How much is too much?

Its 11 PM. Working a night shift, I just published an Open Page article in The Hindu about “taming Teens”. That’s when it hit me – taming, what could have been an almost-offensive way to describe 5 years back, is a word all too subtle now to describe teens and its added baggage of parenting.

I love kids. I adore babies. But never had I felt the need to have my own. Why? Fear of parenting. My parents have always been the “cool” ones. My dad, always dressed to race ahead of his time, wore competition around his neck amongst his friends and mine, which delayed the age-guess games a lot. My mom, always the “worrier”, still managed to bridge my dad’s conservative way of thoughts with his rebellious daughter at the toughest of times- teenage. Having studied in a co-ed school until the age of 15, I found it queer to face instructions and the so-called-troubles of “talking to guys” from the nuns and sisters of high school. I could wear clothes that are termed modern now, barring show of too much bare skin, despite my Father’s love for traditional attire for his daughter. I was allowed to stay out till 9 PM until first year of college and until 11 for a little later after that. My parents had brought me up with the right proportion of letting me know how much is right and how much is too much. But how many of us know if we got the proportion for the tonic right?

As I asked this question at every juncture I got, my best friend said, “Children grow by themselves. We just need to be around.” Coming from almost a similar kind of household herself, I always wondered how she managed to keep her calm self. The thought of rearing kids seem turbulent to me, enough to keep my love for kids away. 

Teenage is worst of terrible woes. When kids think they own their mind, the world and their parents money in every rightful way. It’s an extremely turbulent time to get through and it’s never easy to fall down effortlessly. The age of bikes, bollywood, bodybuilding, tattoos, facebook- like of all. It could be an appalling thought for an all-too-conservative-household’s parents to comprehend any one of these. But it’s become the bare essential of life to know, and be a part of all these, lest you be left behind in this contest, thus also becoming “uncool” parents.

The daughter wants to stay back at school for extra classes and have night-overs with her gal pals;While, the son wants to ‘hang-out’ with his friends for a party. Beer is never out of the picture in both the scenarios. But how do you know for sure? Confrontation is going to throw them way off base and even further away from you. So, in turn, it is necessary to learn to bring that “blind eye”, for the better of your children, for the better of your blood pressure. It’s all not all that bad. So its beer. So it’s a couple of adult videos. And so it’s also one confrontation with the local cops. But, relax. It’s all a part of the learning process. If they don’t heed, they rebel. But, in the process they learn; in order to know how and what to teach their kids.

My 14 year old nephew thinks its normal to “do-it” if you are engaged to a guy/girl. As my jaw dropped from hearing it, I wondered if I could have explained the situation in any other way to him. But, I found myself in a dead end. Do I tell him it’s wrong to “do it”? Do I tell him it’s acceptable only in the right age? What if he asks me which is the right age? And using what words do I make him understand that love, lust and sex are not necessarily in the same category? He is 14 years old. If he doesn’t hear it from me now, he would hear a rather crude version from his friends in school. But learning about Birds and Bees is the least of parenting worries.

Back-answering and sulking become part of your life. I remember hearing complaint of my sulk. But like the angel I remember myself to be, I hardly remember throwing tantrums; which is why it’s important to be patient with the present sulking lot too. And also, with the future ones- because they hardly know that that’s how horrible they look when they sulk, especially the look-conscious daughters. There is when that fine line between parenting and being-friendly is drawn. It’s extremely daunting for a parent to hang in there, not belonging to either of zones. Respect seems eons away and you are not ‘in’ enough to be your son/daughter’s friend. But reaching him/er is important and so is coaxing him/er into confiding in you, what could be serious trouble. To strike a fine balance is the neutral of the job, even if you do step on to the wrong gear at first.

I look back at what I have learnt through these years, as a kid, as a girl and now as a woman. My parents did a fair job of giving me all that I needed, making me shed my inhibitions, draw that lakshman rekha and yet listen and heed to my wants. But I knew that I could take decisions in my life after I reached the age of 16. I din’t not have to worry about falling then. I thought it was unconditional that parents always got your back. But it was after I got to 21-22 I began to realise that the right to decide is not necessarily the exact similar to recognising a realisation. Realising that you are the sole bearer of what you say and do, comes from a large number of failures, insurmountable pain and heartaches, plentiful muck-ups and thus, having to face hard reality of facing defeat and rising up again.

