Actually Painful Stuff

Actually Painful Stuff

Have you read Simon vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda? Becky Albertalli just casually throws a line in there about how exhausting blogging actually is. That’s the number one thing on our list today: blogging, on the daily, is painful. Painfully hard.

Is there anything harder than that? Yes. Challenges. The 365 day challenge. The gallon-of-water-a-day challenge. The no sugar diet challenge. The list goes on. Now don’t get me wrong – we love lists on this side of the Internet. We do. In fact, my blog seems to be filled with listy posts that people actually managed to read without falling asleep. So yay, go me. My point here, before I digress, is lists are hard to do. Both to make and to stick to. Also, I cannot tell you the number of lists that I have taped to my fridge. It’s more like a noticeboard that’s kind of screaming for help with things left unchecked. Life is mental. Life is batcrap mental. Send help.

You know what else is difficult? Trying to live with Indian parents whose maid just quit on them. Again, don’t get me wrong. My parents are wonderful people. It’s the maid that’s kind of super attached to her new grandkid and didn’t want to be a maid anymore but kind of needed the money – so long story short, she got found out stealing moolah from our wallets and tried to make us look bad and well, um, she quit. Maid culture is rampant in India. Your mum won’t miss you when you’re not around but she’s going to miss the maid. She’s going to be all depressed because she’s the ONLY person who’s working a nine to five job in the circle of other brown mommies, and has to come home and make her own tea. I think this bothers her more than anything else, making her own tea. She detests her own cooking. Go figure. And she won’t like it if you make tea for her because the maid simply does it better. Like holy wow.

Now, as if THAT wasn’t enough, there’s my most painful experience ever – having to wash my makeup brushes every Sunday. It’s a process. You gotta find your brushes first. Make a nice concoction with dishwashing fluid and olive oil, making sure you don’t mess up the ratio. Next, you need to clean the pink Sigma glove you use to swirl your brushes on, so the dirt comes out. And you’ve to do all of that without annoying your mum and her ritualistic Sunday-cooking frenzy. And then you’ve to leave the bushes to dry and put them back in their proper containers so they don’t look messy.

It’s tough being a woman. It is.

*THIS POST HAS BEEN WRITTEN IN JEST. TAKE ALL OF THIS WITH TEN PINCHES OF SALT. IF YOU ARE HYPERTENSIVE, TAKE IT WITH HALF A PINCH OF SALT.

A Conversation

A Conversation

If I had to summarize what I was feeling right now, it would probably be meh. Yes, that’s actually correct. It’s hard to believe, right? It’s Pujo Season in West Bengal and it’s Halloween soon, and then before we know it, Christmas is going to be upon us but all I feel is… nothing.

I’m getting ancient. There can be no other explanation. Which is crazy to me because my Dad is almost three decades older than I am, and he never feels meh. He’s actually out as we speak, right there with the panditji and everything; getting ready for the big ashtami Pujo. This is such a big deal if you happen to be Bengali, and oh my Lordy, look at me, I’m actually still holed up in my room and the Anjali is about to start and I’m not even moving my butt.

What’s wrong with me?

I’ve been asking myself that over and over and over. I don’t feel anything. Not happiness. Not sorrow. There’s no passion. There’s no nothing. I’m drawing blanks like never before.

I remember being excited about Pujo even last year. I remember going shopping for new clothes. This year? I’ve been wearing my mum’s sarees because I didn’t want to go shopping. I’ve been going out at night, in the car, and avoiding places that needed human interaction. I was never this person before. I think a part of my brains snapped. I think a huge part of me broke, and I don’t even know the reason.

I don’t blog.

It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s not because I’m trying to be cool by going on the hiatus thing that bloggers do. No. It’s just that I get my laptop and stare at the screen and nothing, no words, ever come.

However.

I wanted to come on here and share a few photos that I took from the car because I couldn’t bring myself to get out and admire Durga Maa from a close range because my anxiety is so bad at this point, sometimes I end up having really bad panic attacks. Sometimes I can’t breathe and sometimes I forget to, because the anxiety cripples me. I need to find myself. Again. Find love in doing things I used to love doing. Maybe it’ll happen soon, maybe it’ll never happen ever again, but I am going to start trying again.

