Being Fifty

Whoever said turning 50 was a piece of cake, has no idea what they are talking about. It takes several kilos of the cake (or pie or pastry), across numerous years, to help turn you into the obese, grey haired, jaded, worn-out, unrecognisable person. And it isn’t a one day phenomenon, you know like when you wake up one bright summer morning and realise- gosh- I am never going to be 40 again! It is a notoriously slow process, that begins when you are born and slowly creeps up on you to the inevitable and irreversible day. 

So a few months ago I turned 50. And COVID happened. Haven’t quite figured out which is the bigger disaster?  Or maybe it is Trump. Tough times, difficult choices. Like all self-respecting middle class people, I had to celebrate that occasion, marking the end of my prime youth and beginning of my expected sedentary life. If people can celebrate breakups, I can celebrate ageing, so nothing really wrong there. So I did, with pomp and show, sailing through the middle east, and sharing a handful better selfies with the world in general. 

Nothing drastic has happened since, world is still the same, mornings are as bad as ever, save for a few tell-tale signs that are an eye opener. Yes, they remind every day, you are old dear, and the quicker you realise and accept it, the better. Thought of sharing the learnings – so if you intend to forget your age- bingo! I will not let you.

Sign no 1 : You find workout videos very inspiring, especially the ones that say – for mature people (or older adults or however you term yourself like How to feel 25 at 50). You try to prove (more to yourself ) you are better than the lady in the video who does all these twists and turns with unbelievable ease, but they did not tell you about the invisible wall between your foot and your hands and bend as hard as you will, you cannot reach your foot, the only twist that happens is the one in the back that makes Combiflam a must. Finally to save your dignity, you mumble- all doctored and fake videos!

Sign no 2 :  You fundamentally stop caring about the sign no 1, what matters is the cake that looks so yum, the buttery naan, and the all so yummy food we ended up cooking during all these lockdown months inspired by the plethora of mouth-watering recipes that have flooded the internet. The increased inches on your anterior that makes it impossible to look down and see your balance body parts and the post lunch lethargy leading to lay-downs are just side effects. So what if the jeans needs to be loosened or the belly button peeks out from between the shirt buttons. Looking good is passé, feeling good is what matters, The Divine Revelation. And  despite that- people will tell you – How nice! Beautiful pic! (And you look so good “for your age” ) As soon as you post that selfie with wrinkly double chin and fizzy hair (after 99 retries) on social media. Bang! All the aforementioned revelation disappears into thin air and you start hunting for a better picture to post after 10 days.

Sign no 3: Everyone you meet is half your age. Now that is rum, I mean you talk to people and realise they are your kid’s age, (who isn’t a kid anymore and the family is already talking about his foreboding marriage). I mean why is the world population so young? It makes me feel literally -old. Ancient, one and a quarter foot in the grave which is also decayed. This sign is also strengthened by another one- in order to find your year of birth on any online application, you need to scroll for the year and by the time you reach the correct one, it is another year gone. It is like the kid you babysat once is now your doctor. And that makes it almost impossible to flirt with him because you memories of him are of that crawling diaper-clad drooling baby.

Sign no 4- your essential ornament is the one on your eyes, life is hazy without it. Literal blindness. Can’t read the back of the medicine strip, the recipe on the masala sachet, the latest meme on Facebook and the word document that comes on WA. I mean documents are supposed to be read on a computer, my mobile screen with the largest font isn’t the place for it. And spectacles with masks is a spectacle in itself, first dealing with the frost and then not being able to breathe. I know masks and spectacles are the saviours in these times, though in disagreement with each other. Despite that disability, I am able to better recognise idiots from far off (and fend them off), now that I am 50.

Sign no 5: You stop giving a !@#$. You actually start that in your forties, slowly but surely. Enough is enough. Live on your own terms. And conditions (and use the aforementioned spectacles to find the fine print). Who is getting perturbed by what you say, whether the house is immaculate, if what you are wearing is befitting, if the socks match, what is the world contemplating, are worries of the past! You have no qualms being opinionated, showing complete intolerance for fools, forgetting names unashamedly, using the banned words you never used in your youth, flirting with boys (anybody 10 years younger is still a boy), watching the forbidden with eyes wide open, and then some..