Grasping on ever so tightly to ones kids is never going to help the parents. Least of all, it’s been proven that perfect parenting is a myth. It’s hard to please any human being at this day and age and children are no surprise in that department. Interfere only as long as you feel you may not butt into their life. It’s their individuality that you are robbing them off. A crisis to handle by themselves is exactly what they need to learn to know what is responsibility and how important it is to gain that trust from you. As life sails by, grades are numbers that matter in a very small way in the macro picture. And seeing red during school for a reason as trivial as this, as to not let him go for that sports meet/ basketball tournament and convincing her that dancing isn’t as important as social sciences is, is not worth the immenselg huge hole that they are likely to find when they are your age. Tighten that hold, but keep letting that rope go for as long as you reach the end of the rope on your side. That amount of time matters to them because that is the time they learn to grow out of their inadequacies, differences and thus become you, who has also tread the same path not too long ago. 

The Holiday That Was

Childhood was fun. But that’s old news. Still, that queer, unexplainable part of you that makes you reminiscence what’s left over of your memories. That’s what this is.

School days made you think you wanted to grow up sooner. It was a race within ourselves, to see more candles on that cake each growing year. Grown-ups watched their favourite tv shows whenever they wanted. They could take their bike out even if it was drizzling outside, not having to worry about facing anyone’s wrath by doing so. Eventually, they could fall sick and no one would scold them for it. And even after falling sick, they can still go on about with work as usual and not have to worry about staying in bed. Whereas, much as we appreciated staying at home and not caring much about missing classes or notes, we never liked to stay in bed just for attention.  Time was inching then. And we all hated it.

 20 years later, I wish there were lesser candles every year on that cake; also secretly thankful that there are still people going through the pain of getting me a cake- procrastinating the fear of facing a day when not many remember your birthday, leave alone year marking your birthday with a cake. Now, I have the TV all to myself. But I do not have the luxury of being that couch potato for even an hour. Deadlines, calls-to-return, chores, to-be-paid bills, routine-follow-ups await me, invading even those 10 minutes that I may get to myself.

In school, we worried about receiving homework in more than a couple of subjects that may eat into our precious time. Much as we see today as we look around, childhood, our days, wasn’t made of iPods/iPads/IPhones/x-boxes/PS3s’ etc. No. We had “outside”. The most anxious moments we had were when we had to ask elders “can I go play outside?” as opposed to “can I play with your iPhone?”

“Outside” gave a lot of perspective. Every single person’s perspective of “outside” varied. And, what was important was, we did not have to worry about moral implications then. Coming back from school around 4 PM, I remember having to gulp down a glass of milk and gobble up a plate of yummy food, carefully and thoughtfully prepared by my grandma. If I only realized how short-lived they would be, I could have enjoyed those better. But, no. I had to rush.

There was always a playground nearby. We walked/cycled/played/danced/sang there. A huge space divided by areas of interests. There was a corner, made to fill with lots of sand, where people could practice long jump. And, yet another corner, with a maze to climb, a section with a swing/see-saw, a more bigger corner with a goal post for the football lovers..and then the major part of the ground in the center with a pitch allocated for Cricket. Being a cricket fanatic country that we belong to, our interests in cricket started right there near home from as small an age as 5, not in schools- after class hours in the name of “cricket-coaching” at the age of 12 or 13. And if these varied interests weren’t enough, there was an imaginary ring, running around this ground, for people to learn/practice cycling.

I remember playing in each of these sections; my most used being the cycling one. During those days, having a cycle to call one’s own was considered extremely honourable. I wasn’t bestowed this honour during my early learning days. Once my snack time was over( cartoons running alongside), I ran out around 5PM to my friend’s place, who unlike me had a cycle. But life wasn’t so easy. I had to haggle for a chance to ride that cycle- the most harrowing experience as a child. And that chance came when your friend grew tired of cycling after a while. Now, that point could be anytime when she cycled her way along a 5-7 km stretch around the colony. So, what do I do to ensure that I got my chance? I run behind her, round after round, the numerous times she circled the residential colony, so that I may get my 10 minute sympathy ride. I don’t think I would have done this after the age of 15, because that’s when I began to know what words like ego, hatred, annoyance, jealousy, scheming, inhibition etc meant. When I ran behind that cycle, I dint know any of those. Neither did my friend. Life was peaceful then. One went after what one wanted. The wants were simple. Sadly after the age of 15, the going-after-wants took a more serious turn and the wants became complicated, worldly.

