Simply Sharad

This country, it seems, is not a nice place anymore. Robert is accused of land scam. But Sonia leads a march against the land acquisition bill. We want to crack Rahul jokes. But Rahul jokes are not funny anymore. Arvind’s sugar is under control. But his party is not. Sharad compliments women. But women create a furor. Bollywood celebrates size zero. But Sharad cannot talk about bodies. Is there any sense of justice?
Which is why, an upset Sharad ji revealed his feelings in a secret diary.

Dear diary,

Why exactly are Arnab and his band of merry women plundering me on television?
Each time I talk about the ten times fair sex, I do it with all the sincerity and vivid imagery at my command. And yet I get punched senseless. Back in 2013, Supriya Sule of the NCP lashed out when I had said, ‘Kaun hai hum me se jisne peechha nahi kiya hai. Aur jab mahila se baat karni hoti hai tab pehal mahila nahi karti hai, pehal toh hamein hi karna hoti hai.’ (We have all stalked women. And you have to take the first step when you want to speak to a woman. A woman will never approach you. We, men have to try on our own…)

What was offensive about it? When you don’t accuse Dharmendra for singing ‘Tera Peecha Na Chodunga Soniye’, why hang me? There is cultural acceptance when Bollywood celebrates stalking. But when I support stalking women, I get lynched. Tum karo to flirty, hum kare to dirty? 
 What about Valentine’s Day? Is it not about wooing women with flowers, gifts and cards? Tum karo to celebration, hum kare to objectification?

Then there was my innocuous remark about ‘Par kati mahilaye’. Far away from the pubs of Gurgaon, that’s what we call short haired women – par kati.
Now DMK MP Kanimozhi is upset. All because I spoke about female bodies! As a true buddy of Mulayam ji, I think and speak. When I was talking about bodies of South Indian women, I was thinking and speaking. Perhaps I digressed during a discussion on insurance bill. But what the hell! Is there a designated time and place when you can think about women?

It is a sad day for Indian politics when Smriti Irani has the gall to ask the ‘Best Parliamentarian’ to keep quiet.When I say I know what she is, I am not lying. I know. I can discuss her in the parliament at length. But no one lets me speak.
Above all, most of my colleagues share my view. Why else would they chuckle at my jokes? Tired after discussing complex national issues, we deserve a good laugh, no?

To those who want me to apologize, forget it. To those who call me a sexist, thank you. To my mind, I was always sexy. You should see me in my red Bermuda shorts. I once wore them on the beaches of Pattaya along with my buddies MSY and D.P. Tripathi. All the mahila on the beach went crazy. Now you are imagining, aren’t you? Everyone imagines. Tum karo to fantasize, hum kare to apologize?

Regardless of meaningless criticism, I will continue to work for  ‘par kati’, ‘full bodied’ ‘sanwali’ women who can dance well. Each and every kind of body - buxom, slender, obese, petite, slim, paunchy....Irrespective of the color, shape or size. And I say this with all the vivid imagination at my command. 

Also on Huffington Post.

 Image: From Here

Send and Receive

Call it a family ritual, a middle class practice or a small town quirk - my family believed in the tradition of receiving and sending-off house guests at the railway station. This, of course, was back in the eighties when sticking with your family is what made the family. It was a time when relatives of relatives were family. It was also a time when wasted time was enjoyable time.
As a result, it is now easy to appreciate why our house used to hum with relatives arriving for entrance exams, staying for family events and over-staying for summer vacations. Sometimes there was no reason at all. The sprawling government bungalow was an ideal holiday abode. I'm not sure about Ma, but as kids things were pitched perfectly for us.
Barring those who were young or single, we used to visit the railway station to receive almost everyone. In many ways, our presence at the railway platform was a sign of welcome, an affirmation that the guest was wanted. Much as I hate visiting  crowded railway stations today, I remember my childhood station visits with some degree of nostalgia. Maybe, I shouldn’t use the word nostalgia because nostalgia can be an obsessive liar. Let’s call it a trip back in time.

Oftentimes, when the train was delayed, we had plenty of time to kill. Imagine killing time, in the absence of smart phones! Impossible, right? But happiness relied in the fact that there was a disregard for time, an anxiety about the visiting guests and books to browse at the A.H. Wheeler book stall. My brother would opt for Phantom or Archie’s Comics, while I was happy with The Famous Five or The Adventures of Tintin. Ma would flip through the Cine Blitz or the Star & Style, covertly making sure that the cover was appropriate for our innocent eyes. Once home, a bare-chested Rajesh Khanna and Tina Munim on the cover were shoved beneath the mattress. I still don’t know how it helped in shielding our impressionable minds, but that's how it was. 

Similarly, when we used to visit grandparents, the most thrilling part was arriving at the railway station. As the station swung into view and the train screeched to halt, I used to feel a silly surge of excitement peering through the compartment window, watching all those who had come to receive us. There were occasions when I was garlanded and greeted with bouquets like a politician. And thereafter, oblivious of the milling crowd we had moments of embrace, smiles, cuddles and exclamations about how tall we had grown.

Almost all railway station stories, featured an ugly rotund character called the ‘bedding’. A combination of easy functionality but complex handling, the olive green bedding used to carry everything that didn’t fit in the suitcases. Packing and unpacking the damn thing was another story. Did you jump on it while quilts were being packed? I did.
We’ve come a long way since carrying ugly bedding's and receiving unwelcome guests. Busy in our lives as we are, and living in cagey apartments as we do, having house guests is a slightly painful protracted affair. With more and more guests arriving via flights and distances playing the spoilsport in metros, the ritual of receiving and sending-off is now reserved for children and parents. For everything else there is an app called the Meru, Uber, Easy Cabs. Or a perk called the driver.

Even as I write, my son embarks on a new journey. We insist on accompanying him to the airport, but he prefers a cab. Perhaps the attempt is to avoid emotion soaked moments. Perhaps there is no point in travelling thirty kilometers only to wave hands and hide moist eyes. Or perhaps, the idea is to underline the fact that he is a big boy, why bother? 

Speaking for myself, I prefer the partings to be clinically short and swift. There is comfort in the truism - what goes around comes around. A relief in knowing that change is constant but imperfect. See-off today, receive tomorrow. 

This post is also on Huffington Post.
Image Courtesy: Getty Images