Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I consecrated you - Hasta la vista baby!

·         Once upon a time, God had great plans for a beautiful baby girl. Her fate was sketched inside her mother's womb. She was meant to be nurtured in the garden of our Heavenly Father, and see bright light of the day with her starry eyes. But the world outside silenced her to death in no time. Her name was Esther.  

·         The remains of another unborn was placed in boxes and loaded onto a truck only to be dumped in a Californian field. Later after the gruesome discovery, those miniscule body parts were recovered for a proper burial and our son was named Christopher (Greek for Christ bearer) on his final abode. 

·         Joanne had two consecutive babies those were mercilessly aborted at a Los Angeles clinic. It was time for her to let them have what they deserved, and they were saved the trauma and indignity of discarded as medical waste. The mother mourned as she saw  a portion of her heart sliced in two halves going through the most peaceful transition ever - mere fetuses now addressed as 'babies'; Kieran and Susan were carried in  handcrafted caskets by a pallbearer and laid to rest under a granite monument stone with their names engraved. 

The fact sheet says, twenty-one percent of all pregnancies (excluding miscarriages) end in abortion. More than half of pregnancies among American women are accidental, and four in ten of these are terminated by abortion. Women in their 20s account for more than half of all abortions: Women aged 20–24 decide on 33% of all abortions, and women aged 25–29 settle on 24% of this unknown horror, which ascribes to multiple reasons amongst them - 

·         'I am not ready for it. Accidents do happen.'

·         'Having a baby will also amount to unprecedented duties and responsibilities of a harmonious family life. Will I be able to afford the cost it may incur?'  

·         'Single parenting isn't easy. I do not want my husband to have his negative influence on my child.' 

·         'I have just started on a lucrative career. I can't let motherhood interfere in my work at this juncture.'

There are 126,000 abortions taking place per day worldwide. In the each day, 4,000 embryos are killed in darkness. Planned Parenthood is the nation's largest  abortion service provider. What lies in wait is a voice that will speak out against this atrocious sin. An impalpable healing power that will provide some comfort and ray of hope to those post-abortive women. Mothers of Esther, Christopher, Kieran and Susan and many others who are made to meet a premature and brutal end at about fourteen weeks of development by prostaglandin abortion, which induces violent contractions. Thank Goodness there are associations like 'Cradles Of Love' that are of the opinion - LIFE BEGINS AT CONCEPTION. They rather feel that the unborn child deserves the same legal protections and honor as an adult. Ending such a life is equivalent to butchery to those who subscribe to this ideology, and hence the remnants of those babies must be offered appropriate cremation followed by a homage during the memorial service to throw light on the sick philosophy that we have been transmitting over the globe for quite a while now. 

The eternal question lies in - Are we really pledging ourselves to put a permanent stop to this heinous crime? Are we successful in lessening the solemnity of the crimes we commit, by way of trashing those scathed little lives in the dumpster thereafter? The answer is possibly a NO. 

According to the March of Dimes, as many as 50% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage, but nobody wants to talk about them. For centuries amidst many predominant countries, communities and their customs, this personal tragedy is viewed as a matter of victimization under the 'evil eye' and a subsequent shame on gestation. Spilling out the beans on this issue is as though tabooed, and those up for even the slightest endeavor to break the quietude around this loss are considered condemnable. For ages, women have been subjected to this agony of being told - either they will be doomed to infertility going forward, or it is 'God's Will' and hence to be put out of the mind like a nightmare. It has become pretty common now to deal with accepted behavior of baseless rituals that comes handy in books such as Laal Kitab  and also on accessing the virtual world. Young couples are made to undertake unlimited liability and misapprehension in the interest of Santan Prapti, and more often than not many modern families adhere to the ethos of 'Garbhadhana' (Rituals of conception) which calls for traditions like entering a room decorated for the purpose of copulation, performing  Ganesh Puja clad in white clothes prior to that, following which they chant mantras of Sparsh Kriya. Whilst there are nations like United States, that is obsessed with population control and bear a horrific record of more than 50 million babies having been slaughtered since the legalization of abortion in 1973, paradoxically, we have not been able to bow out an inch from our vulnerability as empowered individuals till date and stand up against being treated like engines, perpetually ready for the creation of lives one after another. For all those times, we, as women have already put ourselves out to reconcile with the intrauterine death of a child, we have all the more not been granted leniency. We are not supposed to while away time grieving over it, rather must focus on 'trying again' simply because it was at a very 'early' stage. Who cares about the  emotional and physical distress we undergo? But yes, the social stigma we bring along with our incapability to add another member, rather a male member to the family is indubitably unpardonable.

