes, Ant(I)social sat awake looking at the starry night sky. The wise old maxim came to mind, “When ignorance is bliss,it is folly to be wise.”

At the crack of dawn, with a heart full of courage and fortitude, Ant(i)social set out all alone into the wilderness. As he bid a silent adieu to a sleeping Gyne, his queen ant, he cast a envious glance at the undeserving troop of soldiers that lay half asleep in the sand barracks protecting her.

Nobody had been convinced he would make it out alive. But in his heart, he knew this was not the life he had wanted to lead...the life of a slave. If he stayed on, he knew he would be just one among the many.
Going out into the unknown would mean meeting with adventure, seeing a different world, encountering different experiences, or perhaps getting trampled in the process. He’d have to be the captain of his ship and weather every storm life lay his way. There’d be no security blanket but there would be no one to serve as well. He would have to forage for his own food but that also included the risk of going hungry. It was a tough call to make but Ant(I)social knew he had to take his chances.

Before the ants were up, he was gone...

One worker less, the colony barely noticed his absence. The hierarchy continued as usual with the workers slaving, and the soldiers protecting. But ever so often, he was remembered fondly by Gyne, as the slave who had chosen to become the master of his soul.

(Gyne* - the queen ant in an ant colony is also called Gyne. Have played with the nomenclature a little.
A typical ant colony is divided neatly into worker ants, fertile drones, soldier ants, and Gynes.
And sometimes, just sometimes, an Ant(i)social 😊 )

The 'red' lipstick bias

All through my growing up years, whenever I entered a cosmetic store, there was one question that’d always spring to mind.
‘Why not the red lipstick?’

Back then, a woman wearing red lipstick was regarded no less than a pariah, an outcaste. Men would leer. Elders would frown. And her character would be speculated. Only the fallen were believed to colour their lips red...a sign of seduction that girls/women from 'good families' were not to experiment with.
Ergo, all through my teenage years, I went without the slightest trace of makeup.

However, as is the case of the forbidden fruit,  this ‘no make up’ abstinence period managed to trigger a deep seated curiosity inside me, which I got satiated first thing I turned 22 (yes, that was the first time I used a rose tinted chapstick. Late bloomer I know).

Cut to present day, I see my neighbour admonishing her teenage daughter on using the hardly used red lip colour in her make up box. I see the child wilt in front of her mother's wrath. She retreats in a shell as her mother keeps yelling.
“Do you want to go out looking like a whore?"

And I am gobsmacked! By the audacity of the statement. I wonder what repercussions that preposterous argument could have on that child's psychology. It also makes me think how scarred my neighbour might be to talk like that...had her own mother been equally brutal with words to create such a deep impression, I wonder.

And that gets me thinking...
We have come so far in terms of gender equality and feminism. Yet, I wonder, what about the red lip stick is so intimidating to people even today?

If you ask me, I think there is nothing as beautiful. A red lipstick represents strength and character. A bold combination of sass and power.
The colour red is one that can be interpreted in myriad ways. It is the colour of life...the colour that a woman bleeds when she brings another life in this world. Red is the colour of undiluted passion...of blissful romance...of unadulterated love. However, if rubbed the wrong way, red can represent anger and wrath too.
The vermilion in the hair of a married woman, the blush creeping up on the face of a coy bride, and the colour of Sidhur Khela...are all represented by red.

When a woman wears red on her lips, it is a reminder that she is a force to reckon with. That she has a voice of her own, and that she is not afraid to use it.
Fiery hot, unpredictable, aggressive - this shade is much more than just a passing fashion statement. It is a declaration...of confidence, of being capable to protect and defend oneself.
A piercing war cry as opposed to the subtlety of its timid contemporaries; the soft pinks, plums, maroons that promise to decently sit on your lips, blending in with your skin tone in less conspicuous ways.

“Garish”, “too loud”, “such bright shades don’t look good on dusky skin” are some of the excuses I have heard women come up with for looking down on the red lipstick. These are the same women who turn up their noses at other women who dare to wear something they themselves may be too insecure to wear.