So Durga Pujo is a pretty big deal in Bengal. For those of you who happen to be completely unfamiliar with the whole thing,

Durga Puja festival marks the battle of goddess Durga with the shape-shifting, deceptive and powerful buffalo demon Mahishasura, and her emerging victorious. Thus, the festival epitomises the victory of good over evil, but it also is in part a harvest festival that marks the goddess as the motherly power behind all of life and creation. The Durga Puja festival dates coincide with Vijayadashami (Dussehra) observed by other traditions of Hinduism, where the Ram Lila is enacted — the victory of Rama is marked and effigies of demon Ravana are burnt instead.
– from good old Wiki.

People put up lights and make pretty effigies of Maa Durga and there’s an elaborate prayer held. Not to mention, there’s a ton of power and resources being wasted. I don’t mean to be such a Debbie Downer, but it is what it is.

Happy Pujo, everyone.

WTF Wednesday- Teasing

WTF Wednesday- Teasing

I’ve talked about this before and I know my posts do tend to get slightly repetitive at times, but I wanted to address this issue.

Without beating about the bush too much, I’m gonna get straight to the point.

We all do relationships and we all have our own hits and misses, and sometimes we overlook deal-breakers because we love our partners way too much. Now, I’m not the most sensitive person in the world – if I were to describe myself, I’d say I have the sensitivity of a slightly blunt knife. Haha. Jokes apart, I don’t really have that many deal-breakers, but I do have this one thing that I hate. Actually, two things: infidelity and cruel jokes.

I’ve had my share of cruel jokes, fam. Life has played one too many on me. And I don’t like being the butt of the same repetitive jokes when I’m in love with someone who claims to love me back.

What does saying sorry way too many times justify? NOTHING. You may be apologizing profusely one second but then you go back and do the same thing all over again? That’s bad. That’s basically just mean. I know this is a silly thing to be going rather ranty about BUT hear me out okay? You compromise too much in a relationship – you don’t mind if you don’t get calls, or if they don’t wish you good morning. You don’t mind going days without seeing each other because you console yourself that they’re busy and working really hard. You wait to talk to them. And they call you at their own leisure and they make fun of you over what you’re wearing and how you look like and they say one of those hey I don’t mean any of these stupid things I say because I don’t mean any of them.

Like wow. And I’m so proud of you, love, b ’cause you probably didn’t even mean it when you said you loved me.

Stupid love.

“I’M MEETING A BOY!”

“I’M MEETING A BOY!”

It’s the wedding season. Actually, scratch that. It’s a full-blown, loud, in-your-face, tornado of a wedding season here. At least in India. Everyone is getting married. And if you’re not married yet, you’ll be hopping on board the Just Married wagon. Soon, I’m sure.

I don’t have any issues with people, and their extravagant and meaningless, overly and OBVIOUSLY, posed pre-wedding photo shoots. I don’t have issues with too much money being spent on designer clothing which you’d never wear again. I mean, it’s your (family) money and none of my business. I don’t have any issues with the terrible food that people insist on having on the wedding menu. I don’t have any issues with people insisting on gifting tea sets that would put Hokey to shame. I don’t know why I said that. I have no issues with anything remotely related to all of this.

The problem however, is when you’re a twenty something woman – single woman – attending your friends’ weddings. See, this is why I’ve been absent from photos on Facebook. I never did really hang around for fake ass paparazzi. Huh. Suddenly your education doesn’t seem enough. Suddenly they realise you’ve put on too much weight and need to be married immediately. Things like – “You’ve become so healthy*, beta, now no boy will want you.”

At this point I want to tell this stupid Aunty (we call every older woman ‘Aunty’ in India. Unless it needs to be ‘Grandmommy’.) that of course I don’t want a boy. What I do want at this point, is a man – so manly he shuts up all of you with his presence and his alpha male scent – who would literally bench press the lot of you in to extinction. And Hallelujah should you find one at this point. Just flaunt your alpha man like you’d flaunt a Maserati. Or something. I know I’m objectifying Jason Momoa here, but come on. Aunties need shutting up.

