Whose Fault?

                                                                     

During a casual visit to my dad’s friend, who happens to be a reputed gynecologist, something appalled me to no end. I’m used to sitting right across him as he carefully listens to his patients, and advises them politely- like a mother to her 4-year old. Today, however, unlike any other day before, I came to know of a woman (maybe in her late 20’s), who had come from Hyderabad to consult this particular doctor. She’d had three miscarriages in the past, as I had been told. Nevertheless, she was in high spirits of being able to sustain a pregnancy in future, and conveyed the same by maintaining a cheerful countenance.

 
To interrupt my stream of thoughts, another woman, aged 34, entered, who was evidently sick. Her hair unkempt, and her eyes and legs clearly refused to function. She was a mother of two girls, and was two months pregnant with a third child. It was only after the doctor examined her, and prescribed her the suitable medicines, did she utter the abominable. She said that after having two girls, the sex of her unborn child worries her all the time.

 
On hearing her, I was taken aback. Her words momentarily shattered my world. Not only did she, knowingly or unknowingly, condemn my existence as a woman, but also pointed a sharp finger at my gender, as though literally poking it. I couldn't fathom how she had come to hate her own gender so much. I couldn’t help clicking my tongue and turning away my face, straining my vision as a cloudy film took a temporary abode in my eyes.


On retrospection, I think- what would the 2-month old inside the woman be feeling? What would s/he know about her/his gender and its complexities? Moreover, wouldn’t the innocent fetus feel humiliated on knowing that the most significant criterion for its birth was being discussed? What would it know about its possession of a particular kind of genitalia, but the fact that it has a beating heart and a beautiful soul embedded in it? Above all, it shudders me to recall the woman’s words.


Owing to the lack of my knowledge of her family issues, I do not completely blame her. She maybe someone who has been through traumatic circumstances, on account of giving birth to two daughters. But the combination of her teary eyes and words certainly made her lose my sympathy for her health, and my respect for her- as a woman.


I, being the second of three daughters to my parents, have often been asked, “Oh, three sisters, eh? No brother?” to them, I say- I do not know what it is like to have a brother. But what I do know, is how wonderful it is to have a sister. My sisters and I, have never felt the absence of a male sibling, and I’ve never sensed a tinge of disappointment when my parents are asked about one. I am extremely thankful to the Almighty for being sent among those that I am wanted by.


While my heart reaches out to that woman’s unfortunate child, I pray that it is a boy for her. And I pray that when he grows up, he doesn’t nurture preferences, like his own mother once did. And if it is a girl, I wish her all the happiness in the world, and pray that she learns to be proud of her gender, just as I am, because after all, who is at fault for her gender?

 

Some More Short Stories

• Dinosaurs were lucky- lived life on their own terms, died without drama.

• The lady in black is so cheerful, she doesn't give an impression of being a widow.

• We are so hopelessly used to shallow living, even the fish prefer deeper waters.

• We wish Mondays to go extinct. But then, won't Tuesdays be the new Mondays?

• There is a cure for cancer, but none for lust.

• Honesty and satisfaction are expensive; deceit and contempt- cheaper.

• "He whistled", "They catcalled", "He tried to catch hold of my dupatta". Mum said, "shh".

• Her derailed vermillion and kohl-rimmed eyes screamed and pleaded against the beatings. It was the mangalsutra hanging around the neck that inflicted more pain.

  

• There were petrifying screams throughout the building, and when everyone had got used to the periodic bellows, suddenly a strange calmness enveloped every corner. The baby got out motionless, as if compensating for the disturbance her ailing mother had just caused.

 

•  He had three young children and dreams of their prosperity. All that was needed to turn him hopelessly hollow from within, was a downpour. And while a couple rejoiced at the heavenly petrichor, the children realized that they had been orphaned.

 

A not-so-Indian tyohaar

You guessed it right! Say it again! Exactly! The IPL frenzy, and the not-so-friendly vibes it exudes. The whole idea of playing a single game, in several different formats, has just exceeded new levels of petulance.

