Desicritics Category: Culture: Women

Real Women Don't Cry

IdeaSmith — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 10:17:52 EDT

They were in the same class. In my class.

She was the quintessential behenji in a hip crowd. Plaited hair, salwar-kameez and a sharp brain. In accordance to her curd-rice genes, she took copious notes, had a near-perfect attendance record and consistently high grades. She told me once that her ambition was to become like 'one of those Matunga Tamilians' meaning the kind that preened in a new kanjeevaram at every wedding, pattu-recital, arangaitram and poonal-ceremony. The ones that shopped in Matunga market and had kaapi at Madras Bhavan. The ones whose accent bespoke Tam-Bram-Americana. The ones who worked for multinational software companies in Silicon Valley. Or married someone who did. I didn't like her. I never liked wannabes and the ruthlessly ambitious ones always scared me.

He was Mr.EasyGoing. One of the many small-town boys who made it big by getting a toe-hold in Mumbai, starting with a college admission. He hated mathematics but managed it better than several of his classmates, owing to his engineering background. Engineering in something quite unfashionable like...instrumentation? Textiles? I forget, it didn't bear remembering anyway. He was dazzled by the glamour of Bollywood, the smartly dressed girls around, the flashy cars and cool clothes that his Mumbai peers owned. He had a rustic wide-eyed charm along with the sweet modesty of someone who knows he is just a moth in a crowd of butterflies. I liked him. Everyone did.

It seemed symbiotic. She was authoritative, demanding and bossy. He followed her around meekly, doing her bidding, snapping to her orders. And things always turned out well with high marks for everyone. We called him her P.A. Only because we liked him too much to call him the more realistic-but-demeaning 'puppy-dog'. He bore it in good humour, as he did everything, smiling shyly. And all was well.

An entire year later, we had moved on to more serious things than other people's admirers. Ardent admirers had metamorphosed into abusive boyfriends, cheating rogues and impossible cads. I looked across the canteen to her, a tinge of envy in my gaze. She had always had him right under her thumb and she wasn't even that nice! And he was devoted to her.

Later that evening, I wandered back into the canteen for a quick bite and to pore over my books in solitude. The library was always too crowded and charged up with nervous adolescent tension during the exam fever. The canteen, emptied of its regular raucous crowd (now frequenting the library) was the peaceful haven I needed to concentrate.

As I sipped my tea, I looked across to the few occupied tables. They were sitting at a table in the corner. I would have moved on, except he spotted me and waved. So I waved back. And shouted a HI! across to both of them. Oddly enough, neither responded.

She had her head down on the table, turned away from me. I thought I could lip-read him telling her that he was speaking to me and that she might look up any minute. She didn't. With a surge of annoyance at her impossible rudeness, I looked back into my book. Then he called out my name. I looked up to see him frantically gesturing for him to come over. What a bother.., I sighed and shut my books.

As I walked the few feet over I suddenly had a premonition that something was terribly wrong. He wasn't smiling. And she sat stone-cold in her seat, head down like she was dead. Only when I neared their table close enough to sit down did I hear the soft anguished voice. I had to force her head up from the table. She looked awful. Hair awry and eyes swollen, alarmingly red. And a voice like I had never heard before. She was murmuring,

He says he is going to leave me. He says he is leaving. I asked him why did you say you loved me? He says he was just joking. And he is leaving.

I looked up at him, frank embarrassment at being privy to a private conversation. And I was startled by something I had never seen in his face before. It was cruelty. Sheer, cold cruelty. He was cutting her up with a knife and he knew it. It was deliberate. And then, before my eyes, Mr.Nice Guy cooly got up, dusted his palms and walked out of the canteen.

For an hour I sat with her, a girl I had never liked, while she poured her heart out to me about the crimes of a guy I thought of as a jolly good fellow. The dreams, the hopes, the expectations - everything that had lain under the ruthless ambition. All her drive and zeal to do well and carry both of them out of their lower-middle class status, out of the gargantuan family expectations that they may both be able to stand up and do what they wanted one day. And just before the very end, just before the final exams, he had cut her out. He hadn't meant a word of it. It had all been a sham. And she was devastated.