One woman told me it had something to do with the vibe a woman wearing dark red lipstick sends across. What I thought to be confident and beautiful, she considered brazen and indecent.

“Besides, what will people say? I am too old to wear such shades.”

Red was clearly outside the comfort zone of her fashion.

Oh,. well!

I am aware a lot of women like me love the red lipstick. This post is directed to those who don’t.
Of course, we are entitled to our open opinions. I think a difference in opinion is completely fine.
But an illogical antipathy towards a certain vibe/look/attire different from ours only from fear of what others may think of us...how empowered does that make us really?

As women, we pride ourselves in being the more inclusive sex. But how inclusive are we really if we cannot open our mind to a different shade of cosmetic (leave alone character) on fellow humans?
A thought worth pondering on...

As for all you ladies sitting on the fence about this whole (non)issue, hesitant about that red lipstick you have been secretly stashing away in your dresser, unwillingly settling for some milder shade every time you step out, today is the day to break the bias.
Take out that red lipstick. Let it breathe. Wear it. Flaunt it. See how it makes you feel.

Too dark, too garish, too bold, who cares?!
If it makes you feel happy, stick with it. It’s called lip-stick for a reason.

So here’s to us, women, and our choices...
May we always have the independence, the courage, and the wisdom to live them, love them, and stand up for them.

More power to the red lipstick.
More power to us!

Towards a coloured sky

I recently watched ‘The sky is pink’, a touching reel life portrayal on the real life journey of Aisha Chaudhary and her family through her battle with a life threatening disorder.

 

This, however, is not a review.

This is about that one line that stayed with me all through the movie and then some more.
This is about ‘Moose’ (aka Priyanka Chopra) sharing an emotional moment with her onscreen son, wherein he complains to her about being rebuked by his school teacher and mocked by the other kids. Reason being; he had coloured the sky pink in his kindergarten drawing book.

That is when Moose tells him that he shouldn’t worry about it because contrary to what the teacher says, he wasn’t wrong.

“We are all given a piece of sky,” she says, mentally defending the choices she has made in her life.  “If you think the sky is pink, then it IS pink.”

That for me for much more than an ‘aww’ moment. What Moose said there was something I have always wished for, believed in, and to a great extent stuck by. Making the best out of the bit of sky that has been allotted to me.

Yet, a burning question remains...how do we colour to our heart’s content if society with its limited mentality makes sure our colour palette is limited too.
There is black and white, and a few other primary colours. But try and dip your brush in grey, or a few blended shades, and it will alienate you, ostracise you, make you feel like you don’t belong.
It’s a tale as old as time. Ideas are met with resistance. Creativity is challenged.  Bravado is mocked. Vincent Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, all revolutionaries in their own rights, had to suffer strong criticism for their views, each in their own field. Even today, so many years later, the risk their modern day contemporaries have to face has only gotten worse.

Sometimes, I wonder how our skies would have been had we been offered a larger palette of colour.
I am sure everybody would have so much more to create, to display, to share.
But no! We have become a society of restrictions and rules. And breaking any of these laid down fundamentals is considered sacrilege.

So we stay within the limits that are drawn for us. We colour inside the lines. We laugh at different...discourage creativity...misinterpret genius.
And deem a pink sky preposterous...

We coerce ourselves into accepting that a sky of any colour other than blue will never find its rainbow. We keep reiterating it to ourselves...until it finally becomes our thought. Our belief. Our mindset.

Well, what we need is to change that mindset...to be inspired by the rebels...to break the stereotype, one step at a time.
For now, let’s start with ourselves. Let’s paint our bit of sky with the colour of our choice.
If our palette is not equipped with the hue we desire, let’s create it. Mix, match, bleed, blend—-until you achieve the perfect shade you always desired.
For complacency has to be broken.
For change has to begin somewhere...sometimeAnd if not now, when!

Ask me, and I’d choose alternating shades of purple and yellow to colour the canopy of my sky.
How would you paint your firmament?

