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 price of discovery; balancing curiosity with caution

I recently found myself reading about some of history’s greatest scientific pioneers. I was initially drawn in by their groundbreaking discoveries—the theories that changed entire fields, the inventions that pushed humanity forward, the insights. It was fascinating, even inspiring, to realize just how much they contributed to science. 

But as I dug deeper, I was struck by another realization: many of these brilliant minds didn’t just take intellectual risks; they exposed themselves to personal dangers, sometimes with irreversible consequences. These weren’t just scientists—they were risk-takers, willing to sacrifice their health and safety for the sake of knowledge. This added layer made me appreciate their work even more, recognizing that behind many of the discoveries we take for granted are tales of courage, sacrifice, and, at times, personal tragedy.

One of these remarkable figures was Dr. Barry Marshall, who drank a broth containing Helicobacter pylori bacteria to prove its role in causing stomach ulcers.

This bold experiment led him to develop gastritis and an ulcer, but it ultimately changed how the medical world understood and treated the condition.

Similarly, Isaac Newton’s experiment with a bodkin—a sharp needle inserted behind his own eyeball—showed his unrelenting curiosity, even if it meant risking his vision to study light and color. Newton's actions, as unsettling as they might seem, revealed the lengths to which some scientists would go to understand nature’s secrets.

There were also others like Marie Curie (known for her groundbreaking research on radioactivity), and Werner Forssmann’s (known for his discovery in the field of cardiac catheterization), who at the cost of great personal risks and damage, contributed to our understanding of nuclear physics and cardiology. 

Reflecting on these stories, I cannot help but admire how much they sacrificed in order to shape our knowledge of science today. Their sheer dedication, perseverance and integrity towards their field is awe inspiring. 

However, it also makes me ponder on the thin line between curiosity and recklessness.

If our curiosity is satiated at the cost of personal risk, if progress can be made only at the cost of personal tragedy, is it really worth it? 

Today, we’re more aware of the dangers experimentation can bring. We also possess the tools to mitigate them. The pioneers of yesteryear were not equipped with that luxury. And yet, their thirst for knowledge, their passion for breakthroughs was far greater. Reading their stories has made me appreciate not just the knowledge they uncovered, but the courage it must have taken them to get there. 

However, as impressed by their outcomes as I am, their journeys also  remind me that progress doesn’t have to come at any cost; it can be both bold and safe, driven by both heart and wisdom. And in that perhaps lies the true spirit of discovery. 

I leave you all with a question -  

If your passion is directs you towards uncharted territory, and your caution holds you back, how far would you really venture? 

On the topic of

What is poetry, really? And where do we find it? 

Poetry, like water,  sometimes trickles down our eyes and blots itself into fragrant words on paper. 

Other times, it flits from the corners of our mouth like a kiss that is blown to our beloved, flying across smiling lips, ours to theirs. 

Poetry can create ripples of emotion. It can arouse waves of desire. It can form whirlpools of despair, drowning us bit by bit into the invisible depth of the ocean in our heart. 

Poetry is a tempest but it is also the lighthouse that saves us from the storm.  

It can kill us with its intensity but also revitalize us with hope.

Poetry is everywhere…in the soft tinkle of a child’s laughter, in the unbearable silence after a lovers tiff, in the beauty of changing seasons, in the pain of heartbreak, in the kindness of strangers, in the delicate arrangement of whorls of flower petals, in the colors of the rainbow, in the surreal  spectrum of the prism formed by a drop of dew on a tree leaf. Just like the fibonacci sequence is evident in nature, poetry too is all around us. 

And for that we must be grateful.

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. 

#WorldBrailleDay: a collective insight

"The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision” - Hellen Keller. 

A sighted person may not always understand the perils of those who are not as lucky and may often tend to take his gift for granted. The sightless, on the other hand, have to fight their own hurdles and face their own challenges. To add insult to injury the society is not always supportive, making it rather difficult for a differently abled person to live a productive life. 

In 1809, Louis Braille, a French educator, who had himself lost his eyesight in a childhood accident, devised a tactile reading and writing system. This system consisted of raised dots and was sadly accepted and taught in schools in the U.S only by 1916 by which time Louis was dead. Decades later, in November 2018, the UN chose the fourth of January  to be commemorated as #WorldBrailleDay in his memory in order to increase awareness and sensitivity among people world over.

