An Open Letter to Chetan Bhagat

An Open Letter to Chetan Bhagat

Mr. Bhagat,
I recently, quite unfortunately, came across your views on “Housewives”. I wish I hadn’t, cause even though I never really admired your writing I believed you’d be anything but critical, disapproving and in fact judgmental. Writers, Artists are not generally known to bracket and label people. So, here’s a point-by-point response to your views on us—“housewives”. I though it was important for you to hear it straight from the horses mouth.

Here’s what you said:
"My mother worked for 40 years. My wife is the COO at an international bank. It makes me proud. She doesn't make phulkas for me. She doesn't make phulkas for me. We outsource that work to our help, and it doesn't really bother me. If my wife had spent her life in the kitchen, it would have bothered me more."—–
Question Mr Bhagat—If I get you right, had your mother not worked for 40 years and your wife hadn’t been the COO of an International Bank—and instead chosen to be at Home—you wouldn’t have been proud of them? Ironically, Mr Bhagat we women are generally quite proud of our Men (even if they are nincompoop slothful asses)—irrespective of how much or whether they earn at all. Fortunately for your clan, there are enough women out there who unconditionally stand by their men all their lives, even when they have the option of walking out. May be it’s a good idea to feel proud of the people in our lives for who there are—and not what they bring to the table!

I find this statement extremely condescending, Mr. Bhagat. It feels that you’re looking down on the work done by the woman who makes “phulkas” for you and your family. You tell us that you’re happy your wife does not make “phulkas” for you—and in stead, chooses to work at the International bank. The woman who’s spending her life in the kitchen—to serve you, feed you—your help—is according to you doing some sort of a lesser menial job. You clearly need perspective Mr. Bhagat.

One,
"a man who marries a career woman gets a partner to discuss his own career with. A working woman may be able to relate better to organizational issues than a housewife. A spouse who understands office politics and can give you good advice can be an asset."

This statement takes the cake! I am SO tempted to call you names—but I shall refrain for the sake of propriety! I am a stay at home mother, Mr. Bhagat. And contrary to your opinion of “women like me”—my husband and I discuss every single of his work related issue. Just as he talks to me about the issues at home—and that includes Maids! And guess what, he goes back with a better evaluation and assessment of the issue. Sometimes, an outsider’s viewpoint is all that you need to distance yourself and look at things objectively. As for “organizational skills”—Spend a day at home Mr. Bhagat—with a cranky baby—Maid not having turned up—food on the burner—and a messy home. 9 out of 10 times, husbands returning home from work in the evening open the doors to a swanky clean home with the baby well fed and everything under control. That by the way is called Organization!
But forget about all that—Did you just call “working women” an “Asset”? So you’re really just one of those men who look at women as commodities—as a ‘return on investment! After all those preposterous Matrimonial adverts by grooms looking for “fair” “convent educated” “homely” wives—they should now be looking for ones “who understand office politics” and “give good advice”. We women will always remain objects that serve some sort of purpose for the Men—isn’t it?

Two,
"a working woman diversifies the family income streams. In the era of expensive apartments and frequent lay-offs, a working spouse can help you afford a decent house and feel more secure about finances."
The idea to look for a wife who works outside of the home—to cater to the needs of a metropolitan life—is in itself warped. The last I heard was that one should ideally be choosing his/her life partner based on who he/she is –rather than based on their bank balances. Shame Mr. Bhagat—for it seems you view relationships and marriage as a sort of agreement between two business partners than individuals in love!

Three,
"a working woman is better exposed to the world. She brings back knowledge and information that can be useful to the family. Whether it's the latest deals or the best mutual fund to invest in, or even new holiday destinations, a working woman can add to the quality of life."
You sound like someone who writes on the cave walls! Certainly not the one like me—who races away on her keyboard! Cause had you been like me—and like millions out there who use the computer and the internet, you’d know that for all your queries—even on mutual fund and holiday destinations, there is the quintessential Google! A woman does not necessarily have to step out—work 9-5—“get exposed”—“and bring back information”. You know Mr. Bhagat, these days everything is just a click away. I, for instance, a housewife, not just planned my family’s holidays, but made all our bookings online—found the places we wanted to see—restaurants we wanted to eat at—all over the internet, sitting right here on the cushiony couch of my living room. How’s that to add to “the quality of life”?

