Goodbye, my friend

The pebbled pathways we walked on,
The ones on which we chit-chatted and discovered each other;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The breezy evenings we spent under the skies,
When we shared silly jokes and laughed;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The crazy days when we bought cigarettes,
And giggled while we tried to smoke them;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The mad arguments and fights we had,
When all we wanted was to sort it out and move on;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

Those tables where we piled up empty cups of coffees, 
And shared our deepest secrets and fears;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The long nights we sat up and drank like fish,
And guffawed before we collapsed on our beds;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

That last holiday we took together,
Where the silences were longer than the conversations;
Let’s look back at it one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The one long year in between,
The longest we’ve not spoken;
Let’s look back at it one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

You will be missed; but I wish you good luck.
It’s sad we are done; but I'm happy you came along.
I have memories of a beautiful friendship; but it’s time to set us free. 
So here I am, saying this one last time...
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye.

The angry young woman

Anger. Women aren’t associated with that kind of strong emotions.

She’s expected to be the epitome of love, patience, sacrifice. And if she is a wife and a mother, the sobriquets just make you want to gag and die. So, while the whole world is allowed to raise its voice and make its grievances heard, the woman is expected to bottle it up and endure.

Haven’t you seen how at public spaces an angry woman is viewed with disgust? So much so that even other women are embarrassed by her brazen outspokenness. Whether she’s making her dissatisfaction evident with the service at a restaurant or is pulling up a driver for rash driving on the road or is haggling with the guy at the snacks counter of a cinema hall for balance change that is rightfully hers, people around her just want to judge her. “Look at that fightercock!” “Women these days are impossible!” “Gosh, her husband looks so embarrassed, see!” Comments come aplenty.

But clearly, this is the age of the angry young woman. Her anger is fitting for an era that pretends to be modern and open, but its bedrock is still some archaic set of rules and regulations. Women today are “allowed” to be liberated. They aren’t born free. So if their fathers, brothers, grandfathers, uncles, boyfriends, husbands and sons “allow” them to enjoy a sense of freedom, then they can have it. But they can have it only as much as they are allowed to. Anything more, then what was offered on a platter will be taken away as a form of punishment. What a truly enjoyable game!

Why wouldn’t the woman of today be angry then! You say it’s okay to work and earn your own money, but it ain’t okay to choose your life partner. You say it’s okay to be out at night, but you rape her and leave her to die. You say it’s okay to dress the way you like, and then look at her like you are going to tear her apart, and do. You say she can speak her mind and then remind her that women should be mild-mannered and soft spoken. Honestly, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO MAKE THESE RULES ANYWAY? Did she ask you for your “permission” to live her life? And who the hell gave you the right to humiliate her, abuse her and violate her?

Women don’t want your bloody rules. They just want to be left alone. Just don’t pretend to be their benefactor. Don’t try to bottle her into constricted gender roles. Remember, women are unlearning, and it won’t take too long to turn the tables. Don’t push it too far for your own well being.

A note on Father's Day

Every year on Mother’s Day, I’d have a gift ready for mom. And just as I’d give it to her,

Papa would exclaim, “Oh! Sirf Mother’s Day pe gift? What about Father’s Day?!”

His intention? To piss me off! And he would get just that; every single year. I would immediately turn around with a deeply offended look on my face, “PAPA!!!” I’d yell! Of course, he’d be pulling my leg. I’d never missed a Father’s Day either. He’d break into a big, loud guffaw; one I can still hear. 

I miss that.

Fathers are special. Special in a way a daughter doesn’t really realise, until he’s gone. I was a daddy’s girl as a kid. But when teens set it, we grew apart. I never really went back to being a daddy’s girl. In fact, as an adult, we were constantly at loggerheads. We could never really agree on anything. We fought. A lot! The last few years, we went to work together, most of our journeys during our long drive pulled off in total silence, because we had fought. Again.

I miss the fights.

Fathers take care of the smallest thing. Daughters never really have to worry about anything. So if I forgot to fill some petrol into my khatara scooter and was stranded in the middle of nowhere, Papa would be summoned. If I couldn’t stand in a queue to book my tickets from Chennai to Cochin, Papa would mail them to me via post! If I couldn’t find an auto rickshaw after an evening of shopping, Papa would pick me up. I did not ever pay one bill, never did any official paperwork, never stood in a queue, and never cleaned one car or scooter. Sigh, fathers!

And then, he was gone. Just like that.

Suddenly, the leg-pulling is gone. The fights have stopped. The princess-like treatment is over. 

No brother, no uncle, no husband can take that place. Fathers are special like that. 

It’s five years since he’s gone. Many Father’s Day have come and gone. No more for me. Yes, it’s just a silly “day”. 

For me, not anymore.