Despite being a hopeless optimist, I couldn’t stop myself from exploring the dark legacy the colonial masters left us with. We look up to them and constantly try to be at par with them, in spite of serious hurdles like overpopulation and illiteracy (and others) pulling us back. But today, I have a formidable reason to proudly blame you, dear former masters, for making us an otherwise handicapped nation.

Being an Indian, I dare not claim to be anti-cricket, for I am still fond of my endangered peace of mind. However, a few things that bug me big time is when Maria Sharapova honestly admits not knowing a Sachin Tendulkar becomes a debate, and the umpteen number of inhuman rapes (in India) go unnoticed. And in the process, dear all, if you expect me to remain mum about his Parliament attendance, I’m afraid, I’m going to disappoint you. I have a problem with the soaring levels of commercialization our country is heading towards. It shakes me to conclude that the rich are becoming richer and the poor- poorer. What also worries me is how, people of all ages, miss a heartbeat when Gayle shows up to bat; how everyone hurls abuses when Dhoni misses a catch- all at the cost of wasting the precious time of their lives. The same magnitude of enthusiasm when employed in increasing work efficiency or enhancing a skill or just sitting back and contemplating would do so much wonders. Yet another aspect of the game, which, for me, is disgustingly lame is how a Navjot Singh Sidhu flaunts the extravagance in his attire. He is the same person who immodestly cachinnates at profane comments on sordid TV shows because well, sense of humour, anyone?

Are we realizing this, people, that we are merely becoming a cricket nation, nurturing generations towards ignoring every other human virtue and imbibing “cricket” as a way of life? Are we not grown up enough to know that it’s no more a six, but a Yes Bank maximum; no more spectators, but Vodafone superfan; no more a drinks break, but a Ceat strategic timeout and no more the man of the match, but the Pan vilas dumdar khiladi?

I don’t have much issues with the game as I have for the mindless fan following it renders. I appreciate the fact that we, as a country, are doing a brilliant job when it comes to producing cricketers. I also respect the hard work of the players behind putting up great shows. But I dread a day in future, when all the other sports would lose the meagre recognition they receive, and cricket would begin to define us. I believe that it is time we stop eyeing Anushka Sharma at the pavilion and focus on more meaningful things. 

Feedback would be valuable. Thank you!  

Hello there! 

This one's an experiment. Recently I garnered a lot of inspiration to write 16-word short stories. Inspiration courtesy- Quora.com. So, following are 15 16-word short stories penned my me. Tell me how you get along with them! And oh! Before you ask, no, there isn't anything too special about the number 16. :)

• It hurts seeing that little boy serve tea, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t he look better at school?

• Foolish people follow foolish people. Neither of them realize the other’s misfortune. Such an interesting conundrum!

• “I do it so many times”, I shamelessly justified my act of ignoring the beggar’s plea.

• “No stories! Are you a Literature student?”, the professor remarked, oblivious- that was her secret ambition.

• They wept, she cried- she had lost her husband. They wept sympathetically, she- out of love.

• He imagined lovely things. So did she, but it just amused her. He wanted it real.

• Her eyes had uncomfortable pillows under them. She disguised her weeping and unending sorrows for insomnia.

• “When are you taking it from me?” “What?” she asked perplexed. “My heart”, he calmly replied.

• She was a killer. She killed all his dreams to become one herself- an unachievable one.

• They said she had pretty eyes, she indeed had. But failed to notice her prettier heart.

• “Don’t kill me! Let me out, realize my futility, then I will kill myself”, she pleaded.

• She is a plethora of contradictions. Strong, gentle, glad and pensive- all at the same time.

• All he desired for was my life, oblivious, that his desire is what kills me more.

• She talked adorably, like she does with everyone, and he fell for her this time- again.

• If love ever meant anything to her, it was only books, their smell and his smile.