Construction time was fun. Anyone, constructing a house anywhere in the colony, meant that a lot of sand would be deposited right outside their house. And, there have been innumerous days when the whole lot of us plonked ourselves on that sand, oblivious to impure air, germs and worries of getting dirty. How much fun you had was directly proportional to how dirty you got. Back then, our parents understood that getting clean was just one wash away. And they dint worry about getting an anti-septic injection after each round of fun.

Holi was one such particular event. Days when there might still have been toxics in the colours. But, as life went by, we dint care. And when I say we-dint-care, I necessarily don’t have to feel guilty about it. Unlike now. Once we returned back from school, one friend would visit another – an act of a rather common protocol then. And once the second friend was coloured in various shades of holi powder, the two would set out to the third’s house. And by the end of the evening, there would be a whole lot of us, in different sizes, races, age- and of course, colours.
Holi in school was just using one colour though; the colour of ink from our pens- blue, on uniforms that were as white as chalk powder otherwise. Yet, we could still be addressed a decorous batch. We dint have to worry about suspension either.

There were these fairs in schools, under different names in each school for sure. And not to ignore the several days- teachers’ day, childrens’ day, Founders’ day, sports day, annual day, Literary Fest, Charity day…the list is endless. The fun part was- we were at school instead of at home(unlike now when these are declared holidays), taking part in a huge number of festivities, giving talks, speeches, rehearsed plays/roles, danced to learn all about culture, wrote articles by referring to a lot of books- fiction/non-fiction and what was special was- handwrote them using colour pencils, sketch pens, drew pictures and even painted the charts. Today, you have coloured charts to ‘stick’ pictures or printouts, carefully taken from websites. Websites, then, were under parental control, when one’s parents thought checking ‘History’ would ensure them of their child’s innocence. Today, however, a 4^th std school-going-internet-savy kid seems to know the option ctril+H. And uninstalling parental control/lock is child’s play.

I sympathize with kids these days. Their playtime is restricted to an hour, just an hour at the max, every evening. And that was when they dint have to worry about missing tuitions/coaching classes. And when they had extra homework/tests, this study hour usually eats into their playtime, unlike in our early days when playtime until sun set and light faded out was considered mandatory. Oh, we belong to a generation where video games existed too. Except, those were for after playtime “outside” or were to be taken full advantage of only on rainy days. We finished homework, studies for daily tests, watched tv during dinner and were in bed by 10.30PM. Falling asleep immediately was easy after an active day as that. My nephews/nieces find it unable to fall asleep before 12 at midnight as they lie awake in bed. Bedside reading has become a lost cause too.


For kids of today, that play outside, you see them playing by themselves, bowling to a wall or cycling around a residential campus, in cycles with attached training wheels- as there is no one to hold the back or give that push of confidence. Training wheels have taken over various walks of today’s child.

Kids these days are certainly more talented. They have learnt what they can from virtual apps on phones and from the internet. Which brings us to another worry- how much of internet is good for today’s ‘exposed’ kids.

Childhood etches out the person that you turn into. It’s an undistinguishable part of you that no other individual can take away. It’s yours to claim and yours to hold until the very moment that you breathe your last. Time that’s run by has never returned. It’s important to remember this on our way to not just deadlines; but also on your way to grow-up. Because we forget what it feels like, so easily in the hurry.  After all, no one wants to remember a submissive childhood. What we lose, is the immeasurable instances that we smile and laugh for- the very instances that will allow us to hold on to staying young, even as we grow old each day. It may come from seeing your dog lick you crazy, when you walk out into the balcony to do an errand and surprise yourself to a visual treat of a rainbow, when you are able to climb up three floors of stairs, pant and yet feel good about the sweat. It is when you spend half hour of your precious time to sit in the lesser-known-children’s park that you find around the corner of your street and smile at the toddlers trying to grab hold of their already withering-childhood. It is when you truly realize what makes your life beautiful- a holiday that never ends.