Sign no 6: Maybe it is the men-o-pause thing, but all men (and some women) suddenly develop a morbid taste for the  “ghanta gyan” (worthless !@#$) accompanied by the most unrelated, unnecessary, unrealistically posed and buxom (I prefer to say fat) middle-aged ladies. And they are the same people who are simultaneously mesmerised by the size zeros. I get it now- it is the kind-of-women-who-may-still-take-interest-in-me-despite-my-potbelly-and-baldness, as an intelligent Choudhary remarked. I wonder why I never see such forwards with a juxtaposed guy? Let me also have my bit of fun!

Sign no 7: You become invisible to people of the opposite sex and to people half your age, except when they need free advice. They stop including you into nonsensical activities because “they think you can’t handle it”. And if by mistake they do ask- you can always make the excuse since you are too old. Men stop flirting with you, and if they do, it is out of pity. Some amount of attention will do you good, somebody needs to remind the inattentive I-am-watching-videos-with-my-new-bluetooth-earphones-spouse. But you can emit loads of free advise starting from children to panellists in a talk, doesn’t matter you’d never trust yourself if you were you, just don’t tell them that.

Sign no 8: Cherry on the top. Some things are free or discounted – like colonoscopy- ugh. And being called “grandma” and the art of coughing, laughing, sneezing and peeing at the same time, the period pain without the period. Things that should be taut and projectile going limp and free falling with gravity, (I am talking about your skin, buddy). But the fact remains that you can still count. And you have your brains intact. You can laugh at others and at yourself. Realising that none of it is under your control anyway, and never was, was something not taught by meditation but only by being fifty.

Worthless Rant

Of late, I have been feeling nobly unworthy. And it all started with the DIY and 5 minute craft videos. Somehow those videos have a mesmerising quality, you can watch it repeatedly and still not fathom what is coming next. What you can’t do is actually try to replicate it. That is when you realise, that you are dumb. You are an idiot and something that looks so trivial, you can’t even do that! What use is this life without being able to successfully do a simple do-it-yourself. In fact, I am so unworthy, you can use me as a worthy example on how not to turn out to be.

To further reduce my self-esteem, I have tried to list down a horde of things I can’t do, and how useful the rest of the world is, as compared to me.

  1. I can’t stitch the shirts and trousers that my son wears. I keep on hearing how certain someone stitches all the clothes for her daughter, her dresses and everything and how she manages to find the time to do all this after finishing all the chores in the house in a joint family. They are so well made, better than ready-made clothes. I have therefore concluded that I completely wasted my yesteryears getting an engineering degree, getting into IIT, and then working rest of my life. I should have been a seamstress and sewed clothes for my family, including the banian (vest) and underwear’s, I could have walked with my head held high. How worthless am I that I can’t even stitch the traditional “A” on the banians.
  2. I am unable to cook “Usha poha” (snacks with rice flakes). The name depicts the owner of the recipe, Usha, my maid of honour, makes awesome Poha. And try as I might, I am unable to replicate the patented recipe. As my esteemed husband would say “tumhara poha thoda dry hota hain” (The poha you make is dry), or “tumne chini nahi dali” (you missed adding sugar), or “vaisa nahi hain jaisa usha banati hain” (doesn’t taste like Usha Poha) or “who baat nahi hain” (It is not as good).  I bow my head with shame, why doesn’t the earth swallow me up, I can’t even make poha well (The Usha poha version). I hitherto wish I had learnt culinary skills rather than internet technologies and C programming.
  3. I am hopelessly inadequate at the art of selfie taking. I will not elaborate on this, we all know how insignificant and miserable we feel when we are unable to post selfies once a week on Facebook, I can’t even post once a year, I am so bad. In fact, read my blog https://myhumerousbone.wordpress.com/2016/10/07/i-me-selfie/ to gather more details about my selfie shaming. There is body shaming, there is fat shaming, there is colour shaming, with me it is selfie shaming. Shame on my selfies. I think I am only capable of asking Siri to do the needful- only if I get the accent.
  4. I have two left feet and I cannot dance, sala. Period. All my childhood and adulthood, people have tried to push me on to the floor and after a brief look at my clumsy attempts, they give up. They can’t bear to watch me. I can see them struggling to be kind, no it is ok, you anyway said you can’t dance (I can hear the brains creaking – we also can’t dance but our can’t dance is any day better than your can’t dance). This is not TRUE. I can actually dance better than, hmmm, ok.. I knew I had a name.. at least one person on this earth.. Sunny Deol, maybe? I mean why did God send me to this world to be insulted in this fashion, and danced away to glory.
  5. Of course, at an elevated level are the DIY’s where you mess up the whole shit and come to the conclusion that life isn’t fair. They are designed to reduce your feeling of I-am-good-bro down to ashes. How can that idiot on youtube do this and I can’t. Is it because I am dumber? I once tried to do a DIY fashion hack –(I presume the intent was to make you look sexier). There was a spelling mistake. It made me look messier, till I gave it up for pocha (mop). I mean how tough is cutting cloth with scissors, but somehow when I do it, the shape ends up pretty much shapeless. I think I am more a DDIY fan, bole to, Don’t Do It Yourself, unless of course, you have absolutely nothing to do, Still better, watch Netflix, a better use of time and less wastage of things-I bought-that-I-had-no-use-for.