Four,
"the children of a working woman learn to be more independent and will do better than mollycoddled children."
My husband, Mr Bhagat, is the 245th Indian to represent the country in Cricket—that in a country of a billion plus population. The first time he travelled on his own—and I mean all by himself—was when he was 10—yes, just Ten! He took a roadways bus to travel between two cities to play a competitive game. So you see He’s fiercely Independent. And has done pretty well in life too. Guess what, his mother was never a “working woman”. She never stepped out to work. Yet, she worked very hard to bring up her children and be the home manager while her husband was away earning the daily bread. My husband and his sister, like thousand other children, ARE NOT MOLLYCODDLED! They were disciplined, focused and very determined.
That’s another of your bullet points going down the bin!

Five,
"working women often find some fulfillment in their jobs, apart from home. Hence, they may have better life satisfaction, and feel less dependent on the man. This in turn can lead to more harmony."
Ah! Mr. Bhagat, how I wish you’d enrolled yourself in some ‘Art of Living’ type of course! Some Guru out there should have told you that “Life Satisfaction” are big words. Job/No Job, Marriage/No Marriage, Kid/No Kid – are superficial pointers. They do not define satisfaction. They never can. A man can lie on the rug, stare at the ceiling, not move an inch the entire day—and still feel very satisfied. You get the drift? No, may be it’s too heavy for you. Forget it! Look at it this way—I just chopped some onions—finely, bit by bit. Sprinkled some oil in the pan and sautéed them on low flame right till they were nice golden brown. It took a lot of effort and precision—for had I moved away, they would’ve gotten too brown. And had I increased the flame, they would’ve lost their sweetness. That’s passion. That Mr. Bhagat is satisfaction. I am not quite sure if you understand this either—cause you’re the one to “outsource your phulkas”.

And for the life of me—I am waiting to hear how women who do NOT work fail to contribute towards a better nation. You sound like this one elderly man I met—who pronounced that the increase in Crime rate in cities was because of Women! They work and take up all the jobs, leaving men sitting idle. And as we all know an idle mind is a devil’s workshop! You, Mr. Bhagat sound as lame as illogical and as incongruous as that old man. Only that you two are on the opposite sides of spectrum.

This is a humble urge—please DO NOT tell us what is good/bad. What is acceptable and what is not. What Men want us to do and what not! And please DO NOT tell us what’s the best possible way to live our life! Just don’t tell us anything. Because for you and many-many more Men out there—women will always be either sluggish “housewives” who just sit all day at home doing nothing OR “the working woman” who doesn’t take care of her home. We can do without such absurd cataloguing. Really—Mind your own business!

Thanks,

A Homemaker 

Daddy's Do Little

Thank you, Archie’s and Hallmark and the rest of the bandwagon for bringing Mother’s Day to India! Of all the silly days you keep reminding us of—as silly as ‘Hug Holiday’, ‘Frog Jumping Day’ and ‘Nurse Day’, this one deserves to be marked and celebrated—I am all for this one, only this one. Obviously, second Sunday of May isn’t Godsend, for most of us do feel indebted to our mothers for all that they do, every single day, round the clock, incessantly, to make our lives beautiful. Unfortunately, not many of us stop by and tell her the same—for sons I am told, it’s particularly difficult to hold Mum close, hug her and whisper a Thank You. They want to—desperately, but their machinery, their hardwiring doesn’t allow them to. Pity! So Mother’s Day comes in handy—gives them the license to reveal their mushy side, without having to worry about being called a ‘sissy’.

 

That by the way brings me to something that I have been most perturbed about recently—always good to talk! Now while I am hurriedly scribbling this post, my husband is feeding the baby her breakfast (she’s a bit fussy with cereals), next he will bathe her and dress her up (I choose what she wears, he always gets the combinations wrong!). Oops! For all the conservative women and mothers and mother in-laws reading this post, that’s too much information! I am told not to blurt out how my baby’s father loves to play with her, has no qualms in changing her diapers, putting up with her tantrums, feeding her meals, putting her to sleep, etc. etc. ‘Indian Men’ don’t do that! I am secretly told what a wonderful man I have bumped into—Well, the truth is, he is wonderful—the bigger truth is, he is wonderful NOT because he’s a dotting father and thinks it important to share the responsibilities of nurturing our little one. He’s a nice man regardless of all this.