The first exam was the next morning. I kept a watch on the door, wondering if she would make it. She did. Face badly puffy, she drifted in unobstrusively. And across the room he sat, laughing and joking with his friends like nothing had happened. He didn't bat an eyelid as she walked in, deeply wounded dignity intact and sat down in the seat in front of him. And then the test begun.

In the second week of the exams he was seen chatting up two girls from the other class. And by next month it was rumored that he was seeing one of them. The P.A. joke faded out and was never raked up again, even while other mortifying love-tales were dug up at every alumni meet.

But something shifted for all of us in that one month. All the boys from her "I'm a tomboy!" days seemed to be saying with their sneering glances, "It served her right."

And what about the girls? She had never had any friends among us. We never discussed it across our cliques and no one ever said anything to her. But none of us ever spoke him again.

She graduated with top marks and found her footing in a job-tough market. Marriage happened a year back, to another man of her own choice. Of him I know nothing more and have no desire to, any furthur. It's good to want something and wonderful to get what you want; just not at the cost of stepping on someone else's toes - or heart.

She once introduced herself on stage with -

When it rains, I feel the rain.
The others just get wet.

Perhaps she never knew that there were people who would hold out an umbrella for her. But then again, she probably didn't need it. Real women don't cry - they just feel the rain on their faces.

Stubborn As A Mule

Diya S. — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 10:28:15 EDT

Last Durga Puja, my father organized a musical show where all my family members took part; albeit me missing as usual. My father played the violin, my mother sang and my brother played the synthesizer. When someone asked me why I wasn’t a part of the concert, I proudly declared myself to be the black sheep of the family, with no musical talent what so ever.

But later when I reflected upon my answer, I came to realize a very important aspect of my personality, which was that I am as stubborn as a mule! Even though it is not that I can’t sing (a friend of mine who is a professional guitarist even asked me to sing with him in one of his gigs) I have abstained from being properly trained in music.

This is mainly because as a child I had grown quite tired of hearing things like, “Bengali girls who can sing get good husbands” and thus had promised to myself never to sing in front of people.

My husband should love me despite the fact that I don’t sing, I had stubbornly thought. Today I am 21 and having matured considerably, I have come to realize that this obstinately behavior has had a very paradoxical effect on me.

Even though I love singing, the only reason I didn’t do so was just to vex others. And in the end it is I was the one who got hurt because, every thing said and done, I do love singing. I have now finally realized that I should learn to sing properly and nothing should stop me from doing so.

HIV+ By Marriage - High Court Denies Rights

Sakshi Juneja — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 04:10:06 EDT

The question of pre-marital HIV testing has been debated in media and on blogs. We are still searching for a balance between:

A) A nation’s effort in curbing a dreaded disease

B) Freeing the society of its prejudices/taboos

C) An individual’s right to protect what is ultimately a private and confidential matter regarding his/her health

While we are fighting this battle, there are causalities like this 29-year-old woman from Satara.

The woman said she was infected with the HIV virus from her husband, who had been suffering from the disease before their marriage which took place in 1997. Their child who was born in 2000, she said, was also diagnosed as HIV positive.

Her only hope was of course the judiciary, but just yesterday, that door too has been shut. The Bombay High Court rejected her plea stating that her applications under sections 498 (a) (dowry harassment) and 420 (willful cheating) of IPC does not hold, because these laws are only meant for property-related matters.

These offences (dowry harassment under section 498A) relate to property of a person. The body of a woman can, by no stretch of imagination, be treated as property, and therefore sections of cheating and willfully cheating (Section 420) would not attract in this case," ruled Justice Nishita Mhatre. […]

Though the court agreed that the woman's husband and her in-laws were fully aware that he was HIV positive at the time of their marriage, it disagreed to try the accused for willfully cheating.

As a bystander this is what I understand or more suitably can’t get a grip of…

Doesn’t withholding such vital information constitute the vilest form of cheating – that of snatching her entitlement to a healthy life – something we all regard as an unquestioned given?