Soundscapes: India 2010 - 2020

Today, take a moment to reflect; even after seventy long years of India adopting the Constitution, how much of it are we adhering to? How much of a Republic have we truly become?

I listen intently, eyes shut tight

They say my country speaks at night 

Of riots, of fires, of whispers and wails

Of how criminals can walk free on bail

While the families they have ruined

Are terrified to step out of the house at all 

My country speaks of religion and caste

Of how long consequences of each can last

When what we eat and what we say 

Bend us, break us, make us prey

To lynching by mobs, man slaughter by goons

Backed by ‘babas’ who are certified loons 

Of Ayodhya and Babri, the settlement sore 

Of Ram-Rahim feeling they each deserved more 

Of fishing for votes by claiming Hanuman Dalit

And pampering the likes of Mehul, Mallya, and Lalit 

Who after feeding on public naiveté

Like hungry vultures 

Transform into sea gulls and circle foreign shores

My country talks of wedding extravagance and a royal guest list

And while the common man clenches his tired fist

Antilia grows another storey

While some other stories are silenced

On Twitter, at weddings, amidst crowded streets

And sometimes in the veranda of their own homes

‘It was a heart attack. He couldn’t make it to the hospital’

‘Go to Pakistan! Anti national!’

‘She deserved the bullet, she was too rational’

Intolerance, fabrication, pushing blame 

Appropriation of an innocent’s name 

My country talks of emotional hypocrisy 

It scoffs when I say it’s still a democracy

CAA, NRC it points out to me 

And asks if I still believe it is free

Free to call its children its own 

Free to embrace love and love alone

From afar, a blood curdling scream

Pierces the silence, and disrupts my dream

My eyes fly open, I see them fight

I know now why my country can’t sleep at night 

© Priyanka Naik

Writer's note: 

I am aware today is the 26th of January and our patriotism is at its zenith. I am also aware my poem 'Soundscapes' might seem like a gulp of bitter medicine to some, difficult to swallow. However, I have never been the one to sugar coat things. And so it stands...start, brutal reality. Right in front of you in print. Recap of the decade gone by in poetic verse. Who said poetry was for the faint hearted?

“This post is a part of ‘DECADE Blog Hop’ #DecadeHop organized by #RRxMM Rashi Roy and Manas Mukul. The Event is sponsored by Glo and co-sponsored by Beyond The Box, Wedding Clap, The Colaba Store and Sanity Daily in association with authors Piyusha Vir and Richa S Mukherjee”

It was this decade hop that made me delve on all that we experienced together as a nation in the past decade. Initially, I wanted to write about all that India had achieved in the past decade (of course there was the Commonwealth Games, launch of the MoM - Mangalyaan operation, Scrapping of article 377, eradication of polio etc), but as I continued to jot down all that had happened year after year in the decade, I realized there was, spontaneously and unintentionally, a much longer list forming. A list of atrocities India was subjected to. A list of calamities it had faced. A list of struggles it had endured, of discrimination it had suffered, A list that could only make my head hang in shame. 

Even right now, as you're reading this, the situation in our country is fraught with tension and strife. Dirty politics, blame games, smothering of the truth, media games.

As much as I tried to include the ‘good’ the decade had shown us, the terrible that we had to witness screamed out at me, as if it was India saying ‘Don’t you dare cushion the blow I had to suffer.’ 

And that is precisely how my poem 'Soundscapes' came to be written... 

as a response to the innumerable sleepless nights and anxious days we faced together.

as a voice to awaken those who are asleep, oblivious of the struggle the less privileged are facing.

as a reminder of all that we fought and survived (and sometimes succumbed to).

You, who snore tonight, India is awake, struggling, sobbing, crying, protesting...but nevertheless, hoping. Still hoping. Forever hoping...

For a new tomorrow...

where we will regain all that we have lost, that India will truly become a sovereign democratic republic, and secure to all its citizens Justice; social, economic, and political; Liberty of thought, expression, belief, faith, and worship; Equality of status and of opportunity; and to promote among them all Fraternity assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity of the nation.

On that note, I remain... 