I can hold up my head for my one and only one quality. I breathe out CO2 for plants. Nobody can take that away from me. During this deep introspection phase, I also absurdly observed that there are so many other things far worthier. Well, think of something you consider good for nothing. I can guarantee they are still better than good for nothing me.

  • A piece of rag (post DIY effect), we can use it to clean running noses, or the kitchen table, as a wiser person told me.
  • An old broken bottle – DIY has taught me they are most useful things discovered since the fire.
  • An old broken gramophone (don’t ask what that is, google it, pls, they still need to come out with google for dummies) – Even that can be repaired. But I am above repair (do I mean beneath repair, or maybe beyond repair?)
  • A piece of trash – come on- recycle, reuse, you know the ropes. Find a DIY to tell you what to do with it.

Unworthily yours

P.S. Self Esteem is exactly that, the esteem you hold for yourself. Who cares what the world thinks! Hold up your head and walk tall. Fall if you haven’t observed what you are walking into, pick yourself up and start again. Tell yourself you are worthy of falling over better things (sorry, my sarcastic avatar gets the better of my pious self). Grow up, doesn’t matter. You feel worthless, tell the world and laugh with them. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone, yes anyone, get you down, you owe yourself that. You are the best (at something, even If it is at breathing out CO2).

The side effects of Mitu

When did it start? Where did it start? Why did it start? My few seconds of research leads me to believe I have found the answer to the question that nobody is asking. No, it was not a movement started by the woman whose face is circulating in all posts and when you look at her, the first thought is #couldntpossiblybemetoo (sorry dear, no pun, only fun intended). I believe it goes back to the ancient times. Long long ago there was a place called Rome. The place is still there, but not the witnesses to the inception. In the kingdom of Rome, lot of people did and still do as Romans did, they fought. There was in the beginning, bro-mance between the then emperor, Mr Caesar, (a green fit fellow who also invented a salad on the side, popularly known as Caesar’s Salad.) and his die-hard friend Mr Brutus. As buddies go, they went hand in hand, except that My Brutus’s hidden hand held a dagger and brutally (Oh, so that is the genesis of the word Brute-ally), assassinated Mr Julius. Just before Mr Caesar ceased to be, he exclaimed “Et tu, Brute”. And that my friends, as per my twisted theory, when he said #youtoo, the stars shifted, cosmos heard him and, it was sealed on that day in the Ides of March, that in the twenty first century, #metoo war cry would thus cause empires to topple.

The aura and coverage of #metoo has not only caused rifts in unsuspecting households either way, from “my husband is better than your husband because he got more metoos” to “Thank your stars, I married you, you didn’t get a single metoo”, there are a lot of side effects that #meandyou can feel for real. From the girl asking, “He checks me out, should I cry metoo?” Whether the tap on the shoulder or the “you have lost weight and are looking good” be me too or not to me too. I actually feel quite discriminated, why not he too?

The biggest single side effect is the typecasting. Now #metoo is mapped to #sexualharassment and these days there is no way to use it with a different connotation. Just a few days back some of us friends decided to get ice cream and my friend shouted across the street, who all want a particular flavour. Along with the rest of us, I shouted loud and strong, “Me too”. And the world stopped. Twenty people turned and looked suspiciously at me. I never knew this would turn into my 20 seconds of fame. I could almost feel, people were ready to take out their mobiles and start recording, and I was going to be viral across TV and the online world. I half expected the salt toothpaste lady to jump out and thrust her mike at me and ask “Kya aapke paas #metoo hain?”( are you also a victim of #metoo?) . Like everything that glitters cannot be gold, not every me too is #metoo.