In reaction to the court’s verdict, the victim’s lawyer Uday Warunjikar said

This is a case of cheating and should be treated as one of the 'rarest of rare' cases, where a HIV positive woman has come to the court saying she was cheated by her husband. The authorities should treat such cases sensitively, but here they failed miserably. The local police did not even bother to record her statement, hence she was forced to approach the court.

As someone who is very particular about her individual freedom, I cannot even begin to imagine what this woman would have gone through – to be duped twice; her marital family and the Indian judiciary.

"Scoring" in the United States

Chaitanya S — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 01:07:55 EDT

The Indian economy is on an upward growth path and showing a tremendous growth at 9%. My girth is doing exactly the same, though I feel my growth rate is much more. Talk of being a true representative of your country on foreign soil!

What can represent Indian more than a game of cricket? I finally played a match last month. I was looking forward to having a dream debut and leaving an impact on the game. I had this personal ambition of seeing a 50 next to my name on the score card. I got the game off to a rollicking start and reached 40 in the 3 overs in which I was in action. Suddenly the captain gestured me to stop and let someone else take over. He made it pretty clear to me that the 50 looks better next to my name while batting, not bowling! Whatever! I clearly remember hearing commentators saying “A half century is a half century in any form of cricket”. Shooting down aspirations of budding sportsmen is such an Indian trait. The captain thus displayed his "Indianness"!

I was chatting with a friend and he asked me “So have you scored in the US as yet?” I was a bit ashamed of my batting performance, but being an honest soul, I said, “Yeah it was pretty tough, but I managed 5”. Knowing every honest bone in my body, he gave me a phone call within 30 seconds of me sending the message in. “So how were they? Americans or Indians? How did you manage so quickly? Damn, 5 chicks in 3 months is rocking! Wish I’d studied there!” Maybe this is the communication gap between virtual teams that the professor warned us about in class. No wonder most people say that MBA education is mostly based on real life situations.

Back to the point, I did not have the heart to act like my captain and curtail someone’s excitement. But after a few seconds of listening to a running commentary of his own exploits, I let the bubble burst and told him I meant cricket. Suddenly I was flooded with comments of how busy he was, how late in the night it was for him and how he really had to hang up.

Statistics show that 80,000 Indian students come to the US annually. I am dead sure that when these 80,000 cross the psychological barrier of making the first long distance call to their friends, the first question they are faced with is the one which faced me. Friends back in India don’t give two hoots about whether you are pursuing an MS, an MBA or a janitor’s diploma.

Hard as it may seem since I’m a “pakka Mumbaikar”, I’d rather be a Dravid than a Tendulkar on foreign shores (figuratively speaking, of course). That will equip me with the perfect technique to “score” consistently in alien conditions rather than just “plundering” on home soil. Now I’ve realized what they mean by accomplishments in India not being appreciated as compared to foreign ones.

Since I’m on the topic of sports, I have to mention my experience in a bowling alley. Now my bowling in the alley isn’t as accomplished as that on a cricket pitch. So by the time we were half way through the game, the screen displaying scores appeared like a chart of noughts and crosses. I had most of the noughts because of innumerable gutter balls and my friends had the crosses because of perfect strikes. One of them asked me “Bet you’ll never manage 3 straight crosses?” Well I could have shown him a few sheets with my name and lots of crosses under that. Too bad Mumbai University does not return our engineering answer sheets. But the score sheet surely evoked nostalgia of my engineering tests, with the crosses, and the zeros right next to them.

But things aren’t all that bleak in my life. I think I’ve finally learned to cook now and my roomies have heaved a sigh of relief. Well I don’t blame them. If the cook doesn’t eat his own food, it surely does provide food for thought to the others. Well I’m proud to state my cooking has reached a stage where I can satiate my own taste buds without going green in the face.

I was chatting with one of my friends yesterday and she asked me,”You’ve been there for almost 3 months, what was the most difficult thing you found fitting into?” I read it and I bit my lower lip with regret. That question hit me where it really hurt. An honest answer was typed back. “My denims”.