When you’re not healthy, Aunties manage to dig up some other issue. What do I get the most? “Beta, how old are you again?” JEEEZ. Can’t I fucking go to one wedding without being character analysed by other women? Oh no no no. Just because I’m the rare one of the unmarried-in-the-mid-twenties-female, I’ll be targeted like you’d target a hornet’s nest. How to take down a hornet’s nest without hurting thyself 101. Never mind what happened to the damn hornet. Never mind the hornet is now homeless. Sigh. I swear, I’ve had it till here.

Now I don’t want my poor boyfriend to bear the brunt. Nor do I want to torture him into listening to Aunties talk about healthy women.

Which is why – every time someone asks me about when I’m getting hitched and all that crap – I say “I’m meeting a boy!” Don’t think however, that it stops there. They’ll come back to you asking for follow up details. Sigh.

Which is why you need to have a story ready. My current favourite? “Ooh, yes his parents specially LOVED my healthy weight. Since the airplanes can still carry my weight, we are doing a destination wedding in Bali. Heh heh. The lehenga you say? Oh, it’s Sabyasachi! Ooh and Mario Dedivanovic is doing my makeup! Oh yes, hair too…” (I’ll leave out the actual embarrassing details of what did happen. That no parents came to see me yet. That there’s no lehenga. Sigh. They don’t need to know.)

I’ve noticed they all shut up at this point.

*Healthy, in the Urban Aunty dictionary, refers to FAT. I’m not kidding.

To my poor boyfriend, I love you very much. Forever. May our love survive the Aunty Attack.

Dark Diwali 

Dark Diwali 

Diwali is the Hindu Festival of Lights. People love Diwali. It celebrates the victory of good over evil. With a lot of noise and air pollution, I might add. While everyone else loves Diwali, I am not really a fan of it. For starters, it’s never been bright for me. It always brings back memories of that time my boyfriend left me for another woman, who he’d been cheating on with me. Good for her, bad for me. I’ve never lost too many battles in my life – I haven’t fought that many to begin with, but this defeat left me pretty broken. 

I think that was where my depression really started. I haven’t been able to recover. I’ve tried, oh boy I’ve tried. I’ve had rebounds, I’ve had solid relationships after that, but my faith in myself was gone. Now, I’m not a crier and I get over things pretty quickly. But this nagging little constant reminder that I wasn’t good enough to invest feelings into? It got me, you know. It got me pretty bad. I guess I need to get this out, and talk about it because trust me, I’ve been to the shrink. I’ve tried retail therapy. I’ve tried killing myself and my self respect still hasn’t come back. 

I’ll admit, it was all my fault probably. Later on when he blamed me for the whole mess, he said he was a guy and he’d obviously want to get into my pants and that being a girl, I should have had a control over things, I’ll admit it gutted me. Everything he said hurt. But there was also truth behind his statements. Here’s what I didn’t understand though: if he already was in love with someone else, why would he carry on with me? Because that’s not love in my book. When you love someone, you don’t kiss another woman and tell her you love her. And he did. Oh, plenty of times. Between kisses. Between cuddles. Between feeding me dessert off his fork in public. I didn’t see the red flags. I didn’t know. I’d go over to his place when he needed me around: back then I didn’t know these were what booty calls looked like. 

When he told me he loved me, I believed him. On a staycation with him, he made me fall in love with what a good person he seemed to be. Holding doors open. Holding my hand when we’d cross the road. Pulling out a chair for me every time we went to have a quick bite at cosy restaurants. It was – is – the best holiday of my life. Things started to change after we came back. He’d ignore my calls. Never text back. I let him because I thought he was busy with work. I was too naive to see that he was trying to shake me off for good. He had me delete all our photos together from my phone. I thought he was being immature but in reality he was not. He was just getting rid of evidence. 

The morning after his last birthday with me, as we lay in bed together he told me he felt guilty and turned away from me. He didn’t look at me the whole time. Later, he basically threw me unceremoniousy out of his apartment. Pretty much how you’d throw out a hooker so nobody would know you were boning one. Only difference? I wasn’t getting paid for my “services.” I had to go home for a month but he never came to see me off. And that’s how things ended. No closure, no goodbyes. 

That Diwali, which came around a week later, he dumped me over a text message and told me to basically fuck off. I’ve never spoken about this until now, but the #metoo has given me the strength to talk about it. It is never okay to make excuses for someone when you know you’re losing your self-respect. Once you start making excuses for him, you need to know that it’s not love anymore. It’s something evil and twisted and it exists to only suck the life out of you. 