Thus superstitions and spells continue to haunt us as we are endowed with the status of supreme harbingers of life. We are women. We are expected to remember and pinpoint our fertile days of the cycle to carry out many such ceremonial peculiarities like that of wrapping a stone obtained from a water body in a blue cloth and tying it around our abdomen in the wake of the ovum. Needless to say, the stone is believed to eradicate all the negative energy hovering around the delay in conception of our newborn. Such fallacies within our well-meaning relatives are perhaps more tempestuous in nature than anything else. So much so, that they fail to even take note of our inner turmoil while getting carried away by those unfathomable myths. Similarly, many of us fall prey to old wives' tales and thank them for the rest of our lives completely burying heads in sand - the fact that no one else can say for sure if one has absolute control and knowledge on their bodies. Not even we, the sole in-charge of its anatomy! Human body in itself  is a mystery and attempting to decode nature's dictum is like looking for a needle in a haystack.

This involuntarily reminds me of an old acquaintance who had been unsuccessful for over ten years before sun shone on her and she was in her family way. She still believes the breakthrough was owing to a special friend who, to her rescue, gave her a fertility totem of a Buddha head that came in two pieces, symbolic of the male and female counterparts coming to biological unison and blessing the two parts with spirit of sacredness. She even went on to advising me of a couple of steps I could take up to add to my marital bliss by choosing the sex of my baby. 

'How do you like some tips on your baby making intentions? It's always nice to make the best of your future!' She chuckled.  

 As it sounded astonishingly amusing, I could hardly hold my horses to dig in further and get her on track, 'And how do you MAKE THE BEST OF YOUR FUTURE in making babies?' I retorted. 

On realizing she needs to validate herself at odds with all my gibberish scientism, she lovingly hurled back saying - 'I heard there was a little craft ritual you can do, only if you wish to. It is like making a small doll (like voodoo, I suppose) and sewing it up and stuffing it. This doll is meant to represent you. Before you stitch it all the way up, you are supposed to leave hole in the side and put this doll under your bed before you make love. Then after the deed is done, you take a smaller human shape (either cut from cloth or paper, pink for girl and blue for boy) and put it in the doll and stitch it all the way up and put it in a safe place.' 

The thing is, though various research studies claim that sexual positions as well as one's diet mostly affect the gender selection of a baby, there is no specific method to ensure such preferences. It is always the father and the male-provided sperm contributing to either an X Chromosome or a Y Chromosome that meets the egg cell in female XX or male YY offspring respectively. How many times are we able to detect the gender of those little butterflies fluttering  around and inside the fallopian tube except for forming an inexplicable bond with them? Never. The moment we are aware of the life breathing in us, it becomes an integral part of our existence. But one wonders - HOW? - a phase initial or advanced, it still remains dear to us, but almost everyone else fails to spot those invisible strings attached. And then one fine morning we bleed to damnation for a reason unknown and start blaming ourselves for not taking enough precautionary measures so as to protect our fetus. We weep and lament in private, wheeze in a void, and everything that once meant world to us, continues to torment like a catastrophe.

 We then join hands with those grieving mothers who have lost a chunk of their flesh and drops of their blood like us. Nobody takes the initiative and the pain to tell us that statistically, we are no exception; that  50% of all early miscarriages are due to chromosomal defects and uterine or cervical abnormalities which can't be termed as an imperfection. Rest may occur by dint of the hazardous toxins in our environment, our lifestyle choices (barring addiction to drugs and alcohol), increasing age and at times owing to an unfortunate case of  wrong medication and diagnostic procedures. There is hardly anyone to pull us up and give us a free rein from that sense of so called disgrace, as late as the pastor walks in to set us right and uphold a share of our anguish to the rest of the world.