“All that glitters is not gold”
But, these memories glitter. And they are gold. 

My Blind Date

I did not realize that dreams can come true until I stepped in from the tarmac into the slightly posh- better-than-the one-back-home airport in Bombay. It was pretty big and I conditioned my mind to enjoy every bit and minute of my brief holiday, thus making my pace moderately slow. But once I claimed my baggage, I realized I was in a hurry to step out and see for myself if it was all true- the magic that I have heard the city is.

I made my way out and as I did, a wave of fresh air blowing into the airport welcomed me. I saw through the glass, at the waiting area for arrival, a familiar figure leaning on a pillar. I stepped out, looking at the person, fidgeting with my phone to call him. My eyesight was slowly getting accustomed to the night outside and as I confirmed who I thought I was seeing, I smiled. For, he stood still, motionless, making no move, with a smile on his face, his smiling aloofness a dead giveaway of the much awaited moment that this was for the both of us. I walked deliberately, smiling more confidently as I walked upto him, slowly, enjoying the painful rush to be in his arms, again.

My first impression of the city was when he did not have to go through the harrowing experience of the “auto-savari”. They either came or they did not. But when they do, they do not claim half of your hard-earned life saving at the end of the ride. As we got off the airport road, we took right to enter the Western Express Highway. And he showed me my first glimpse of the infamous traffic jams. We cruised up and down along the valleyroads of Bombay. I craned up, peeping out of the auto, to catch the end of every towering building. He pointed out that I sure would look a bit crazy to an observant Mumbaikar outside. I wanted to savour every bit of my excitement of my first visit to the city, which could turn to be my home stay in a year’s time. But I couldn’t hold back much of the gush as I saw the first “double-decker”. 

“Don’t call it that. Call it the BEST. That’s what they are known to be, here”, he said.

My excitement given away so easily, he offered to take me for a ride on BEST one of these days

With random names thrown at me, I figured I might never be able to comprehend the size of the city, with its names and its direction. But what caught my attention was how people were on roads. No, it wasn’t the road-rage/rash, which is the first thing a newcomer would notice about my city, back home. What I observed and failed to understand was the absence of road rage despite the berserk behaviour of practically every person on the road – a bystander, a lone walker, a group of drunken friends, a hurried two-wheeler, a luxury driven Audi or a lethargic-yet-racy bus. They all were set about with a mind of their own. It was the heights of disorderlinesssurmounted by huge traffic. Yet, none of these people lost their cool. And where there is absence of road rage, I astonishingly found out the magnanimous size of road sense in each of these people. It only strengthened deeper when I saw an orderly single line of a queue in a bus stop we passed. He explained that that was the ‘system’ of waiting here. I thought he was kidding until I saw it happen repeatedly in every stop. That’s when I thought, this was the first ‘system’ that I saw in place, which could have only got better with practise in time.

As we neared our stop- IIT Bombay, we got off the Jogeshwari-Vikhroli link road and passed the huge L&T corner. We emerged out of it to a round about of a lake. And that’s when he showed me. The beautiful PowaiLake and the end of a expansive campus. ‘Hostel 13’, his haven, was visible from right over there. And like he pointed out, Hotel Renaissance looked to be strategically positioned in such a way that whenever you stood along the curving line of the lake, you were opposite to it.

For someone with less-than-average eyesight, I was disappointed at not being able to take in keen details of the place. And I realized this more as we turned around the corner to enter the magnificent campus. If I liked the long, wide, rambling roads of Mumbai with its numerous flyovers and bridges, I liked the roads inside Powai campus better. The coolness of the campus greeted me and I already loved the college for the importance they had given to the spread of colour green. We rode up and down along the smooth snake-like entwining road when he said, “Hold your breath. Wait for it”, and pointed to the left of me. And I saw the most beautiful landscape, between the interruptions of trees with the helpful intervention of speed breakers. The other side of Powai lake, only more splendid, rendered by the stretch of the lighted city in its sparkling glamour. And endless skyline, the Hiranandani gardens. I couldn’t get enough of it, already.

Just as we reached the hostel, he hurried me into getting ready. 
“Wear something classy”, he said. “And we need to leave ASAP. With no reservation made, Leopolds could get very crowded into the night.”