Can A Straight Woman And A Lesbian Woman Be Friends?

IdeaSmith — Tue, 8 Jul 2008 02:53:51 EDT

That's like asking if a guy and girl can have a platonic friendship, isn't it? The question is given the possibility of a sexual/romantic connection, can a relationship exist even without it?

Okay, let me get out of the pseudo-intellectualizing and go real-life. I do know some lesbians. One of them is a friend. She hasn't actually 'come out' as they call it or even 'confessed' to me, if such a revelation can be labeled a confession (as if it were a crime and one should look shamefaced about it!). Yet, I know. Don't ask me how. I'd be a terrible friend if I didn't realize it. As it is, I'm probably not as great a friend as I ought to be if she hasn't felt comfortable sharing the truth with me. Or perhaps it is just too personal, too precious to her to speak about it. Either way, I'm fine with it. After all, I don't consider friendship as a permission to sit in judgment and I also don't think that one's orientation bears judgment by others.

So that's as far as it goes regarding our conversations (or the lack of them) about her sexuality. However there are other things...undercurrents, emotions and grey areas. For example, how far do I go with my displays of affection? I'm a natural born hugger, I love hugging my family, friends and people I feel close to. Thus far the only complication has been with men, particularly the ones in my age bracket with whom there is/could be a a certain attraction. Like most other women, I've tried and tested the waters and reached a certain comfortable balance of physical proximity with the various men in my life. Now we arrive at the new complication of having to consider the same thing with another woman as well.

Personally I believe that sexuality isn't binary with a person being either homosexual or heterosexual (and how does that account for bisexuality?) ; it is more like a range of shades and all of us fall somewhere along the scale. Or perhaps we even move up and down the scale at various points in our lifetime.

Note now I'm talking about orientation not actual action so for the more conservative-minded, I'm not accusing you of doing anything that could shock you. And if you follow my belief it means that each of us is capable of feeling attraction for any other human being, male or female at any point of time in our life. I've written about my own bi-curiosity (as Desiblogging termed it) before. I'm quite unabashed in my admiration of other women. But I find it stops right there and I have no desire (physical, hormonal or otherwise) to go any furthur than that. That in my mind is what determines my orientation and keeps me in the dating pool of male partners.

How do you distinguish the affinity and closeness that like-minded women share from sexual attraction? How far do you go with someone you think there could be a spark of attraction with? How close do you get to someone you suspect might be attracted to you?

And therein I find I'm back on the same territory as I was a few years back when I discovered the opposite sex, attraction and love. Friendship is so wonderfully simple but the hormones just come and complicate them all, don't they?

To come back to the case in point, my lovely lady friend appears to be in a relationship as well. How do I know? No, she hasn't mentioned that either but it is clearly visible to anyone who knows her well. I wish I could speak up and tell her how happy I am that she has found someone special. When her eyes light up at the mention of her girlfriend, I wish I could tease her and hug her in sheer glee. But I don't.

I also wonder sometimes what her girlfriend thinks of me. Just as I wonder what the wives and girlfriends of my guy friends think of me and I walk around on eggshells until I'm totally, completely 120% sure that they have no qualms about my closeness; I wonder in this case too whether her girlfriend ever resents me or even, well, frowns a bit at our closeness. Oh well, I think not. She seems a good sort in herself and I'm guessing if I had known her before I'd have been friends with her as well.

So to answer my own question of whether it is possible for a straight and a lesbian woman to be friends. Yes, yes, I think so. After all, sexuality is physical and perhaps mental but friendship, love and loyalty come straight from the heart.

Book Review: The Girls of Riyadh

Ms. Anona — Mon, 7 Jul 2008 13:57:58 EDT

Hooray for the Girls of Riyadh! May you all find true love and freedom while adhering to what is most virtuous of your religion and traditions!