Subsequently, looking at those divinely souls trapped in bruised and contorted bodies left open in the casket, we try to understand the lost sanctity of life. All the consoling, all those words of wisdom, nothing compares to the agony and heart ache of the bereaved mothers, who slowly learn to shield themselves with courage and endurance until another tiny seed of life is scraped out of their body. Life, however small or short it may have been, still knocks the door of paradise. And a piece in the mother always pines for a reunion with her little one on the day of judgment. Until then, it's a long halt. Until then, Hasta la vista baby! :) 

From Catching A Sight Of Maha Lakshmi, To Going On A Blind Date With The Phantoms

Sunday, 3 pm - As the weekend comes to a close, the man of the house plans the most exciting and unique activity for us this time. It is maintained as a surprise until I am done with catching up on an afternoon siesta, meanwhile Google Bhaijaan is kept on his toes in order to ensure our short trip to Niagara on The Lake winds up to be one of the best. Sorry Baahubali ji, please excuse us for breaking away from the norms - I just have one more evening left with the husband and a three hour encounter with your antagonist Bajrangi ji seems more productive, which we choose to shelve till the mid week. As I try to make it hay while the sun shines, my partner in crime comes up with the most surreal ambition. We decide to set off on a mission of a lifetime; in quest for capturing a glimpse of the goofy grins of those phantom friends, who claim to sit on the throne of Fort George situated across the Niagara River. Fort George happens to be one of the most frequented Historic sites in Canada as well as the most haunted monument in the city of Ontario. There is a ritual of attending a 'Ghost Tour' at night wherein a guide takes you from one conspicuous spot to another through a story-telling with a single candle lit to heighten the suspense and thrill.

4 pm - My Sunday evenings have always resonated with the helplessness of a sacrificial lamb and its morbid fate. It's like someone treating you with a plateful of delicacies and suggesting to gorge on as much as you can, while the Melancholic Humor knows - Gah! You are slated for slaughter!

'I wish Monday never came and we could stay over in Ontario tonight. Isn't?' I chortle.

Sipping on his Diet Coke the man by the window examines the strength of the sun outside and replies, 'Now hurry up. The tour is at 8.30 pm and I am keen on a sightseeing of the surrounding countryside prior to that.' 

4.30 pm - I head for a quick shower completely oblivious to what pandemonium awaits in sometime. Anyone who knows my greatest shortcomings, wouldn't be alien to the unmindful self in me especially at the time of embarking on such shenanigans. When you are small and unable to take care of your valuables, the best and the most appropriate way to warn you of any possible loss is to tell you - 'Ma Lakshmi Raag Korben,' (The Goddess of wealth and prosperity will be displeased) and failing to find it back could be inauspicious, inviting misfortune for an undetermined period of time. Having said that, I must confess - I have been able to recover my diamond ear stud from the streets of Delhi's Connaught Place and perhaps the Goddess is still regretting to have killed me with her kindness many times in the past. Such occurrences have convinced me that I am possibly born under the influences of a darn lucky planet, which also makes the task of the deity easy to allow me another chance. Every time I was granted one such chance, I promised to myself that I WILL be more watchful ONLY until the entry of my Knight In Shining Armor who is now responsible for almost anything and everything in relation to me. 

But this time I am perhaps meant to be left crestfallen, once and for all, not as a lesson, but a final retribution. By the time I can safely place the pair of solitaire on the vanity counter, I can see one of the two, (gifted by my mum when I was in high school) flowing inside the shower drain, and I am left with the most harebrained idea that the Super Man in disguise of a consort will come to the aid of my lost diamond. As the sauna soon turns into a battle field for me, leading its way to hell, I can clearly visualize Goddess Lakshmi standing at the door with her fourth arm held up in the air denoting my Moksha. Perhaps it is time for her to liberate me from all the 'Dharmas' that I have not accomplished properly, and all the 'Kamas' (Those who wish to look beyond the spiritual meaning, please send your dirty minds to the laundry) and 'Arthas' I have been indulging in. Before Lakshmi Mata's Lotus seat overflows with the holy water sprayed from the four Mastodon's golden vessels, I rather hastily turn off the shower water only to stop the force from pushing the ornament further into the sewer. 