 I changed into a white dress with blue strap and made myself up, the best I could, in the little time I got. Leopolds demanded classy from Bombay, the city shouldn’t complain. Because the place deserved it, I thought.

We took the local from Kanjur Marg. He told me the train would be less crowded at that time, esp since we were moving against traffic. As we headed along, he told me the names of each station, with its significance. I had learnt to memorize it with time.

Kanjur Marh -> Vikhroli -> Ghatkopar -> Vidya Vihar -> Kurla -> Sion -> Matunga -> Dadar -> Parel -> Currey Road -> Chinchpokli -> Byculla -> Sandhurst Road -> Masjid. And, “Pudil station -> CST”

Colaba was nothing that I had imagined it to be. It was only better. It was there that I felt I truly was in Bombay. The huge wide roads, lit brightly by the plentiful streetlights and abundant shops, sprawled ahead of me, not in just parallel or perpendicular direction. There were roads all sides of me. It was only fairly late and the roads were decently crowded. Having taken a taxi from CST, we stopped right ahead of Leopolds only to hear his exclaim how crowded it was.

 “Lets take a walk around, I will show you Bademiyan”. And I relentlessly walked along in a road that would unmistakably get called “T.Nagar madhiri”, back home. Bademiyan came and went. We kept taking the road adjoining the other. Until we reached what looked like a wide-front of a dark alley. Before I could crane up fully to look at the building in front of me, I heard, “that’s the Taj. And that over there, is the Gateway.” I was hugely disappointed at what I had imagined would be the epic moments of unravelling Bombay- sad about how the moment went past me, so trivial. I saw that that Gateway seemed cordoned off for the night and I remarked to him on how I wish I could at least go to that area to catch the majestic front view of the Taj Mahal Palace. The fact that the pigeons were missing was another childish disappointment.

“Lets go refresh ourselves at the Taj.”

“ Is it allowed?”

“Sure. Why not?! We do it all the time.”

And I knew we needed to refresh because no matter how charming you look when you head out, after one journey in Mumbai Local, you need a shower, for sure.

We walked in, and it definitely dint look like a stroll. I saw him walk across the lobby all the way over to the lift. It left me wondering why they do not have a powder room at Level Zero. It was only when my head felt dizzy inside the lift owing to its speed, I noticed that we were headed to the 18th floor- the Roof Top.

The reservation was for a table for two, sea-facing and a cosy corner, lit by just one candle. I had only read of such experiences in fiction. And that’s exactly why I was rendered speechless for at least 20 minutes. When I could recover vaguely from the exuberant shock of what he had planned for my eve, I felt choked. I could only call him insanely crazy.

Admonishing my repeated protests of the extravagance that he planned out so perfectly for me, we ventured into a full 3-course meal; ending with only a criminally sinful chocolaty dessert. The Food (notice the capital ‘F’, coz that’s what it deserves) needs a separate page.

We took a taxi from the Taj; we had to hurry to the Marine Drive to celebrate with friends, a couple of birthdays at the stroke of 12. The Marine Drive was an expected surprise, a promise kept for my first night in Bombay. We reached at 11.55 PM, when my mom called. Dismissing the call within 2 minutes, we sat there, facing the sea. I could not see the end of it. Marine Drive certainly knew how to hold its victim captive.

As the clock struck twelve, he turned around and said, “Happy birthday”. I smiled and put head on his shoulders. He kissed me on the head and we continued to look out at the sea.

It was the best birthday that I had ever celebrated, made so with purpose and love, by the dearest person of my life, whom I cannot seem to love enough every growing day. – My fiancé.

- And that enthralling, beautiful night was only the first of many more to come in this magical city of Bombay.

She-what you are looking for. But whom you never see.

Whatever 22 Female Kottayam is meant to be, it surely is not your everyday commercial movie. Is there romance, drama and action? Yes. But above all, it has liberation. That liberation that is very much the need of the hour in a society that is filled with just two breeds of men- the one that supposedly lets a woman spread her wings only to take her for granted and take advantage of her yet again. And then the other breed which stereotypes women as dumb, delicate darlings, weak and always expecting them to be a step behind.