Finally, a tell-all book about everyday life of four young well-off Saudi girls (five if you count the narrator) and is considered the first astonishing glimpse behind the veil. The 'true' story is told over a year of weekly postings published online. The novel reads more like a soap opera really, with each chapter full of short stints of dramas from each character. In fact, this book would be too disconnected and superficial if set anywhere else, barely making it into the adult genre. But, since this is Saudi Arabia after all, a country well-known to fervently oppress women's rights, the reader easily becomes attached to the characters, their mild acts of rebellion, and attempts at finding true love.

Love does not come easy in a land where the hijab is compulsory and mingling of the sexes a mortal sin. In fact, Alsanea goes so far as to say that there is an all-out ban on love. Even Valentine's Day is a threat to campus officials, red roses and cute cards expressing affection confiscated yearly. Still, somehow males and females are able to mingle and dream of catering to their first loves the same as any other around the globe. It is no wonder that a handful of these premature loves fail so drastically and without explanation, even after marriage. Such is the case of the girls of Riyadh, childhood friends that go their separate ways, but manage to stay together to share their stories.

Gamreh, living in Chicago, is dedicated to an arranged marriage before finding out her husband is still in a previous relationship and not willing to leave his girlfriend. She returns back to Riyadh alone and pregnant. Sadeem is also abandoned by her arranged spouse shortly after the first ceremony, moves to London, and then falls disasterously for a Saudi politician. Michelle moves to San Francisco and has a crush on her American cousin who doesn't really feel the same way. But the story, the real story, is brought about by the fourth girl, Lamees.

Lamees realizes she is falling for a classmate. She has stood by the trials and tribulations of her displaced friends, but is smarter and doesn't want to become like them. She wants to be successful in love and sets out to create a strict guideline for herself. She will not give in too easily, or show how willing she is towards him. She remains conservative and in time the boy seeks to ask her father for her hand. In the end, Lamees is the only one of the four girls who is able to follow through on her dreams, the same dream all four women share. Even though there are aspects of modern-day Feminism sprinkled all over the book, the irony here is that success comes for Lamees in a way that is acceptable to their culture and beliefs in how appropriate Muslim women should act.

The story ends happily for Sadeem and Michelle as well, although not as how they intended. Gamreh, however, completely falls off the radar and becomes too burdomsome of a character to even be mentioned in the happy ending. An explanation is given at the end of the book saying that the real Gamreh (name changed) became aware of the scandal and dissaproved saying her name would be further slandered. It gives the book life, like a reality TV show, but as far as writing a novel is concerned, the ending seems clique and fixed.

Still, Rajaa Alsanea’s novel is worth a read, if only because the book is banned in several Middle East countries, deemed as too risqué and un-Islamic. One of the most interesting parts of the book comes from the narration of the anonymous writer herself, which describes the differing emails received throughout the online publishings. Some readers, of course, admire her while others tell her how she is degrading Saudi culture. It is interesting to analyze how the most conservative of this society rationalize their views on the role of women. Overall, The Girls of Riyadh is deemed a real-life incantation of what it means to be single and female in Saudi Arabia and is a story worthy of telling.

Short Story Review: A Brown Man by Prasenjit Gupta

Shantanu Dutta — Sat, 5 Jul 2008 03:52:05 EDT

Vijay teaches in the English department in a small American town in Prasenjit Gupta’s short story “A Brown Man”. He is single. His mother in India wants him to marry an Indian girl; no foreigners were to be trusted. So Vijay found Asha his girl friend for three years until her – more liberal in her ways than even the white girls his mother worried about, left Vijay for a hippie.

Vijay is single and lonely and his departmental senior Philip and wife Sharon are good friends and they are trying to act match maker; but that is not going to work for Vijay is very conscious of parental authority and won’t do any thing that will offend his mother, but then Philip and Sharon do not know that of course. So they introduce to Vijay, a distant cousin by the name of Amy who is on a short vocation and staying with them. Vijay is not too interested; remember his mother is wary of white girls out to seduce her son, but out of courtesy to Philip and Sharon who are good people, he agrees to spend some time with Amy and “show her around” the town.