My question is simple—why is brining up a child the prerogative of the mother alone? Why is parenthood only about motherhood? Why is it odd for the father to play an equal parent?

C’mon! gone are the days when Dads didn’t even know which standard their child was studying in, whether he had a bad day at school, or he won a race, or the little things that made him/her happy! The brand of Dads who’d make you piss in your pants at the sight of those red lines in your report card—have long run out on their expiry date. Dads today, at least the ones from the young urban India, cook clean and do the little knick-knacks around the house to make life easier for their overworked wives. They don’t mind coming in handy when the baby’s thrown up, and the mother requires an extra pair of hands. Or, when the baby’s super cranky in the middle of the night, and the mother is desperately looking for help. They don’t walk a kilometer ahead of the mother, while she holds the baby in one arm and the grocery bags in the other. Some really nice ones even tell her to take a break from the backbreaking duties, and go out and watch a movie or have a round of coffee with her friends—while they babysit.

That’s how I was brought up. And that’s how my little one is being brought up too. And that’s how all kids deserve to be brought up. Fathers are not ringside spectators. They are not what they think themselves to be—“breadwinners” alone. There are many-many mothers out there who earn their living, bring up their kids and manage their homes. So the humbug of “men have to go out and earn” is just that, humbug.

I am not suggesting the wives should be busy painting their nails, while the husband, after a hard day’s work, comes back to clean and cook and take care of the baby. I am only talking of shared responsibilities—the inherent realization that the baby is not just the priority of the mother, but the father too.

Pity, that an Indian, living in a plush London suburb, educated, and mother of two—who I met during one of my visits, took my husband’s involvement in our daughter’s life for some earth shattering event. Nothing like she’d ever seen before! Stories of how he’d always be ready to provide care for his baby, and share his wife’s—a first time mother’s workload reached our homes before our flight back J Was she really concerned for my husband and mad at his tyrant wife, or was she just plain, well, jealous because her “successful” and “super busy” husband plainly refused to play the game fair.

I am glad the doctor asked my husband to step in, see and go through the experience of his baby being delivered in the labor room. That, I think, is so important to initiate the men folk into the process of parenting—no man would have the heart to turn his back on his baby once he sees her/him coming to life right before him. And he wouldn’t even have the heart to turn his back on his wife, after seeing her go through the pain she did in brining their bundle of joy to life.

  

A Brand New Life

If I were to pop a question to all fellow mothers reading this post—“what’s changed post the baby?” They’d perhaps turnaround and ask, “What’s NOT changed post the baby?” –-and with a smile that reveals a lot more than conceals. From the most trivial to the most crucial things in life, nothing looks the same, isn’t it? Even something as trifling as a shopping spree now means buying something for the baby—a toy or a pretty dress, instead of those shoes you’ve been eyeing for long—let alone bigger issues. It’s amusing how we suddenly wake up to the magical powers of nursery rhymes that soothe the baby when nothing else works. Clocks, well, most of us stop looking at them—baby decides what time of the day it is, and what we should be doing. Every time, you run into parents with a child throwing a tantrum, you end up giving them an I-know-what-it-means’ look instead of a ‘Shut-him/her-up”. Taking a shower, in fact even a pee break, becomes a luxury, doesn’t it! Days turn nights, and nights back into days while we keep yearning for sleep, sleep and more sleep. A friend’s, who’s also a new mother, Facebook update said her New Year resolution was to get more sleep—the comments there only told her to wake up and smell the coffee instead! And in that unending list of ‘things-to-do’, painting those nails or going to a spa don’t even feature.

All of these lifestyle changes work at a very subtle level—you don’t wake up one day to press the ‘paternity key’. In fact, to most of us these don’t even feel like sacrifices. And that’s both the beauty and irony of it all. The fact that we learn to love and respect our parents far more than we ever did, happens naturally, when we take the wheel and take the ride. Pain, tears and heartbreaks now feel much worse, again instinctively. You look at your baby in the mirror and not yourself, or click her picture not your own—happens so secretly, so beautifully, that you only end up marveling at it in some quite moment or while writing/reading such blogs.   