Worried yet hopeful, 

An Indian

The time-keeper at Chor Bazaar

He sits outside his shop in the narrow lane of Mumbai's infamous chor bazaar. His is one of the many in line of the bric-a-brac stores in the area. Abdul Ghadiwala, he calls himself, a plump bespectacled man smiling broadly at the camera hanging in my neck with all except his front two teeth. I doubt that is his real name. Abdul sounds Muslim, and Ghadiwala sounds Parsi, but I do not debate. I simply assume it is part of the advertising gimmick he uses to sell his wares, a wide range of clocks and watches from the vintage to the new. There is a grandfather clock in one corner of the store, looking ancient yet in full working condition, an old Smith's clock, and a variety of other time pieces.

Abdul, however, unlike the other shop owners at Chor Bazaar, is more interested in regaling his life story than displaying his ware. I think he has presumed (from my cloth jhola and camera) that I work for some paper or am a reporter of some sort and that this might be his first lucky break to being famous.
He tells me his family has been running the shop since over three generations now.

"My grand father named it The time machine," he says, pointing to the signage hanging on a nail outside the store. "He used to say time is precious, and we have to treasure every second of it."

I smile, taking in the truth of the statement.
"Why time machine?" I ask, half expecting him not to know what it actually means. He surprises me.

"This shop is filled with memories from my past, but the people who come here show me glimpses of the future. Most of these antique watches too are testimony of somebody's past, but they are fated to travel into somebody's future. They are with me only for the time being, the present." he says, his disposition calm and almost Buddha like.
"I come here in the morning and say Namaaz, with the tick tick of the watches in the background. It has now become synonymous with my heartbeat.”

Then after a deep sigh, he continues.
"So with every customer buying a watch from my store, I feel my heart travels too. That way I don't just travel across generations but also visit places all over the globe..."

I laugh at the innocence and depth of his explanation. The man is a philosopher.
He takes offence and turns away, trying to hide his irritation by pretending to be busy. I immediately realize my mistake and attempt to correct the damage. I ask him if he has any hour glasses to show me. His face lights up at the mention of hour glass.

"Yes, yes," he says. "Nobody asks for them anymore."
He fishes out one from a dusty old box of curios that have been relegated to one corner of the store.

"Here," he remarks, placing the hourglass in my hand, "As good as new."

And just like that, he is back to regaling me with his stories. He shows me a gold embossed pocket watch that had travelled across two generations only to return back to his store. I tell him that would make up a grizzly horror story, he frowns. "Do I look like some evil 'hocus pocus' man to you?" I like the way he says 'hocus pocus' and he tells me that it was the name of the magic show he had gone to watch with his teenage son.

"That hocus pocus man stole my watch. He asked me for magic trick, and gave different one back," he complains, half impressed with the magic trick he had witnessed.

It is getting late and I have to head back. Mr Ghadiwala is disappointed to have to end the conversation abruptly. But I promise him I will visit again, next time with an actual reporter friend who'd be willing to do a piece on him. I buy the hourglass as a souvenir of our fascinating rendezvous and make my way from 'The time machine', the conversation etched in my mind.

Abdul Ghadiwala might not be the best salesperson in Chor Bazaar, but he sure as hell makes an excellent story teller!

When I hear my name

"What’s in a name," said Shakespeare. "A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet."

As a child, I’d often pester my parents asking them the story behind my name. Most children I knew, including my sibling, had splendidly uncommon names...unique, exotic. Tapasya, Mughdha, Narayani...names that would make people stop and ask for their meaning. I’d squirm when my sibling, in all her glory, explained the Sanskrit interpretation of her name to a mesmerized audience.

My name, however, on most occasions, didn’t even get a second’s notice.
And why would it; every third female child in India shared my name. Plain, common, ordinary, that's what it was, or so I thought.

After a point, I started making up imaginary associations to my name. This, I thought, would get me the attention I deserved.
“I’m named after a princess...the finest the world had ever seen,” I’d try convincing my cousins.
I would then let my imagination run wild and paint a rosy picture of this so called princess; the namesake I’d conjured, who possessed all the traits my seven year old mind coveted...intelligence, beauty, royalty, talent, valour and so on.