Amy is a good enough girl but Vijay is not interested; he has already been hurt once and remember; his mother has warned him to wary of the white girls. “Don’t bring home a foreigner” was the unambiguous message. Though they go out several times and though they get along well enough, there is no trace of romance. He shares about the Indian girl who left him and she in turn tells him about the boy who left her. Slowly he is falling in love with a white woman despite all the warnings that he has received. On one of his monthly phone calls to his mother, he crosses the Rubicon by telling his mother that he has been seeing a white girl. She sighs into the phone. A sigh of hopelessness.

It is the end of Amy’s vacation and they are going out for their last outing. Amy has never looked more beautiful and Vijay knows that if he must propose, this has to be the night. As they are settling into their meal, a white man comes and sits down opposite their seat and looks disdainfully at him and admiringly at Amy. Vijay shrinks within himself as he remembers the many times he has been snubbed at by white people over the years. The dinner ends with the proposal never uttered and Vijay drives a very visibly low Amy back home. The next day, as Vijay drops Amy to the airport, she casually mentions that her old boy friend wants reconciliation and she was open. Vijay shrivels further inwards as he bids her good bye … for the last time and heads back home.

Is racism for real or is it an imagined shadow that Vijay seems to see every where, often without any substantial basis. His colleague Philip and his wife Sharon cared enough about him to notice his loneliness and try and do some match making and Amy as she went out with him, evening after evening dared to hope that the man she had come to love and to admire would one day propose to her. But though he skirted edgily around the subject, he never did. He was haunted by his own mother’s demons – that white American girl was bad though Vijay’s own experience was to have been let down by an Indian girl trying hard to be “Western”.

Now that racism is no longer institutionalized, it is obviously that much more difficult to track down and identify. And how much of it is real and how much of it is magnified by past experiences, mental imagery, perceptions –true and imagined that we end up interpreting wrongly and often with tragic consequences as happened with Vijay? Vijay’s interpretation of what a white woman would be like was largely conditioned by what his mother whispered on the phone as they talked every month and indeed in India, even before he had left the country’s shores to go to America. Although he had enough caring white people in his life, he still could not bring himself to trust himself and trust them when it came to the defining moment of his life and that moment eventually passed him by.

We talk often of stereotyping – racial and ethnic and religious and others and imagine that these flawed judgments that we make of others harm them, discriminate against them, and deny them opportunities….. But stereotyping is actually like a boomerang it comes back and denies us the very same joys that we imagine others are losing out on.

Born Confused: Hi Dad...er...Mom

temporal — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 01:50:40 EDT

Poor baby!

The two word opening is not condescending.

Can you imagine the little baby being utterly confused between mom and dad. Thank you mom….er……dad….er…..not you mom, dad…

34 year old Thomas Beattie, former pageant queen Tracy LaGondino of Hawaii, lately of Oregon has given birth to a baby girl, ABC News has reported.

He told People magazine he decided to get pregnant after wife of five years Nancy had a hysterectomy.

So to answer the question: how can a man be pregnant? Well, Beatie actually used to be a woman, then decided he wanted to be a man, and then decided he wanted to have a baby. When he had surgery to become a man, he had his breasts removed and was given testosterone to make him look and sound like a man, but he chose to keep his female reproductive organs. So Beatie is really a man/woman hybrid. Call him a freak, if you like.

Baby incubating aside, renting a womb aside, switching roles aside, I found this very interesting. Beattie has a penchant for coining words. Look at this play on maternity clothes:

'Unfortunately, they don't make man-ternity clothes,' he remarked recently.

Is it progress? Tides run - time does not remain still. But what is this? Will pigs fly next? Will democracy take root in Iraq? Or Pakistan? Will Bal Thackeray come out of the closet? Will Modi waltz with Mullah Omar?

What will the kid do when the school wants her to bring her dad with her next PTA meeting?

Now there will be no solace in beer drinking. A beer belly can be mistaken for pregnancy.

And did you read about the one year old baby carrying another fetus? No, not another miracle, I assure you. It is a medical condition called FiF. Fetus-in-Fetus.

So to the All India Eunuch Association Chairperson and the Von Siffers: hold your peace. We are not there yet.