The second side effect is for (do I mean against?) the government. And I am not talking about the toppling giants. See, the government has gone out of the way to make things simple for Indiankind. The elimination of #377 and adultery as a crime, is opening up a world of possibilities for the amorous genre, and while they were ecstatically figuring out how to use it to their advantage, suddenly dropped the #metoo ball. Now the same folks are scrambling to tunnel a way out, maybe a prior agreement between the screwee and the screwer (that post on the agreement was hilarious) is the way out, if the trolls are to be believed.  To screw or not to screw, is the question, bluntly put, that is trending. This movement is putting further locks on the closet, forget coming out. So, what I am trying to say, in a roundabout way, is #metoo is decidedly anti-government because it is hell bent on undoing what the government did. So, if you are part of the mass screwed by the government, can you shout “Me too”?

This Mr Mitoo is simultaneously kicking up a storm in Bollywood. All those who are not new and in news, all they have to do to become happening all over again is #metoo. So if your Na Na to Nana went unheeded, or you could not adjust your sanskaar as per the God of light, you need to find the fault in your own vault, so what if he did assault? Why didn’t you let Mr Anu be the master (Malik), or Jatin be the slave (Das), and how dare you refuse Mr Housefull (1,2 or 3 and 4). You can’t revolt, so you must withhold. BTW, what happened to the 300 (what was the number again?) encounters of the Munna? None of them is vocal so far…he went so far, yet..

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The blouse that saves

Tone change. Jokes apart. Unless I do that, I will be forever exiled from society of pious women and thrown into shameful drudgery.

Somebody recently asked me, what do you think about #metoo. I am a woman, what is there to think? I am one of the millions who has survived her own encounters and fought her demons. It took me 25 years to speak up, after encounters at the tender age of 15. It needs courage, a lot of it, it needs you to have the confidence that nobody can point fingers at you, and if they do, you can handle it. It makes me so happy that women feel empowered to speak up. Being able to look at people in the eyes and finally blurt it out, take the load off the chest.

Adultery is no longer a crime. But using power to abuse people, physically or mentally, those who don’t have a voice, be it a woman or a man, exploiting a weakness is despicable. Consent is the key that unlocks the door of the heaven that people desire. I just hope that this movement brings around a real change. It is not about being anti Romeo, but it is about upholding our dignity and being treated as an equal. And every romantic, mildly flirting glance is not a reason to start the war cry. Let us not trivialise it. There is a clear demarcation between good natured flirting and hard-core assault. Let the Romeos survive, else Juliets will have a tougher time. And remember to say No, if you don’t want it.

Nevertheless, #metoo has created #toomuch #funtoo.

Disclaimer: No woman was harmed during the writing of this blog. Any reference to anyone living or dead is purely intended for harmless fun.

Gl(amorous)

A few days back I got an invitation to attend an event for celebrities, hosted by celebrities, of celebrities and for shmucks. I am a shmuck.

Wow, I thought. I have never seen ramp-walk for real, up close and personal. It will be fun. Mrs India like. All the hot babes in swimsuits, the eminent jury, ex Mrs/ Ms/Mr Indias, and an opportunity for selfie with a celebrity. I must go and ogle. 377 egged me on. Now I can stare at girls without guilt.

So along with few more of my amorous friends, I went. Trust me it was tough. I had work at home. Leaving work alone almost broke my heart. But opportunity had knocked, if I missed it (or Mrs-ed it), I would never be able to forgive myself for the lack of respect shown towards all the females who were out there to make a mark in the …. carpet with their high heeled shoes.

Reached sharp at 7.00 pm. And bagged the first row. The event started sharp at 8.00 pm, just an hour late. And with the side-kicks. With the host and dost, Aman Verma, who needed to find a joker in the pack for all his punchlines. As he scouted the audience, his eyes passed by me, paused and stopped …. at the guy next and he became the butt of the attraction for the rest of the show “Hello Sharma ji”, “are you enjoying”, “breathe normally” in the insinuating hosting liberty, the “Sharma ji” enjoyed the attention from the host and the audience for rest of the 4-5 hours and refused to leave his chair, just in case he lost his 15 minutes.