Still—and having said all of that—some of those changes pinch! One of the worst hit is the marriage itself. If someone told me that their marriage didn’t undergo a change, they’re probably not being entirely honest. I remember throwing a fit every morning, for at least a couple of weeks after our baby Aarna was born. She is a breastfed baby who demanded her meal quite a few times through the night. Since the body was still recuperating after a painful labor, and the sleepless nights weren’t helping either, my mornings would see me tired, dull and frustrated. Inevitably, inadvertently, my husband would find himself at the receiving end of it all.

Most friends, new mothers I spoke to later, confessed snapping at their partners a lot more during this phase. What added to the drama was a feeling that the husband could chicken out, go to work, while we were pushed into a sabbatical. Blame it on the hormones, or call them ‘Baby blues’, the fact is, it’s normal, as long as the feeling doesn’t stay on. Hormones eventually balance out—and we snap out of our bad temper too.

But that’s not the end of the story, in fact just the beginning. Most parents-to-be are advised to meticulously prepare for the baby—clothes, diapers, bedding everything is taken care of. What nobody tells you is to discuss how things—and life, would change post the baby. Perhaps, we expect or assume the baby to fit our lifestyle, only to realize later that that’s not happening ever. Dinner and movie dates, vacation plans, or just a round of conversation over a cup of coffee—baby says an emphatic No to the time with the Mister.

For working mothers, life becomes even tougher. For now, the day doesn’t start and end between work hours, but many-many hours before and after. They truly are reservoirs of energy—supermoms for sure. Not having slept the night before singing lullabies to a cranky baby in the lap, and dressing up prim and proper for a meeting at 9am with presentations and papers ready the morning next—ah! Now that’s some miracle machinery at work!

But having said all that, if you’re a mother, and have already been through this, you’d also know the joy of having created a life with your partner. That, is the upside that keeps us going, isn’t it? We may run into bumps on the way—but the joy of conception, creation, and nurturing makes us endure all. Motherhood has certainly made me far more patient and peaceful. It has bought a sense of calm, within and on the outside. The fact that there is a life out there who trusts me with all her heart and soul, who knows that each time she wakes up, she will have her mother beside her, that when she gets hurt and cries, her mother would be there to soother her, when she’s hungry, her mother will happily feed her, put her to sleep, play with her, put up with her tantrums and be her best buddy—makes me feel good, very good. 

As for my marriage, well, just a look at my husband singing a lullaby to our baby in the middle of the night, or giving her a bath or changing her diaper—makes me fall in love with him all over again. I believe, if you sail through this phase, together, you can sail through most.

A trip down the Royal lane

Bright pink Bougainvillea adorns my window as I sit on the sill and marvel at the lustrous lake, the serene greens, and the majestic mountain that completes this royal setting. The tea pot simmers with water, and a bag of mint tea waits in the cup to let loose its flavours. The pamphlet on the table entices me with its offerings of a royal spa, and a ‘unique’ body massage. Paintings of rare birds garnish the distinct stone walls, as I soak in the delight of being in the lap of nature. I am at the Royal Shikarbadi, Udaipur – property of the Maharana of Mewar, who I am told, frequented it every evening, till of course, it was converted into a Hotel and opened for public. As we drove down the long pathway leading up to the Hotel, a Horse ranch on the left and a cricket pitch on the right, our driver informed us of the Maharana’s love for flying, pointing at the little ‘Shikarbadi’ Airport, from where he used to take off on his private jets. The ‘special’ room I’m booked in is perhaps the one the Maharana chose too, each time he decided to stay at this property. The imperial whiff in the air tells me that even though I may not be in the august company of his highness, I am lucky enough to be sitting on the chair he once may have sat on!

Rajasthan rubs off its royalty, not just with its opulent palaces, but also with its rich delectable fare, the vibrant colours of grandeur, its regal propriety, and also its everyday life. Even the guard manning the entry to the Hotel looks noble enough with his well fitted jacket, flashing the royal emblem, his stiff etiquette, a long big moustache, so quintessential of the stately staff. I almost felt like a princess, walking through the embellished corridors of The City Palace yesterday, looking at the glass studded bedrooms of the royalty, the burgundy coloured velvety cushions, and the high balconies that overlook the state. The Palace still houses the royal family of Mewar, in a posh private part, far from the peering eyes of tourists like me. Prince Lakshya Raj Singh, the heir to the throne, is also the President of the Udaipur Cricket Association. Of course, his love for the game ensures that teams visiting the city for a game get the best it has to offer, like this stay at one of royalty’s own.