Over time, advances in science and technology has led to constant improvisations of techniques and ideas of innovation. We now have audio books, Google assistants, and technologically driven lifestyle aids that are voice sensitive. However, one cannot undermine the role that Braille played in lighting the flame of hope and passing on the baton for an equal world. 

So here is a list of Braille friendly endeavours that are touching hearts and paving ways towards an inclusive society. 

In India

• ITC Savlon along with NAB (National Association for the Blind) initiated a design change for its antiseptic liquid pack and made it available to several NAB centres, select blind schools and educative workshops. 

• Taco Bell Mumbai, in two of its outlets, one at Rcity, Ghatkopar and the other at Viviana Mall, Thane, set an example by introducing the first Braille Menu for blind consumers. The menu was/is in print as well as in Braille-and audio-enabled in order to be accessible to all. A very sensitive and all-inclusive gesture.

• Nawabs Wajid Ali Shah Zoological gardens in Lucknow has Braille educational boards for the convenience of visually impaired visitors. This is done in order to promote inclusivity, spread awareness, education, and conservation of the wild life and ecosystem among all alike, abled and differently abled individuals. 

Inspiration from the rest of the world: 

• Argentina has Tiflolibros and digital libraries started by the WIPPO (world intellectual properties protection organisation). These help in making a vast collection of books and reading material accessible to the visually impaired. 

• L’Occitane, a French beauty company, has done a fantastic job in successfully incorporating Braille into its packaging of almost 70% of its products. 
• There are several other more economical and simpler ways to improve packaging and make it all inclusive. Square packaging instead of round bottles when it comes to bath products will ensure the product won't roll off and will be in easy reach even if it slips. A tactile code system like a raised strip on a shampoo bottle and dot on conditioner will make it easy for the visually impaired to identify. These have been employed in other countries and should be considered in India as well. 
• Medical prescriptions can get real tedious to follow if one is visually impaired, especially when it comes to following the instructions written in tiny print on the cover of medicine bottles. So the U.S has come up with a perfect solution to the problem. CVS pharmacy, in the United States, has collaborated with the American Council for the Blind and created a new and particularly helpful feature on the CVS Pharmacy phone app, known as the SpokenRx. SpokenRx is an in-app prescription reader and is specially designed to read out all the information on prescription bottles, thus making it a lot more convenient for those unable to read the tiny font themselves. CVS pharmacy plans to equip all pharmacies in the U.S with this feature by 2021 end.

We can only hope India will work towards taking similar steps. Living with dignity is a basic human right and it is our duty as people living in the society to promote an all-inclusive behavior to each and every one of its members. To ensure equal rights to education, freedom of expression and financial safety to all its members. Compared to the West, India still has a long way to go. But hope springs eternal. And if a general sense of humanity persists, we will get there...

Speaking of which, one voluntary organisation that deserves to be mentioned for its commendable efforts to spreading hope and positivity is We4You. I came across their page on Facebook a couple of years ago and volunteered to donate my voice for their audio books...a feature that promises to help visually impaired children to visualize the world in a better way. To spark their power of imagination. To impart education through academic textbooks. To engage and inspire with story telling. I hope my recordings were able to do justice. 

We4You helps visually impaired children to find their footing in the world, through audio books, vocational training, and education. They encourage, empower, hone skills, provide accessible information, and employment assistance. 

Do check out their page and become a volunteer if you wish. We need to support such efforts in whichever way we can.

Ending here on a pensive note, with a poignant quote for you to reflect upon...

"There is no better way to thank God for your sight than by giving a helping hand to someone in the dark."  ~ Helen Keller

#GlobalFamilyDay: it's all in the family!

Today, I was reminded of an ad that I had come across a long time ago, on the power of eating together...

...in which all the residents of a building who are otherwise barely acquainted set table and dine together and get to know each other better...an act of bonding in a disconnected world. 

And that brings me smoothly to #Global FamilyDay, a day that is observed mainly in the U.S on the first of January of every year.  A feeling of unity that needs to be celebrated by everyone around the world. 

Now imagine the residents of the building to be inhabitants of the world instead; people of different religions, different nationalities. Now what if we all decided to sit down and eat together, share a meal, and get to know each other along the way. 