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you got a few laughs

The side-kicks continued for a while, taking photos with so many partners, I quickly forgot. I started getting a feel of the event. It doesn’t matter if you are tall or short, thin or obese, if you can speak or not, all you need is your guts and …. the right wardrobe and connections to be right up there looking down at us plebs.

And then there was a break, go have some drinks and snacks before we start the main event, and as we wait for the celebrities who we know are going to be late. Too many hungry people, and not enough to eat. By the time the waiter reached, his plate was hounded and emptied. Once I managed to grab the tissue and a toothpick, yeee! And with all sugary “cold” drinks around, there wasn’t much choice. In my current stuck-on-calorie-count days, when I am counting every morsel, I stayed hungry.

We didn’t want to lose our front row seat so rushed back in 20 minutes, the timeout imposed on us. After half hour, we were asked to “can you pls sit somewhere else” by a girl with a large mouth and a larger derriere. This one is for organisers. Every man around me complied meekly, they were mesmerized by her moving …mouth, what did you think 🙂  And there lies the advantage of the back seat, you can’t be seen watching the backside from the back row.

Waiting and tapping your feet, it will start, be patient, we shall overcome some day, mood. Maybe an hour or so later, things started moving. Few low priced, affordable celebs came in, a former Mrs India, an actress of dubious origin, a singer, a TV star. Trust me, I have nothing against celebrities, they are the ones who have arrived… even if late. People hovered around them, I was somehow reminded of moths. Everyone took photos, their selfies, videos, and they smiled the same pouted smile reserved for such mindless activities.

Finally it started, at 9.30, more than 2.5 hrs later than the scheduled time. Half an hour was reserved for the introduction of the rich and the famous, with Aman falling all over the place reminding them of “Of I know you from so many years” “do you remember when” and “my very good friend”. The falseness was dripping and drooling all over the place. Most pseudo-celebs had a gown on, tight, skin fitted, with fat jutting out unglamorously from a number of places I would not care to describe.

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Ah my legs beyond compare

Then the ladies started walking on the ramp. Various shapes and sizes, tall to the short, married women, coming from all walks of life, from Pune and Chennai, from Assam and Bengal. They all looked cloned, wearing a saree with golden blouse, hair tied up tightly into a bun on top of the head, swaying hips, tons of makeup and still angular pose with a hand on the hips. They would all look so much better if real and normal. Mostly they looked stressed out, fake smiles, standing straight but still looking as if they had a back problem.

Interestingly a bunch of software engineers among them. As an engineer myself, all I can say is, nerds and glamour in the same package is rare and the sooner we realize it, the better for the world.

And then some of the divas opened their mouth to speak. Seriously, they should be banned from speaking. Most lost whatever little charm they held, as soon as they uttered their first sentence. Why? Did no one ever tell them, Hindi is also a language, if you can’t handle English, it is ok. Rote learning long poems to introduce themselves, and partially forgotten in the stress. Remember the children that are lined up “son, one poem for uncle ”.And everyone wanting to change the world since Sush did. It was so.. for a change I have no word to describe it, so unreal. To be honest, it was just a “show” (pun intended ) put on that tried to reek of glitz and charm, but ended up feeling fake and hollow.

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I have a backache pose

By the time it was almost 10.30 and I was hungry. I needed my daily dose of calories so decided to pass on rest of the evening for those who have the right level of interest in page 3. I had absolutely no inclination to continue for the rest 3-4 hours without food. The more amorous continued to wait with bated breadth for the Baywatch round that never came.

P.S. No intention to discredit any individual, the glamour industry involves tons of hard work and effort, just imagine the hours in the gym and parlours, and it is easy to find faults, maybe not everyone’s cup of (very sugary) tea.

RESURGENCE – by Madhumita Banerjee

Foreword:

Dear readers, 

This is a different genre that I normally write and publish. This short story, a 15 minute read, written in almost the same time by my Bhabhi, Madhumita, for the Puja souvenir last year, is a quick and inspiring read for us and a determined reminder that times are changing. Enjoy.

“A successful woman is one who can build a firm foundation with the bricks others have thrown”

Flashback #1: “Ria get back here”, yelled her hassled mom, “help with the dishes.” Ria looked in longing at her brothers, rushing out in glee to enroll themselves at the fun and games at the local Diwali Mela.. She knew she could win most of the events with ease but…….