Types Of Women Who Drive You Insane

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 3 Jul 2008 11:33:29 EDT

A woman best understands another's pain and yet it is a woman who sees through another's deviousness and petty manipulations.

Tears Come In Handy:

Crocodile tears streaming down satin cheeks might melt the male heart but rarely does too get beyond a certain point on other women. Why? That is because the fairer sex knows that tears come easy to some of their sisters. Scold them and a thousand rivers flow. They snivel into their hankies, dupattas or pallus. Moppy women are tedious to bear and are similar to the emotional wrought ones.

Emotional Wrecks Or Drama Queens:

These damsels are always in distress and demand regular men play Lancelot to their Guinevere. These divas swallow men whole. These kinds of women abound - they expect someone lse to save them from their lonely marriages, their boyfriends, their parents, their siblings, their jobs, etc. Their hearts are forever broken and wounds never heal. Generally women are able to sieve the fake wolf criers from real victims. It is intuitive.

Menstrual Cycle As a Weapon-

Some use their monthlies to garner sympathy. Of course there are those who suffer tremendously - myself included - but to make it a tear jerking scenario doesn't work every time on women. It isn't a form of illness or affliction but a natural phenomena that makes us women. If it hurts, get some medicine, use a hot water bottle, go lie down for a while but if the bleeding is bad, a visit to the Gynecologist would be better than being an periodically ailing damsel.

The Flirt: These are easy to deal with. With the high heels, swanky clothes and tinkling laughter they use their sexuality to impress the opposite sex. They instinctively repel the insecure and the feminists alike. To use one's sexuality alone to be popular rarely works after a while since everyone cannot be Mata Hari in the making.

Lies and Sweet Nothings: The ones with the sweet tongue are the toughest to deal with. Their forked tongues can bring empires down. Manipulation, lying and flattery comes easy to such women. They revel in causing conflict. Not only do men fall in their traps but so do women with simple hearts.

The Matriarch Syndrome: These women use their age, position in the family to have their way. These are the control freaks who would run a finger and show the dust even in the most sterile cleanest environment. No one can best these kinds of ladies. They know best and rule with an iron hand.

Best Way to Deal With Such Women: We may detest them, try our best to avoid them but when circumstances demand interaction there are a few tried out tips that seem to work. Once we know the kind of personality, we are dealing with more than half the battle is won. A heavy dose of humor helps when it comes to dealing with the female dictator; with the forked tongue women, humility works, along with taking everything that they say with a pinch of salt. With the hot air heads keeping them at an arms distance works, mostly.

The hypochondriac ones require heavy doses of Oxycontin to zone them out painkillers and a matter of fact attitude works to keep their hysterics in control

For the emotional wrecks, deliberate deafness is the perfect solution.

And when all else fails, the best thing to do is just cut ties and run for one's life for once tangled in their webs getting out with a sane mind is kind of difficult.

Fiction: Looking For Answers

Anuradha Goyal — Thu, 3 Jul 2008 00:27:52 EDT

Everyone called her Aarti Aunty. She stood tall, with an elegant posture. Like a true Punjabi, she had the milky white complexion and a flawless skin even at the age of 60. And this was complemented by the features that could have well helped her to be a part of the fashion or glamor industry. But what was more important than all this was her ever smiling face, with which she brought life to any gathering and a sunshine cheer wherever she went. She had the ability to cook for any number of people at the mere mention of the food. She took care of everyone around her like her own children.

In no time, she became the emotional anchor for everyone around her. People would call her to discuss their day to day problems, their marriages, their kids, their relationships, their work stress, their plans, their disappointments and their joys. She would patiently listen to everyone and she could effortlessly empathize with everyone she listened to. She was the perfect listener and everyone felt lighter in their hearts after they had her ears.

She loved good food. More often than not she would cook your favorite dish and pamper you. If you give her the bland continental food, she would add her own tadka to it and with a twinkle in her eyes ask ‘is is not more eatable now?’ She loved going to movies. Any new movie in town and she had to watch it as soon as possible. You could see sheer joy on her face while watching movies. She enjoyed even the silliest of the movies just like a teenager or a college student.