The City Palace, Udaipur

But, about a 100kms off Udaipur, on the road to Kota, is Chittorgarh, the abode of the valiant Maharana Pratap Singh and his beautiful Queen Padmini. I am reminded of the Chittor fort, as I hear the tales of courage of the then Maharana of Udaipur, who fought the Mughals to protect his land. The City Palace was never attacked, for a saint blessed it with powers, that they say still hold the Palace in good stead. Unlike the City Palace, the fort of Chittorgarh was attacked several times, plundered, looted and vandalized.

Our guide, Vishal, at the Chittorgarh Fort, was a young boy of fifteen, who perhaps tricked his age, and looked ten, and continues to stay on my mind. He was smart, charged merely Rs 30 for a tour, while the rest asked for a whopping Rs 250, ensuring enough business through the day. He was well connected, had a mobile he co-ordinates his tours on. And more importantly, he was well-versed, knew the dates, and the events on his finger tips, which he recited like a nursery poem, and of course didn’t like being disturbed. Questions were invited, but only after his narration.

The trek up the road leads to this fort built on a mountain top, high enough to daunt every passerby. Spread over an area of 700 acres, this perhaps, is the biggest fort in the country, being in fact a city in its own. Since, this wasn’t a visit, but a stopover, we requested Vishal to keep it ‘short’ and ‘sharp’, a term my husband’s coach uses often to describe a session just before a match.

Queen Padmini's Summer Home @ The Chittorgarh Fort

Haven’t we all read copious tales of Chittorgarh, of its valour, of its sacrifice and of its nationalism in our history text books, and heard of its undying glory in many a popular folklore. But, to stand there, right next to where Queen Padmini jumped into her pyre, with her 13,000 maids, is nerve-wrecking to say the least. Centuries after this act of pride by the fearless Rajput ladies, tourists, ironically walk over the ground where the royal bodies were once reduced to ashes. At a separate spot in the fort, close to where the Queen decided to reveal her illustrious beauty to the Mughal King, in a bid to save her husband from his wrath, walls are chipping, spelling the love of a certain ‘Goldy’ for ‘Annu’!

Vishal recommended a visit to the ‘Battle field’, which first sounded like ‘Better Feel’, to which my husband nodded, and said he did feel better, looking a little confused though. We’d been travelling with my husband’s team mates to Udaipur for their next match, via Chittorgarh which became an impromptu stop. I have been with the team for now close to two months, and I must say, they are the funniest and the craziest lot I’ve been with in recent times. Their humour is colloquial, their language rustic, and they themselves as humble as humble can be. I bring them up here, because of the sheer joy they added to this trip to the fort. Their jokes kept coming; their witty one-liners not just tickled my funny bone, the way it hasn’t been in some time now, but also made me marvel at their knack of quipping about almost anything. And so, when ‘Better Feel’ sounding ‘Battle Field’ came up, the gang laughed out loud, teased Vishal, which of course he took in his stride. Must mention, the various names that Vishal had got by the end of this tour – Chota Dainik Bhaskar, Unlimited Recharge, et al

Vishal a.k.a. Chota Dainik Bhaskar!!

The evening was spent driving down to Udaipur, and discussing ghosts! What brought it up? I may not be able to pin point, like most chit chats, that start arbitrarily, and end that way too. One of the team mates had stories to tell, quite spooky at that. The USP of a horror story is of course its hair-raising, blood curdling, and spine chilling effect, its aftermath being the terrifying feeling one gets when alone in a room, at night! We may have discussed phantoms, after life, and all that is blasphemous, till we moved on to the topic of religion and temples. What started this one, I vividly remember. The temple of ‘Sanwaria Seth’, which we passed on our way, is certainly one of the most fascinating temples I’ve heard about. Of course, Jwala Devi Mandir with its incessant flame left me shocked, and so did Jodhpur’s Chamunda Devi with its animal offerings, but this one was in a different league. Have you ever heard of a temple devoted solely to thugs, smugglers, thieves, bandits and all that is profane? Well, ‘Sanwaria Seth’ is perhaps the first of its kind, protecting the wicked and ensuring them a scot free life.