 Aashiq Abu deserves a pat on his back for such a bold attempt of what I can see only as cleansing of minds. The movie is all about ‘she’. Hers to begin with, hers to live, hers to take and she ends it all. The plot revolves around a girl, Tessa Abraham. She is any girl that you might bump into. A girl with her dreams of flying abroad to take her nursing career to the next level. To fall in love with that knight in shining armour and live a beautiful fancy life that one sees in the dreams. And then, somewhere amidst this run, as luck would have it, she meets Cyril. An education consultant, Cyril guides her with inconsistencies of her name in the passport, stamps a visa on it and puts her on a timeline to fly to Canada. But, as destiny would take it upon itself, the duo fall in love, move in together and live a life, what one is forced to reason as “living the moment”, without paying much heed to the logical ifs and buts that rise up in any relationship.

 While the story may ooze cliché, the ways in which Tessa gets deceived and comes back to exact revenge is a delivery that every girl would want to look back with pride. The subtlety with which Aashiq affirms this delivery is a very fine line that differentiates this from clichés and emotional upheaval. A girl, who accepts to have lost her virginity with a previous, precious love is not bound to be received with respect of any kind from any man. Especially for one who has always had to refer into his belief system to make sure that he is ‘free’ by the books. It isn’t any different with Cyril. Once Tessa confides in him about her morally stained past, it becomes all the more easier for Cyril to take her for granted- take her emotions, sexual acceptance, love and boundaries with regards to that love for granted. And he cheats her. Until a point where he puts her in prison, in what can only be perceived as the easy way out for a guy to wash his hands off. How? Simple. Put some drugs into your girl’s purse when she is in the rest room. May be another cliché yet again. But for Tessa, thus and there begins a raw journey filled with shocks, pain, naked brutality and unfair, indispensable truth in prison.

 Indian viewers are more accustomed to seeing only the dirty side of prison; goondas grouping up with big, burly guys who team up against the weaker, smaller and the not-so-significant. The formula doesn’t differ much when it comes to women. But, for the first time, a prison is shown for what good it can do to one. A place to derive immense strength, grit and determination from all the good and bad- a perfect example of the black, white and grey. A place where judgements don’t matter. You are inside for something bad that may/may not be any fault of yours; you are as good/ bad as the person next to you. There is no real judge to see who is the bigger wrong-doer. The safest place for a criminal to be, as portrayed in the movie. A place for a real person to view the world for the actual stand it takes on an individual irrespective of one’s worth. The ultimate phase of lowliness when one begins to ponder in self-reflection with and without choice, which ultimately gives nothing more than strength to any individual, let alone the weakest.

 Tessa takes all this and more out of her time here. For the movie until then saw only her as the sweet girl who fell in love, a girl whose naivety was celebrated when she was in love, ridiculed when she was cheated and sympathized when she went through physical and mental torture. But now, she gets out with a chance to change all that. And when she gets out, she sets out to get her share of blood. With nothing more to offer anyone but the brutal strength that she derived while in prison. The rage burns in her but not in a murderous way. Not in anger or frustration or depression. But plain determination to see justice served the right way, in her own silver platter. And she kills. While this is just a portrayal of a fictional character in a hypothetical situation, the bare truth that puts its ugly face up is no different in today’s world. The line “you are after all a woman” delivered by Cyril to Tessa before she has her way with him, makes me, a woman want to think that this is what it has to come to. A criminal has to be dealt with this way and nothing is ever too much. This is right. And this is how you have to deal with such men. The mere arrogance of being born as one gets them as far as this in today’s world. They require no less. At the same time, it is again only due to the mercy shown in ways of love, care and forgiveness shown by the same woman that allows the very same man to rise again. To hurt her, yet again. And this is a situation that might not change for generations and eons to come.