I was lucky I got away. There are many women still stuck in toxic relationships and unable to do much about it. But I implore you, try. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to live a lie. 

Meanwhile… 
Happy Diwali. 

Ain’t No Cinderella 

Ain’t No Cinderella 

You’ve NO idea how proud I am of Indian women right now.  If you follow the news channels, you’d know that there was a rather creepy incident involving a Chandigarh woman and a politician’s son.

This twenty nine year old woman was reportedly out driving somewhere a little after midnight on August 4, when she was chased by two men in an SUV, one of whom happened to be Haryana BJP chief’s son. And now the BJP says that it’s the woman’s fault she had to go through with the whole episode. 

My Indian readers will understand and sadly, even relate to this. For those of you that don’t live or know what goes on in India – here’s what happened following the incident. The BJP went on to victim-shame the woman, going so far as to say that parents need to ensure their daughters’ safety by having them come home early. What the fuck? Like our parents have nothing better to do than sit around, waiting for us to get home? Like it isn’t bad enough that a majority of single working Indian women still have to crash at their parents’ because if they get an apartment for themselves, oh Lord forbid, log kya sochenge*?

The fact that women are rebelling and standing up for themselves is amazing, and this is why it’s amazing: it’s 2017, not 1817. We are educated and our parents didn’t bring us up to live life within the lines, or to abide by a certain set of rules that the mysogyistic Indian male pig has come up with just so they can still control us. It makes me very happy to see Twitter today be all flooded with women tweeting photos of themselves, beer in hand, big smile in place, just having a good time with friends, well after midnight. 

Just because these men can’t keep it in their pants is no reason to tell a woman how to dress or talk and when to come home. And yes we are responsible adults: we call our mothers ahead and let them know we might be getting late so they won’t freak out. And if our families have no issue, why would the politicians have a bazillion of them? Also, it’s a giant mystery: why do men think you’re available and easy to score if you’ve got on a low cut shirt that’s showing off your amazing collarbone highlight? Because most of the times we don’t dress to impress a man, unless it’s a new boss with OCD obsessed with dress codes, most of the times we do it to show off our newly sculpted gym bodies, so when we run into our bitchy personal trainers they stay speechless for once. And don’t make snarky comments involving you and sad, broken weighing scales. 

So yes, if you can’t give me Prince Charming, I refuse to stick by your rules and your curfew. 

Something I found on Google.

#aintnocinderella

WTF Wednesday – Astrologers

WTF Wednesday – Astrologers

What’s with Indian aunties and astrologers? My aunt dragged my butt to meet this dude so I have my palm read. Dear Godmother of Holy Begonias. 

For those of y’all wondering, yes, this the same aunt that randomly caught religion.

Moving on. I have ADHD, and having to sit there while a dude had my hands in his under a bright freaking table lamp was too much. Pure torture, I tell you. I don’t do the whole touchy-feely thing. I never even had a boyfriend hold my hand for so long. This also explains why none of my boyfriends lasted. *sigh* 

Some of the um, statements the dude made about my uh,  “personality” (in his words, no filter): 

1. You’re very shy and don’t talk to people. 

2. You hate makeup. (WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?) You loved it when you were younger, but you hate it now. 

3. You have a pronounced sex drive. Not kidding, he said that. With my mother right there.

 4. You’re an awesome chef.  

Not one of the above statements is true. 

I know for a fact, that I am a huge people person. I am flamboyant. I talk to people, when they talk to me. I don’t run away. No. 

I hate makeup? You’ve got to be kidding my ass. 

My sex drive is about as pronounced as Usain Bolt’s eyebrow hair. In other words, not pronounced at all. And blurry as hell. I wish I had some sort of drive. Be it sex or my car miles. 

I can’t cook for shiz. I however, have the appetite of a pig on weed. 

Some predictions he made:

1. You’re going abroad. You’d settle there. 

2. You’re gonna marry the guy you fall in love with. 

3. You’re gonna have a son. 

4. You’re gonna be highly qualified. And prosperous. 

Okay. 

Going abroad? Where? I’m assuming Bangladesh. 

Marrying the guy I fall in love with? My ass. 