I’d always pick cousins who were younger than me, that way they would believe my taradiddle. They’d stare at me, open mouthed, as I’d spin stories about the said princess and all her imaginary bravado.

Until one day, my mother noticed what I was doing and called me aside.
“Do you know what your name means?” she asked.

I nodded, hesitant to tell her the bull story I had concocted, knowing fully well she’d call my bluff.

“It means someone who is loved,” she smiled.

I frowned. What was so unique in that?

“But I don’t want to be someone who is loved,” I stamped my feet, all ready to throw a tantrum. “Why did you choose such an ordinary name for me?”

My mother laughed. Then she held me close and whispered to me a truth that got embedded deep within the core of my personality. A truth that has probably stayed there ever since.

“Love is never ordinary,” she said. “Don’t let yourself ever forget that.”

Today, as my mom fondly recalls this little incident from my childhood, I can’t help but ponder on the truth in my name.
In my life, I have loved and been loved. And for that I am ever so thankful.

On a somewhat related note, I watched a movie a while ago, titled 'Call me by your name'---a moving story on loving and letting go.
"Call me by your name, and I'll call you by mine," says Oliver to his love, Ellio.
And that made me think. Our name may be common to the world. But our identity is unique...reserved for only those we consider special.

Yes, there are days when the skeptic in me takes over. But on days like these, my name ‘Priyanka’ reminds me that if there is anything extraordinary in this ordinary life, it is the love we give and receive.

Ending here with a quote from the same movie; 

"We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!"

Reflect

I was reading a bit on clairvoyance the other day, and it made me think on a tangent.
Honestly, I believe every one of us has a little bit of clairvoyance hidden within us.
A sixth sense of sorts, an extra sensory perception, an ability to foretell or see a little of our own future. But we are so stuck up in considering ourselves ordinary, that we pay no heed to this tiny voice struggling to be heard.

“I never saw it coming,” is a phrase commonly used by people from all generations. But so is “I told you so.”

Ever noticed how these two juxtaposed phrases always alternate? The former is more often than not, always used with reference to the self while the latter with regard to someone else. The order seldom changes.
So how is it that we hardly realize the consequences of our behavior when we can easily tell what impact somebody else’s action will bring about?

Well, the reason is pretty much the same as why we always manage to notice the pimple on someone else’s nose and not ours...until of course we stand in front of a mirror.
Some people find this mirror in a friend, a confidante.
Some may find it in meditation. Others in instrospection. While a few may never find it at all, never discovering their self-clairvoyant abilities, believing that they are and will forever remain flawless.

Have you found your mirror yet?

One people, one love

I recall a conversation I had with a friend a few years ago. It was somewhere in 2013, when the repeal about Section 377 was brutally rejected by the Supreme Court. As someone who had long since come out, my friend was distraught at the tyrannical nature the law had reassumed.

“It is as if we were granted a morsel of food, which was then snatched from right beneath our nose,“ he complained. “What kind of mockery is this?!”

“I understand,” I said. I wanted him to know I was empathetic about the situation.

But the moment, I said that, he turned livid.

“No, you don’t. How can you even say that?" he cried. "You’re straight. You will never understand.”
I was taken aback by the sudden outburst. I had not expected that response from him.
How dare he, I thought! I wanted to tell him it wasn’t fair, painting everybody with the same brush.
I wanted to tell him that just because some people choose to be ignorant idiots about the consensual feelings of others (which is not even their business in the first place), it did not give him the right to assume everyone had the same shitty attitude.
I wanted to yell at him for being an asshole and for insulting me, for making me feel I belong to that intellectually backward section of society, that thinks they can tell someone how to love and who to love. But I kept mum. I knew he was hurting.

I kept silent and bore the brunt of his anger. I was mad at myself for being part of a society that is ineffective in protecting someone’s constitutional rights.
I heard him fume and ramble against the injustice, all the while not daring to offer consolation of any sort because anything said at that time would seem like empty words used to placate. Why? Because like he said, I "wouldn't understand."