She was too good to be true, but she was there, right there in front of your eyes smiling at you, listening to you and making you feel being taken care of. In this time and day when no one seems to care for anyone, she was like a God sent angel who was like a stereotypical warm and caring mother and a fun loving friend rolled into one. She symbolized life, she lived it completely and made life look worth living not only for herself but for everyone around her.

No one knew anything about her past, where did she come from and where has she lived all these years before popping up this town one day put of the blue. She had such an influence on anyone who came in touch with her that no one ever thought of her past. Everyone was just too happy to have her around.

She was a cancer patient with one of her breasts visibly removed. She made frequent trips to the hospital, but she never complained or cribbed about it. She would go to the hospital and get her chemotherapy done. She would also take any alternate therapies that others suggested, whether it helped her or not, but again always with a smiling face. Her room had a few books on nature cure for cancer. Though she never mentioned her cancer to anyone, people whom she shared the house with knew about it. She managed her monstrous disease with amazing courage and kept it camouflaged under her calm exterior.

She used to follow the most renowned guru in town and had lived in his ashram for sometime, and that is how everyone came in touch with her and started knowing her. I came across her through the people she shared the house with. Friendly person that she was, she became friendly with me too. And I discovered Arti Aunty.

A few months later, she was invited by a co-devotee to visit her in Singapore. This was a lady who spoke to Arti Aunty for at least two hours everyday, who left the setting up of her house in India to Aunty and when everything was done wanted Aunty to come and spend time with her. Though she insisted she wanted Aunty to come and relax but probably she wanted to use her shoulder to unload her emotional traumas.

Aunty left for Singapore in January and never came back to the city. When she did not return weeks after her scheduled date of return, it became a case of concern. Her mobile phone was constantly not reachable. Calls to Singapore revealed that she had left from there on the scheduled date. Where was she, is what was on everyone’s mind? Then came the news that she has a family in Chennai and as she was not feeling well, and needed to undergo some major surgeries, she has decided to stay back with her family for a while.

Then, came a lady who had almost lived with Arti Aunty in last few months and she said she has news to break. And I held my breath with my imagination going everywhere as to what the bad news is going to be. I was silently praying for the news not to be too bad. And as she started speaking, I was in total shock and I could not believe a word of what she said. Her words kept ringing in my ears but my heart refused to believe every single sound that I had heard in last few minutes. How was it possible? How can she do that? Can there be an element of truth in what I just heard? Am I awake or am I dreaming? Slowly my feelings settled down and my rationale started juggling itself. Should I believe the lady I just heard? Are there any data points that tally with what she just said? Who should I call and try to validate what I just heard? Reluctantly, I called up the person who had introduced me to Aunty and she said whatever I have heard is true, and there is enough evidence to prove it. It goes without saying that I was hoping not to hear these words.

For next few days I was upset and started doubting everyone around. I could not speak about what I heard about Aunty to anyone. I was not sure if what I heard is true or not as Aunty was not around to give her version of truth. As the luck would have it, I also had to travel to Singapore for few weeks and obviously had questions for someone who was the last person to have spent time with Aunty. I call up this lady with lot of anxiety and inquisitiveness and asked her the same question. She also confirmed whatever was earlier told to me. I was keen to meet her but when she figured out that my intention is only to find out the truth about Aunty, she avoided me. She was a party to whatever happened to Aunty and her guilt smiled through her voice. Her words and her tone did not complement each other.

Aunty had been blamed for stealing and running away with a lot of money, jewelry and valuables. All the people who were common between me and Aunty believed and confirmed it.

Aunty never came back and is not there to explain herself. Is it plain and simple to blame her as she is not there? Was Aunty charming her way through all of us to act one fine day? Is she the victim or is she the one who victimized whole lot of people?

All that bothers me today is that I want to know the answer. I want to know given all the behaviors and circumstances, who did what and who reacted how. I wish to find an answer some day if and when I meet Aunty somewhere sometime. It is like watching a long serial and then missing the final episode where all the masks go down and you finally know the truth.