This is the worst that a Sunday can bring to a despairing wife who is literally armoring herself for next five days and the blow seems like an endless nightmare. My savior contacts the House Keeping department and pacifies me with the help of the staff members. The only silver lining remains their prompt action to locate my lost belonging. It is Mr. Kuhan, the Assistant Manager of Maintenance department and Mr. Wilson of Engineering and Housekeeping, who start looking into the matter immediately putting in their sincere efforts, sound technical knowledge, and perfect coordination with the front office to ensure that the water pipe of our room and the room below are blocked. 

Mr. Kuhan is dark-eyed, olive-skinned - a lean fellow in his fifties hailing from the state of Ceylon, who doesn't mind going out of his way to scrutinize the inter connecting water pipes with the support of a plumber straight off.

  

Colliding in my hubby dear's arms which to me, is the most secure place on the face of this earth, I bat my teary eyelashes and mourn - 'I have always been careless and forgetful. I should have taken them off before wearing my hair loose in the shower.' 

The stupendously doting man consoles me as though it isn't even my mistake but a case of accident : ' when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it'....'I have always loved such optimism coming from you ever since I have known you; I can't believe you are behaving wishy-washy????' 

Thanks to Mr. Coelho for the astounding impression he has been making on my life all these years! A perfect moment of truth for the child wife, when she has no option but to hold her breath, and peer through as resolute and sanguine as she can.

Now, Mr. Wilson, our manjan friend too is on board for the search. As those puffy hands maneuver the tool box fastidiously, Mr. Kuhan finally resorts to the Housekeeper's vacuum. Both of them exhibit immense efficiency and incredible eye for detail which feels like my only weapon to stay hopeful of getting my mum's blessing back. 'Every little bit helps madame. As long as it is stuck in the duct, there is hope,' responds Mr. Kuhan. Removing the drain cover, sucking out the water and restoring back such a tiny yet precious possession - None of these has been easy. But in no time they both exceed our expectations in all possible ways and succeed in restoring my earring back to me in one piece. 

As we thank them both from the core of our heart, the sense of relief on our face is perhaps something Mr. Kuhan can instantly ally with, and his statement - 'I can understand your sentiment behind this personal asset besides its monetary value,' brings a beam of triumph to light up the rest of the evening for us. How can I not pin all my hope on this world - that virtue still exists in this age of vice?

Leaving aside the subject of goodness and gentility, being from the hotel industry I do understand what it means and what it takes to render exceptional guest services. In our last two weeks' observation, I found the staffs extremely welcoming, professional and helpful. Starting from the well-informed Concierge to the generous Bell Desk, the pleasing front office assistants to the diligent House Keeping executives and cordial Food and Beverage Service personnel as well as the master chefs, I have been interacting with all, and each of them have impressed me with their politeness and excellent service standards. But this particular incident has completely blown me away. 

7 pm - We sally forth to embrace our idiosyncrasies, and the drive continues to multiply my excitement and curiosity as we cover miles after miles. We are almost there, just a few yards away from Fort George, and I am like -

'Do you realize what is it that we are aiming at? Going out on a tour to an abandoned fort that is known to be possessed is like evoking the dead out of the grave! Is it right?' I whisper.

The husband seems to pay no heed and instead, doubly turns up the volume of J.LO screaming her lungs out - ' If you're a party freak then step on the floor (Yeah).....If you're an animal then tear up the floor'...Meh!....I quite satisfactorily pull out the lip gloss from my kitty for some touch up, looking forward to something, that I can later term as the most phenomenal experience in recent times.

8 pm - We are at the entrance of Fort George and there seems to be a huge secrecy in the air that this entire place has engulfed in itself for decades, may be even for centuries. Antique canons, telescopes, the History of the Battle Of Fort George inscribed on stone tablets - Each of them has a surreptitious venture of their own to disclose. The husband gets busy recording everything on the lens, and my fingers spontaneously skim along the artifacts. We keep wandering within the premise for a while, absolutely bewildered by the neighboring pastures, we await our expedition. Our route leads to on and off pitfalls, irregular and steep moats, marking the territory for the enemies in the ancient times, and now for the visitors. The towering rampart of Fort George is my ultimate gateway into the world of mystique fantasy and the wait till the gate opens is a test of my patience now. The very thought of unveiling what might have happened on the other side exhilarates me.  