 The movie is all about a very rational end met to people who wrong, and in this case, men. A progressive and aggressive movie, made to portray a woman as bare as her instincts can ever be and can ever get, in her complete ways of rage, love, grit and pain. This is a movie for everyone to watch and made for every woman who is out there and who suffered, at the hands of a man, an easy judgment to begin with when she becomes an easy target to when she becomes that doormat for a man, giving him the alms to walk all over her yet again. This is for every woman who has insatiable pangs in her to burn that man who did this to her. This is as close as she can get to her revenge. While Rima Kallingal outdoes herself in taking up the entire script on her shoulder to deliver this woman in her to everyone, this movie would not have conveyed its message without its key factor of Fahad Fazil. The remarkably splendid ways of how Rima takes upon the weight of this movie from the word go, to make sure that this movie runs purely on what she expects to reach out to, to the girl sitting next to her. This, take a bow, is your lead -the female lead, and this is what leading is all about. And yet another congratulatory pat on Aashiq Abu and his crew for having made this possible. And it doesn’t end there, because this is yet another mark for viewers to take note of, when it comes to delivering a story in Malayalam Film Industry- an industry which has never failed in all these years and yet again, one which has been setting new records and making new marks unattainable by anyone who is even remotely close, in the Indian Film Industry.

 A movie made for your daughter, where she can walk out with her head held high, walking several inches taller than all the men standing around. A movie that can only teach a girl what to truly expect from this brutal world and yet straighten her back and shove her in the right direction to push her into those inexplicable crowds only to watch her emerge out of it, used, washed out, hurt and tormented by her past yet brilliantly strong, admirably proud and brutally honest for being the woman that she is, ready to take the on the world.

No chicken soup, this.

We do not often understand why we are suddenly standing in a secluded corner. But we do find ourselves there too often, scratching heads with an over turned eyebrow, asking ourselves "what went wrong? Why me?'. That question would win the most often question to be asked by humanity ever. It takes really long for us to figure out that while the world is distorted, crazy, unfair and non-linear, we might actually be losing it, standing right there in the middle of those huge crowds and screaming for help. To begin with, how many times do we go back to that one stupid moment of anger that shows itself in a moment, way uncalled for? Do we take a moment to think if the outburst was really needed? But of course, if one was to do that, there would be hope in this world after all. No, this ain't cynicism. But yet another moment where we need to re-think a situation.

I began with the habit lately, only after very recent happenings, plainly to ponder if its just the entire world that is wrong or could it be, could it actually be me?!! Well, whaddya know! Yours truly ain't perfect after all!

Being a low, depressed person, by choice, force or chance, takes a lot of that strength out of you. Before it can all come back even stronger. One realizes, and only he realizes that, that really is not the place he wants to continue to be in. And that one moment of reflection squeezes the grit out of him. Much as the world would think that he is calling for attention, it really is his burden to carry; to deal with the pain, anger and hatred that the world throws at him, at this juncture for being the way that he is. Living in denial to do so not only affects the mental state of being but it also ruins that physical mind and body that the world thinks that it is seeing. The one which the world judges, beats and throws away, without a moment of consideration. While it is extremely difficult to balance this mind, soul and body, it is imperative to control each of these aspects to live a healthy and peaceful lifestyle in order to bring about that balance in the equation that we call a healthy being.

An outburst in anger does not take long, but the damage done is often irreversible and pondered upon after the moment of contemplation, realization and acceptance has gone by. And that's what we can effectively call- one crazy moment of impediment. One needs to stand that spot again and think, "did it really matter that I had to use those very words which I did". The answer is, most often, no. No individual is sinister enough to want to hurt another being willfully. At least I would like to believe it is so in the perfect world that I would want it to be. Man is only made up so many words. So what he chooses in order to express his emotions truly felt, describes the human being that he is. Anger management has told us that counting helps. Well, I do not know how that works considering how strong my counting has got over these past many years. :P. But I certainly did realize that the act of vengeful hate or willful hurt ain't gonna fetch you a nice place by the window in that big black book that the Almighty may be keeping for the good deeds you have done. After all, no one act is a selfless deed, as Phoebe Buffay helps us see in F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Thus it becomes absolutely necessary to clear the clutter in your head, free it of all those cobwebs and untangle yourself from all mind-fucks to be able to balance that equation we spoke about earlier. They all do like to go hand-in-hand, after all. And not heeding to that sheer want of peace and tranquility that your mind deserves is going to affect your physical state of being. With each individual living a life of wants and complications, one cannot really expect the other standing besides him/her to be sane enough. Be that change from within that you want the other person to be. After all, life is short and we do have to keep aside some amount of time in it for moments of self-reflection, thus allowing life to experiment and take us forward from there.