It would probably take us this kind of interaction to realise a much neglected truth...we as people around the world,  with all our differences in colour, age, sex, upbringing, culture, customs, traditions, habit, political affiliations, are not that different after all.

Speaking of which, 2020, in its own super-sadistic way, taught us exactly that. It made us realise how similar we all are, mainly in our responses to an unseen threat or danger that we have little role in causing. 

When a crisis of such global proportion, like Covid ;han strikes, everybody from the richest man in the most powerful country to the poorest man in the country of least power becomes vulnerable. 

The past year taught us how alike we are in our reactions, to our fears, and how in times like these, the entire human race should forget all their differences and stand up for each other. Have each other’s back. 

Global family day was traditionally celebrated by rising a bell or beating a drum on the first day of the year...a loud resounding promise to be there for each other. 

However, down the ages, this has been customised. This year especially, maintaining safety precautions is imperative in the midst of this pandemic. 

But given the situation, here are three ways we can all observe WorldFamilyDay in 2021 and feel like a part of this colossal unit of trust and togetherness. Let’s all try and make that positive dent in the world.

Because no matter how much the circumstances limit us, humanity should always come first! 

Here are five ways to celebrate the vibe of #GlobalFamilyDay in 2021: 

• Start small. Call that neighbour to ask him how he is doing. Connect with one friend you haven’t been in touch with. 
• Start at home. Cook a special meal for your own family.
• Make a small donation to trusted funds or contribute to your favorite NGO. 
• Change your attitude - promise to practice tolerance and mutual respect. Try not to judge people even if you don’t know them...especially if you don’t know them. 
• Last but not least, spread social positivity - Social networks are increasingly being abused for all the wrong reasons. Stop making the hate go viral. All arguments need not be fueled. It’s best to know when to argue and whom to ignore. It just helps keep the peace maintained. Don’t hold on to the resentment though. Every family has a few cracked eggs anyway. It takes all kinds to make this world. 

The world is at its vulnerable best right now and literally nobody wants to feel alone. So take that step. Extend that hand. Call up one friend everyday. Celebrate connections. Small gestures like these make a positive impact, no matter how tiny or far fetched they may seem.

And although we are still engaging virtually at the moment, know that the bonds we are forming are real. 

So if you are reading this, take this as a sign from the universe. Not just for today but for all the coming days. Lets pledge to encourage love and peace the best way we can. 

Because in times of crisis, it is our family we turn to. 

Because the world is one big family and someone somewhere is always there for you. So you be there for someone too. 

Because it’s true we don’t need one particular day to start making this difference. But ‘now’ is always a good time. 

So here’s wishing my extended global family a very happy, safe, and fulfilling 2021. 

May our ‘now’ be forever blessed! 

Book review: “The family upstairs” by Lisa Jewell

This one was recommended to me by a friend who for some reason (unknown to me) thought  I’d enjoy it very much. Anyway...

It’s not like I hated the book. In fact, I did enjoy it in parts. 

The story is fast paced, the writing is crisp and easy. And it has that ‘page turner’ quality (at least in the first 3/4th of the book). The narrative is split into three different POV’s, each with a distinctive style and course.

25 year old Libby aka ‘the baby’ has just inherited a mansion in the heart of Chelsea from a family she lost as a baby. 

While researching on this surprise inheritance, there are a few other discoveries that come to light, the prime among which is that as a baby she had been found by authorities in the midst of a crime scene, gurgling away in her crib with three dead people in the house (her parents and their friend in an alleged suicide pact), and that she has two other siblings she never got to see/know growing up. 

It is these three; Libby, Henry, and Lucy around which the narrative is structured. 

Thus unravels the story of the mansion, at the centre of which lie these three families whose lives become closely intertwined in sinister ways...ways that the reader will find himself piecing together as he becomes part of the journey. A journey rife with emotional upheaval, a troubled childhood, bizarre cultic traditions, and some deep dark secrets that once breathed in the mansion, waiting for 25 years to be uncovered. 

Jewell has managed to successfully arouse and maintain the intrigue of the reader with each person’s narrative alternating between their horrifying past replete with cloistered cultic traditions and incestuous relationships, and their tumultuous present that is filled with confusion, fear, anxiety, and yet a common yearning...to meet each other, especially ‘the baby’. 

There are moments of surprise and incredulity that will leave the reader open mouthed but turning pages nevertheless.

