Like all humans, I have a curious mind. The questions never cease. Sometimes they nudge the metaphysical, sometimes the real deal. Most of the times, I satiate myself with answers which suit my sensibility and rejoice in the knowledge tweaked. Sometimes, however, the questions keep coming back. I take that as an indication to become a seeker. Here are but a few I like to dwell on over my tea-at-random-times.
Do try to answer these questions for me, won’t you? Some of them are fact-based, some person-based. Some are directed only at women* (the ones in pink. If you don’t like the shade, join the club. Apparently WordPress won’t). All are excruciatingly wow, though.
* Men, never fear, your penny’s worth is welcome, too. As long as you succeed in retaining the feminine elegance in it.
We Indian women spend half our lives purchasing fabric, finding the right design to go with it, finding the tailor who we think will magically reproduce the design just the way we want it to look, and finally (and most importantly) argue with the tailor for not quite being a magician. Kurtas, kameezes, blouses for sarees, salwars, churidars. You name it, we get it tailored.
I’ve always wondered if other women of the world have a similarly scintillating occupation. Do you?
Ginger hair, freckles.. I find them really cute. Sometimes sexy. But I’ve often heard in movies or read in books about their owners being teased because of them. Why is that? Is it because the normal rule of thumb in the human society — “scorn all that is different from you” — is so overwhelming we forget we are potential candidates for the same treatment by a different perspective?
Years ago, I read The Inscrutable Americans by Anurag Mathur. I don’t remember anything from this very entertaining book, though. Except the protagonist’s fascination for red hair he sees on a woman’s head. It is impossible to forget his very innocent question asked with wide-eyed wonder — “Does she have red hair… at all the umm places?” (Well, it’s not quoted verbatim, but I hope the sentence communicates his excitement.)
Do different countries have different air?
If you’ve been to a country other than yours, did you notice the air there? Does it feel different? Is there an unfamiliar — pleasant or unpleasant — feel to it? I’ve noticed that cities display this phenomenon. Jabalpur has a sort of confident, fresh air to it, while Delhi has a haughty, heavy one. Except when it’s really hot. That’s when everything unpleasant gets burned out with the sheer heat and all that remains is glowing tenacity. Mumbai’s air feels zippy and energetic. Balmy, somehow, in spite of the incredible humidity. Do countries show a similar personality? I’ve never been outside of India and this is one of the reasons why I’d like to. To know if the airs have airs.
Are men fools?
I’ve spent a remarkable amount of time pondering this question. Most of the times the answer comes an affirmative. There are instances, however, when I have to admit it seems they’re just a tad confused. That can be misleading. Take for instance a situation I suspect is an epidemic — if you ask for those pair of scissors with bright yellow handles lying there on the counter-top, it is only a man who can look everywhere but there, and then say, “Why can’t you keep things where I can see them?”
Do you think your college degree has really helped you become a responsible adult? (Assuming you are one.)
It isn’t just about a college degree, actually. This belief that education makes people more responsible, sensitive and whats-that-word-for-being-someone-who-uses-their-brain has never failed to confuse me. I see people who are graduates, post-graduates, and even beyond but continue to make laughable choices. Like trusting the advertisement that offers “revolutionary” things – like, say, a wristwatch the size of a golf ball – help them revolutionise their lives.
Or getting a girl child aborted because a family must have at least one boy to carry on the name. I know of at least two instances where expectant mothers were emotionally traumatised by either the mother-in-law or the mother. One had to abort a girl child (two, actually), while the other was threatened by her mother of being disowned if she discovered during an illegal sex determination that the foetus was a girl and was still going to go ahead with the pregnancy. The first friend had twin sons after the two abortions. The latter has a son. The women who made them abort, or threatened them are both “educated” women. Post graduates. One of them owns a play school.
Why must people feel better in a dire situation if they come to know others have or have had a similar plight?
I’ve often heard of someone else’s misery becoming an inspirational story for many. Is it because it feels good to know you’re not alone? Why? Or is it because it makes you believe it is possible to overcome the odds, after all?
It’s a strange thing, this. Finding comfort in the knowledge you’re not alone. I’ve tried to understand it, but questions still remain.
Have you ever tried the divine joy of bargaining?
We’re shifting. The packers and movers have been a pain in the arse. Have been. Because, incidentally, a friend who’s a police officer knows the guy who owns the company and has put in a word. We’ve got unimaginable discount! Which goes to show that the company was taking a whopping profit to begin with. I am sure that even after the discount, it’s not doing any charity. The trouble with us, B and I, is that we can’t haggle. B very beatifically uttered the truth this morning, “since we suck at bargaining, we have only one option — have a lot of money.”
The only place I can and do bargain successfully is in the street-side shops of Janpath, Delhi. One knows the maths. Bring down the quote price to half, haggle until you only have to pay about 60-65%. Cool. It’s been years that I’ve felt that powerful adrenalin invade my bloodstream after a shopping binge in Janpath, but I never forget the pleasure of the kill!
Is it only me who’s impatient with the trendy word usages?
There must be numerous such words, sentences, phrases that began as perfectly brilliant coinages, but have been reduced to, uhm excuse the cliche – overkill, by unimaginative parrots. Do you agree, or should I just cough with embarrassment and go look for another champagne flute?
All the images in this post have been taken from somewhere in the internet, except the one of the birds. My cousin took the picture on her recent trip to Gujarat and I stole it from her Facebook album. Heh Heh.