Flashback #2 : Ria stared in dismay at her Report Card, 56% in Maths! The rest of the marks were above 80%. If only her Maths teacher would explain the concepts clearly instead of rambling on. Most of her classmates had Maths tutors. But her dad believed that girls anyway understood Maths less, no matter what. Moreover, he had to think of the future of his sons, they had to become engineers, therefore, needed tutors, she could settle for Humanities.

Flashback#3 : Ria tried focusing on her Chemistry notes, her BSc Final Year exams were going on but the raised voices of her parents distracted her. She heard her mother’s pleading voice,   “You don’t know the antecedents of the boy, how could you agree to the proposal? Moreover, Ria is keen on doing her postgraduation.”. Her father’s irritated voice said, “ Let that be her husband’s and in law’s headache. No matter what, we have to get her married one day. It’s a responsibility, let’s get it over and done with. The alliance seems good, a well established family, they have their own house and family business…….

Flashback #4 : Every morning was the same scenario, a whirlwind of activities— hollering husband who refused to take even a glass of water by himself, complaining mother-in-law who said Ria was never on time with her bed tea, her squealing baby son who always woke up with the rest and her school going daughter who slept on in spite of the many attempts in waking her. After pacifying one and all, Ria emerged form the kitchen and in the nick of time remembered to ask her husband Ronen, about the Computer Classes which had just begun in the vicinity. “What will you do with Computers? Keep the Accounts or store your recipes?” he guffawed. “When will you go? You can’t expect my mother to manage the kitchen and the baby at this age? Why waste money?”. Ria assured him that all ends would be taken care of and she had saved some money from the tuitions she conducted.

Flashback #5 : Ria adjusted the spectacles on her nose, scanned the papers carefully and signed on the dotted line. She was now the owner of the Computer Institute. It took her 3 degrees, eight long years, a bank loan and innumerable adjustments and appeasements with her family to reach her goal.

Flashback #6 : “ Ria you have always been stubborn, Ritu needs to settle down, what is your excuse now? My friend’s son is a qualified Engineer working in the US, can there be a better match?” Ria calmly looked up from the newspaper and said, “ Ritu is passionate about her Course and wishes to go abroad to pursue it further. Your son’s friend isn’t the last eligible male on earth. Moreover you ought to focus more on our son now. His grades are dropping and his late hours and drinking seems to be on the rise.”

PRESENT DAY: “ Hello, hello Ritu….. That’s great news dear, Congratulations! …..Of course all of us are coming for the convocation. You take care…….Of course would love to meet Parmeet’s parents.” Ria disconnected the mobile, smiled at her husband and daughter-in-law and shared the good news. “That Punjabi boy?” scoffed Ronen, “ It’s all your doing, trying to make your daughter modern, eh? ” Before Ria could say anything, her daughter-in-law, Nupur said, “ Baba, aren’t you overlooking something important? Ritu Didi has completed her Masters with distinction and has acquired a job in a reputed Company. Parmeet is a good friend and am sure will turn out to be an ideal life partner.”

Nupur’s face paled as she heard the banging on the door. She opened the door only to be roughly pushed aside, she could smell the liquor and the strong feminine perfume on her husband. “Not again Rahul, why did you marry me if this is what you wanted?”. Rahul twisted her arm while she writhed in silent agony. The stinging slap shook him out of his drunken stupor. It was his mother!

“ How dare you? She’s your wife. Just because the poor girl has not uttered a word to us and is constantly putting up with your misbehaviour does not mean that I will tolerate the same”, said Ria, her eyes blazing. Ronen said in a placating tone, “ Ria, it’s their problem, let them sort it out”

“No Ronen, a woman being abused and disrespected in my house becomes my…our problem too. Do not forget Rahul, you have lost your job as well and living off your parents’and wife’s earnings. If you do not mend your ways soon dear son, I will personally help Nupur file a divorce against you and get back on her feet.”

Ronen stared open mouthed at his wife. Rahul looked up in fear at his mother whose piercing stare meant every word she said. The tears rolled down Nupur’s eyes, she could only only cry out, “Maa…..” as Ria put her protective arms around her.

“A woman is the full circle. Within her is the power to create, nurture and transform.”