Some instances that require suspension of disbelief include: 

A murder happening (too easily executed and concealed) in broad daylight and the cops never following up on it. 

Henry (at age 12 or 13) learning the entire expansive science of herbs and potions from Justin and then practicing it all alone with equal finesse almost felt like a retelling of ‘the sorcerers apprentice’.

Also couldn’t help feeling all the kids in the book must have been precocious, with them the little geniuses mastering sciences and culinary arts, or understanding the nuances of mature adult relationships or even plotting the almost-perfect escape and getting away with murder. 

All this, with not even as much as basic formal schooling (Couldn’t help feeling it may have been education that ruined us).

Cut to the last 1/4th of the book, and the plot starts feeling a little stodgy or probably this is because your expectations have risen by then, when suddenly the big reveal...the sibling is not the sibling (which is a good twist nonetheless). 

You devour the next few pages at break neck speed and just when you think the plot is getting sinister, PHAATT! It falls flat! 

Yes, the way the story ended left me feeling let down because by then I was rooting for pure evil, what with a cultic plot like that. Instead it gave me a happily ever after with almost negligible traces of ominousness (a major roll-eye moment).

It was as if the quota of dark psychology had outdone itself during their childhood and not wanting to creep them out anymore suddenly decided to quit the family reunion. 

Jewell leaves a lot to the readers imagination, with her touch-and-go style of cause and effect. 

Well, I do acknowledge the fact that a nice little open ending exercises the brain cells, but experimenting with these kind of open loops a tad too frequently in the story can make it seem like the author may have not known how best to end what she had started. 

To sum up, ‘The Family Upstairs’ is a racy, chilling, psychological read that includes multiple story lines, scarred lives, a lot of mystery, several murders, a deranged cult, a malevolent obsession, and a happy ending, that will leave you with some jaw drops and a whole lot of roll eye moments.

I rate it 3 out of 5 

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.

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 '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!

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!

BE-YOU-TIFUL

I was watching TV the other day when it struck me how majority of our commercials ranging from soap detergent to diesel oil feature a fair, slim, attractive woman promoting the said product.
India, the land of changing trends has, since time immemorial, been obsessed with size zero, fair skin and silky straight hair.. From mythology to matrimony. From fantasy to fiction. While in reality, the common Indian woman often has to bear the brunt of these expectations.
So it was indeed a refreshing change when a leading beauty brand, like Naturals hair and beauty salon, decided to welcome and celebrate the real Indian woman,.

However, as I set pen to paper, I found my own self stuck for inspiration.
Who was the one woman who could encapsulate all that I wanted to say the beauty?

Khalil Gibran’s words came to mind.
“Beauty is not in the face. Beauty is a light in the heart.”

It was just then that my maid saw me frowning, biting the tip of my pen...something I often do when I’m thinking hard.
Malati has been working at my place for the past eight years, and by now knows to read into my every expression.

“Something wrong, didi?” she asked.

I thought I’d just take a breather and talk with her for a while. She always managed to get me smiling with her uninhibited enthusiasm.

“Umm...I’m trying to write about someone who is truly beautiful. But I can’t seem to decide who...” I told her, keeping my writing pad and  pen aside.

Malti looked at me for a second. Then a strange expression lit up her face.

“Then you can write about me, didi,” she laughed, tossing back her head.

And in that precise moment, Malti’s life flashed in front of my eyes.
What Malti had said in casual jest, was not a joke but the absolute truth.

Who else could represent real beauty better than this warrior-woman standing in front of me. In no way could I say that she was conventionally beautiful, in fact she was far from the superficial standards of good looks. But there was something about her that stood out. Draped in an old yet freshly washed sari, her hair neatly oiled back, her dark skin glistening with confidence, her eyes shining with hope, her laughter infectious,  smiling through the odds life had thrown her way, Malati glowed from within.

She did not possess much, but made the most out of what she had, ‘sans’  complaints. And that was what made her beautiful.

Looking at a Malati made me reflect on what beauty is really about. True beauty is not something that could be obtained by cosmetics and hair products. It cannot be attained from pampering and polishing the outside. Beauty parlours and skin spas can undeniably make you feel better about yourself, and look good, but only for a while (maybe until  your next hair wash or facial).