We’ve been put up here now at The Shikarbadi for a week, and between writing this post and sipping my tea, I took a break to click the deer that came in my backyard. I’ve been informed that Prince Lakshya Raj Singh has invited the Team for a dinner at the Jag Mandir Island Hotel tomorrow. Exciting times ahead!

  

Not Quite Cricket!

“Swallow your pride!” snapped his bat, the one he’d so fondly kissed just a match ago, and risen it in honour, while the scoreboard beamed with his exploits – The walk back to the pavilion now, was perhaps the longest ever, the peering eyes of a whole stadium puncturing him more than that moment of dismissal. Somewhere in the crowd sat an eager heart slapped by a sudden lull, lips murmuring a chant till a few seconds ago, eyes closed in anguish, and a sigh long heaved. Who was she that the cameras panned to? Haven’t we seen her in toe with that man taking a walk back now, perhaps on the shimmery pages of a tabloid – the dame who swept him off his feet, and the one he married off in style? The one who got lucky and won herself the booty of a lifetime? Of course, she is all that – The “Madam”, whose husband is a prized possession. Or so she believed – till this day, when the ball and the bat got together and plotted his fall. The shutterbugs stopped flashing; the mumbles became louder, the colleagues walked past, as if there was never a name. The scoreboard mocked too, the one which had played a number game and made him a little God.

          Rummaging through my old notes, I found these lines scribbled on a piece of paper, awfully creased and waiting to be discarded. I remember borrowing it from one of the attendants at the President’s box, with the logo of the state cricket association flashing on it so unambiguously. One look at the leaf was enough to stir up and bring back the events of that evening, at one of the IPL matches, when I had so desperately wanted to pen down my thoughts. Would you stop reading on if I were to tell you that I didn’t after all lay my hands on some secret match fixing file, and didn’t even stumble upon an earth-shaking and news-breaking piece of top secret about a popular cricketing star? Well, I certainly can’t guarantee a fascinating read, but what I may suggest, might, of course be worth a thought or two.

So, what impelled me to make a note of my musings that evening, when around me, the glitterati in all their fineries had come to enjoy an adrenaline pumping show at the IPL? Well, this one lady, who occupied a comfortable corner seat, looking eager, and yet very calm. I am not sure who she was, yet there was something about her that made me feel connected. Just like the woman I saw the other day, at the long room of Jaipur’s Sawai Man Singh Stadium, dressed in a simple Salwar Kameez, upset with an odd call that disturbed her persistent mumblings.

If you’re a regular at such places, you’d know that that woman occupying the solitary spot is perhaps the mother/wife/girlfriend of the man on the crease, fervently calling upon the Gods to watch over him. Of course, the umpire’s index finger going up is as horrible a sight for her, as perhaps a bad accident on the road, or the news of a terrible misfortune or of something which you hopelessly wish never came true!

I’ve been in that spot too, several times, much to my discomfort. It is strange how this story unfolds – A good score reiterates the power of prayer, a bad one tells you that it is all but a game. And then before the next big match, you invoke that one mantra which had spelt magic. Haven’t I heard such success stories far too many times, or have tried and tested one too many... And then the urbane, logical and balanced self of me, with a masters in film making, and an ex career in News, takes over the Holy wife just to jolt me out of a believed mumbo jumbo.

My husband’s poignant words from his book ‘Beyond the Blues’ fiddle with my thoughts at this point–"Being an India cricketer is hell in many ways because of the intense scrutiny you are subjected to by a billion people, but not being an India player is worse." That perhaps sums up the absurdity, the enigma and the paradox of Indian Cricket—and more of the lives of those cricketer stars, relentlessly living on the edge. The advert of a popular Insurance Company featuring Sehwag summons up -- “Jab tak balla chal raha hai, tab tak thath hai, jis din balla nahi chalega, us din...”  And that perhaps, is the single most dreadful thought playing ever so often on a Cricketer’s mind... and that of his family’s.