Have a son?! Are you freaking kidding me? You can’t put lipstick on a son, wait, you can,  but then I do want daughter. Really. 

Highly qualified? I can’t even. 

What does this prove?

Astrologers are mostly doing a lot of woolly guesswork. And they totally make a commission off the jewelry stores when they ask you to wear some precious stone on your person. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 21st century and we’re still stuck in the middle ages. Why must we still match horoscopes, when we’re looking for a nice boy to marry your daughter? What guarantee do you have, of the marriage not failing? 

Which brings me to that one question – is astrology and palmistry even real? 

WTF Wednesday – I Don’t Need Pity.

WTF Wednesday – I Don’t Need Pity.

I don’t understand why people insist on blaming the person they’ve dated. Nobody asked you or begged you to come date this person. Nobody asked you to character analyze, either.

I don’t understand human emotions.

You don’t like/ want someone, don’t go stalk their blog. Simple. Unless you’re very competitive and/or bitter and bitchy and you want to see what your enemies are up to. Also don’t text them to say, “Everyone that dates you wish they had dated a decent human being.”

Or, “Even the pity has gone down on your blog. Only 24 likes and 17 comments. Remember when you used to be actually popular?”

Or, “You’ve finally come out of the closet, you only want a rich guy and you only think about yourself.”

Blah blah.

Here’s the thing. I don’t want your pity. I don’t need your pity. I don’t care if you read my blog, or support me, I don’t care if you think I’m a bitch. I don’t care if you think I’m playing victim. I’m not gonna justify myself.

One person’s judgment and one person’s opinion about me and one person dissecting my character does not make me who I am. Sorry, what I am. What being a crazy bitch that only plays victim.

Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t blog for the likes?

Has it ever occurred to you that I do this because I like making people laugh?

Has it ever occurred to you that I’ve lost all capability to love because I might be going through a tough time?

Before you judge, and tear me apart like you’d do a cadaver, think from my point of view too.

Thanks and goodbye.

WTF Wednesday – Annoying Relatives

WTF Wednesday – Annoying Relatives

Oh boy. Why is it that I get stuck with unhygienic relatives? I’m the cleanest person I know, I almost have a bit of an OCD when it comes to being a neat freak, and then BAM, the lord almighty gives me un-effing-hygienic relatives.

Now, I hadn’t seen this cousin of mine since about 1992. I was a year old and in diapers, I believe.

Bit of a shocker to see your cousin show up, decades later, wife and kids-in-diapers in tow. This wife of his? I can’t even. Have you ever seen anyone toss diapers all over the place? Needless to say, the guest room smelled like death and probably knocked out my poor old neighbor in his wheelchair for days.

I haven’t seen a more uncivilised human being in my whole entire existence. Who in their right mind, I ask you, leaves um, inappropriate dirt lying around? I haven’t seen parents like this. They never reprimand the kids, ever. Not even when they smashed things, and watched TV all day, and threw things down the drain.

The cleaning lady is in hysterics. Obviously.

I’m never having kids. Bad genes always surface. At some point or the other.

*bangs head against the wall*

WTF Wednesday – Pedophiles

WTF Wednesday – Pedophiles

Okay, I know I’m not a child by any means. I’m a grown arse old young woman. Side note: Sorry I’ve been MIA for four days, I’m assuming everyone missed me because I have such a charming personality, like Yoda. But I’ve got creepy old men stalking me.

Thank goodness, not in person.

So yesterday, this guy liked all of my photos. I was naturally super curious to see who liked a photo of me from August, 2015. I might have cataracts or something, because his profile picture was way too blurry for me to see who was.

I thought I’d check him out, you know, new admirer and crap.

Turns out, he was a 80 year old man from Bangladesh. God help me. I don’t know what else to call these sort of loonies, they’re perverted. Pedophiles! It scares me. What if they were to go stalk some 13 year old? And I have people that young following me on Instagram.

Oh boy.

If I ever have a daughter, I’ll tell her she’s not allowed to go online till she’s 30.

If you’re 13, and you see spam, please block those accounts. This is for your own safety. I’m sick of newspapers reporting cyber crimes like it’s nothing. UGH. Literal WTF moments.

image
Cute as it may seem, stay away from such people!