But real beauty runs deeper than skin. It lies in the core of a woman’s bones, in the spine that she  possesses, in the gut that she reveals in difficult situations. True beauty comes from humility, from courage, from kindness and compassion, from integrity and self assurance.
And I could see all these traits in Malati.

Image source: Google

I recalled the first time I met Malati. She must have been hardly twenty one in search of work, fragile and faint, with a child on her hips, trying hard to conceal the bruises left on her skin by an abusive husband.

While most people in her situation would have gladly accepted the monetary help that was proffered to them, Malti had kept her eyes on the floor, and refused to touch the money.

“No didi,” she had said. “Give me work instead.”

Then realizing that I had noticed the bruises on her arm and back, she looked up at me and said.
“I am not going back to him.”

There was a kind of finality in the way she said it. A confidence in her voice that told me that here was a woman who had made up her mind. I asked her if she knew house work and would work at my home, and she readily agreed.

Since then, she has been working for us. She had been attentive and quick to learn and soon managed to impress us with her dedication towards her job. In the last eight years, she made a place not just in our home but in our hearts as well. She almost feels like family now.

Malati represents the indomitable spirit of the common Indian woman, who has had to face more than her fair share of troubles...from bullying to street harassment to financial strain. But not once did she allow herself to break. Her positivity is  inspirational.

I have seen Malti grow up to be an assertive, strong, and independant woman.
I have witnessed her sensitive side when her baby was burning with fever and she rushed to my house late at night and asked me to see him. I have witnessed her integrity and dedication when she worked extra hours for some home industry after leaving my home every evening, in order to earn a few extra bucks but refused any kind of monetary assistance from others. I have felt her pain when her child was denied admission at an English Medium school, and have shared her pride when they ultimately relented because she stood her ground firmly and demanded to know why they wouldn’t accept him.

Malati is someone who is well aware of her rights as a human, as a voting citizen. She discusses the news with me. She can now talk complete sentences in English and this has boosted her confidence to a large extent as well.
She attends every open house meeting at her child’s school with her head held high. And understands and respects the need for a woman to be financially independent in today’s world.

On days when I’m feeling low, she even lectures me on what I’d once taught her.

As I reflected upon the trajectory of her life, I realized that here was a fighter, a winner, a mother, and most importantly a woman...an embodiment of Stree Shakti, someone who had proved her mettle in all her different roles and has made adversity bite the dust.

“Life is too short, didi,” she recently told me, “to keep thinking about the mistakes of the past.”

Malati is dedicated, doting, and self reliant. She is a survivor, a warrior,  a rising Phoenix who does not believe in looking back at her ashes.

Malati may not have lustrous hair and clear skin. But those are tangibles that can be easily fixed. What she has within her, however, is an intangible beauty...the virtue of living unapologetically and loving herself just the way she is. Imperfectly perfect!

I believe every woman has TRUE BEAUTY within her in all the roles she plays. For over 18 years across 650 plus salons across the country, Naturals has been helping the Beautiful Indian Woman get more Beautiful.
Today Naturals Salutes the Beautiful Indian Woman.
Presenting Naturals TRUE BEAUTY…http://bit.ly/naturalsOF

...true beauty that lies in the strength to brave the storm, show off every scar as a badge of victory and lead your life with dignity.

Over time, Malati has persevered to change her every vulnerability into virtue. From the timid twenty one year old to a feisty young woman who fights her battles alone, she has come a very long way.

When I look at Malati, I don’t see just a woman, but a powerhouse of positivity. She is kind, diligent,and honest. An epitome of courage and empowerment.

“Malati, you are right,” I said to her. “You are indeed truly beautiful.”

“I was only joking, didi,” she grins, a little embarrassed..

“But I am not, Malati. You are beautiful in the way your eyes light up when you talk about your baby, in your uninhibited laughter when you are happy. When most women are afraid to bare their soul, you believe in voicing your opinions without pretense or manipulation. You are beautiful in the way you make others around you smile with your infectious vibe. And what impresses me most is your relentless thirst or knowledge and perseverance, and that is what makes you truly beautiful. “

Malati smiled. She did not say anything. But her moist eyes spoke for her.

Then when she thought I wasn’t looking, she beamed at herself in the looking glass on my dressing table.
I smiled, hoping she saw in it, not just the reflection of her face but also the sparkle of her soul.

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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