For long, Cricket to me simply meant Ind vs Pakistan, and it was only just to hurl abuses at Indian Players for dropping a catch or for getting dismissed cheaply. The following moment I'd be jumping in joy to see a Pakistani batsman taking the long walk towards the pavilion. And it continued to be just that, till of course I met my husband. How silly have we been to be driven by a vulgar sense of nationalism?, I wondered, as I came across Cricketers being harassed by relentless and embarrassing sarcasms, and of course the anguished faces of many a women sitting on the corner seat of some President’s Box, hoping their son, brother, husband doesn’t face the ire of a nation, so numb and so thoughtless.

Perhaps all of us need to swap places, every now and then, to really go through this set of emotions. After all, it’s these emotions which cobble together and make us aggressive and it’s these same emotions which would prevent us from doing so.

After all it’s just a game. Isn’t it?

Dolly, only the name is cute!!

What brand of television does Dolly Bindra make? Foul– Perhaps, but don’t we all love the dirt flying, especially when it’s the celebs cursing. Voyeuristic – Now, we have no qualms in revealing the ‘peeping tom’ streak in us. Watchful – “God, I am not like her, I better not be like her!” Indifferent – A psycho always makes for great TV. Or, even the kind of TV we put on parental control, and in fact encourage our kids to trick us and watch? Whatever it be, make no mistake, the lady has forced us to move over Big B’s KBC, grabbed Headlines, and has sent many nosy parkers into a tizzy. Now, wasn’t she just a sidekick till yesterday? Playing the heroine’s wicked step mother, a scheming sister in-law, or even trying her hand at some over the top, silly humour. Boy, Google takes me to her official website, splashing her once-upon-a-time pictures trapped in the wannabe fashion of the late 80’s, when she somewhat looked a wee bit bearable. Even though she insists on being a ‘who’s who’, she failed to persuade an ‘oh-my-god, look-who’s-there’ effect all these years, -- but for this one time that Big Boss played his cards well, and got her to add more than a little something to the show, transforming her into a property of public interest. Of course, it isn’t her imaginary oomph doing the trick, or even a warped ‘know it all’ that seems to be working in her favour – Dolly Bindra is riding high on a secret code that she deciphered much before she entered the Big Boss house, and perhaps even before that, in her everyday life.

The brilliant French psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan explains that “when anything or anyone threatens us with the truth of our essential fragmentation, the quickest, easiest, and most common defence available—to hide the truth of our weakness and to give the illusion that we possess some sort of power—is aggression.”

As luck would have it, Dolly could lay her hands only on the last bit of Dr Lacan’s theory, the one which said that -- to hide the truth of our weakness...give the illusion that we possess some sort of power – ‘aggression’. The lady couldn’t make much sense of it anyway; the only word she could read and interpret was ‘aggression’, it being her favourite in the English dictionary. And since then, ‘aggression’ became her middle name, swearing and name-calling her pass time activities. Vicious fights sent the fur flying time and again, but Dolly remained unfazed. Not a drop of tear or a hint of remorse, in fact, a stronger vow to be even more malicious and wicked each time. And in some twisted way, it worked for her – at least in satiating her mammoth ego, winning those petty fights, and shutting up her detractors. And if her bad mouth, and high pitched foul wasn’t enough, the lady’s horrifying make up, and absurd dressing sense made for the final blow, perhaps even making Frankenstein’s monster look perfect.

But what when ‘the moment of realization’ dawns upon her? Would she understand the damage done, and more importantly, acknowledge the harm she has meant to herself? Pray she does, because Dolly Bindra fails to amuse, victims hardly ever, especially the ones soaked in by a bogus sense of pride, raring to avenge themselves against any insult.

“But all of it is pretended, including Dolly’s nonsense!” many of you might say, and that in fact is even more worrisome than a sick Dolly. For the show doesn’t come with an ‘A’ certificate and gives itself the all important permit to leak the idiosyncrasies of a bunch of terminally ill celebrities, even if their madness be meticulously scripted. And no, I am not just talking about young minds getting disturbed, but a whole population, who starts recognizing ‘rage’ as a vehicle to ‘take control’ and the relentless need to be ‘in control’.

And just in case, the woman is acting herself, then do we really need such appalling people on national TV? Spare me the humbug that it is all but a representation of the ‘real’ society -- violence, hatred, war and aggression all a part of it, so why not have the spine to have it in our face? – Ok! But, do we identify them damaging and destructive enough for a social order? If we do, and I hope we do, then should we nurture it and produce its offspring, OR should we work towards building a society in good health? Think.