Cut to present day, and the Supreme Court has finally passed its verdict. Section 377 has been scraped off. And homosexuality has been decriminalized.
After 157 years.

For the uninitiated (although if you are, shame on you, but read on anyway), this law was first established during the British rule in 1931 as a law to protect against sodomy. However, slowly and gradually, everything and anything other than procreative peno-vaginal sex was considered 'against the law of nature' and started being included under this law, thereby applying a ban on freedom of expression for consensual love as well.

In 2009, however, the Delhi high court had scraped off portions of the section as constitutional with respect to gay sex. However, this was not to last. In December 2013, the case was repealed to the Supreme Court and the judgement was overturned, stating that repealing section 377 should be left to the Parliament and not the judiciary. In 2016, a petition was submitted by the Naz foundation and others to be reviewed by a five member constitutional bench.
The struggle was on. The stakes were high. The result was unpredictable.

Finally, after a a tortuous civil struggle of seven years and a social struggle of 157 years, the Supreme Court has finally passed its verdict in favor of the ban. Much fanfare and a lot of atrocities later, Section 377 was finally struck down (in the context of consensual homosexual relationships). This meant that sex between two consenting adults of the same sex will no longer be a crime. It also meant that the LGBTQ community would no longer have to be embarrassed of their identity or fear that they'd be considered a threat to society. They would now be able to enjoy an 'unbiased' health care, employment, even basic facilities like housing etc that they they had been previously denied.

(Below is a video from 'The Quint', explaining the judgement)

It was not just a win for the LGBTQ community, but a victory for every Indian who had ever dreamt of a free country...an important step towards a truly liberated nation, free of oppression, where nobody could tell us what to eat, how to dress, or who to love.

However, for every humanist who celebrated the decision, there were three bigots who turned their noses and frowned at the idea of two people being able to express consensual love regardless of gender. While some passed preposterous comments, some transformed into the harbingers of procreation. But who cared?!! This was a massive win, a well deserved victory. And no amount of bigotry or pig-headedness could rain over the rainbow parade.

I called the same friend again yesterday, the one who said I couldn’t understand. We were in touch of course, but after that one discussion way back in 2013, there was some tension looming between us
(perhaps because he was angry at the system, and I was angry at the fact that I couldn't do much but write articles citing logical reasons to scrape off a draconian law, knowing fully well it was futile, that hate, like love, understands no logic)

Yesterday, after what felt like ages, I picked up the phone and called him. We spoke about the journey. He was elated with the verdict. I was happy for him.
And that was enough to clear the air between us. Still, I confessed that his remark had offended me and that it was not fair to make such generalized sweeping statements.

“I know, silly," he said. "You really think I would rant to you if I thought you judged me from being different,” he said.
After a second's pause, he said, "But being non-judgemental is also like being in the minority, no? Soon we might have a law against it. And it will take more than 157 years to pull that one down."

We both giggled. But I could feel the bitterness in his voice. He was right.  A constitutional change was not enough. Our society needed to change (its mindset) too.

“Change is on the way," I said. "There is hope now."
“Yes.” he sighed. "We live in hope."

We spoke for a little more, and then ended the conversation promising to keep in touch. It was only later that I noticed my cell phone was flooded with constant messages from groups that I, due to some bad karma, were still a part of despite exiting a few times. (They keep adding me back, and I keep playing dead there)
There was a hustle of activity on some otherwise dormant groups as well. Every group had one or other meme about the verdict being circulated. Most of them were in poor taste and reflected how mulish the society still was towards welcoming a constitutional change, leave alone a social one.

Would Section 377 in the minds of the public ever be scraped off?

Words of a nihilist friend from long ago crossed my mind.
"We live in hope, and die in fact."

Nevertheless, a small beam of sunlight is sometimes enough to light a room.
So here's to the eternal optimist in us. Here's to the fighter, the dreamer, the lover. Here's to the one that wishes and dreams and more importantly, believes, that  'One people, one love' will become a reality very soon...


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