 8:30 pm - Our tour guide Karl is here, garbed in a black robe, holding the only source of luminance for us tonight - a candle. With the sun down the elusive starts to emerge, the psychic echoes chant hymns unknown in the realm of humans. This historic military structure came into existence in 1802 and became the headquarters for the British Army and the local militia. Fort George was captured by U.S. forces in May 1813 during the Battle Of Fort George. It includes few officer's quarters, a stone powder magazine, a tunnel, a military hospital and blockhouses to accommodate other ranks and their families. Goes without saying, Fort George has witnessed the seed of life germinating. Likewise, it has also encountered the pain and terror of death. Many children who were born and raised here, couldn't survive to enjoy their fifth birthday. Many lieutenant's wives who were stationed here, waited from dawn to dusk for their men in uniform to come back home and kiss their forehead. Alas! They couldn't withstand their soldier's return in a coffin. Those discontented spirits are still looming over the nook and crannies of Fort George. As we step into the officer's quarter, an otherworldly smell starts dominating me. Those unused, deserted bunkers give rise to inner tremors and an eerie sensation which I can't articulate. As though, the teak wood furniture left naked and barren, still have finger prints of those zealots who got together here to toast, celebrated victory, bemoaned defeat and the perplexities of the war.

9:30 pm - Here comes the underpass, with a narrow, wet, mucky trail. The aura is macabre, tending to smother a group of ten to twelve visitors who see no light at the end of the tunnel. Karl has meanwhile blown out the candle, to substantiate his narration of the paranormal activities that has been rampant all around this place for a coon's age. A forsaken, corkscrew stair case leading up to the gloomy, sooted skylight is another addition to this nerve racking voyage. It's only the flash of our handheld devices and Karl's shadow. His accounts now repetitively engage a little female figure, loitering hither and thither in the dark, and how that has avowed Fort George as cursed. Ever since the battle of 1813 and its aftermath, the benevolent apparition of young Sara Anne has followed Karl during his tours inside and out of the fort only to make her omnipotent and omniscient presence discerned time and again.

10 pm - One of us, a lad in his teens starts expressing sheer discomfort around his throat, possibly a repercussion of remaining confined within the claustrophobic compartment for too long. Karl, from the start has been very clear about our own responsibilities in regard to how well we can handle all this. Our safety is customarily his concern, while our physical welfare isn't something that he can guarantee. As we cross the hospital, we learn about creaking sounds coming from the kitchen doors, unanticipated shrieks of women and a distant bleating of sheep those never graze on the nearby grasslands. Something uncanny, something intangible runs a chill down my spine. My man grasps my hand more firmly, trying to pull me closer to him, as he can see the supernatural clawing across my face gradually. Steadily, but more precariously. I move forward, and the blockhouse seems to be another den for occult practices. Karl warns me of the 'Watcher' by the window, but I care two hoots. The specter adheres to no rules, and always lures the unguarded. Leaving the love of my life behind and Karl along with the group, I walk ahead. The walk feels like the longest, on a road not taken earlier. Though my consciousness has tried clasping the bosom of eternity and unleash the obscurity behind life after death multiple times, until distracted. Until I looked back, ensnared in the hedonism of the material world. This time I am steadfast and nothing can impede me from unlocking the doorway to the evasive. I fear not the perils lurking in the night, I fear not lending an ear to my phantom friends. They have so much to recount of the school girl giggles, their blond ringlets and garden fancies. That anonymous lover, his first kiss and those unforgettable vows. Those candid laughter, and family picnics. The unwavering zeal to conquer, the undaunted oath to vanquish. The torridity of the grenades and the galloping horses. The prayers of loved ones, the hatred of the foes. The booming of the guns and the reverberating shootouts. The infinite sufferings and the gruesome deaths. And my teller of tales is none other than a red-coated knight, standing on the other side of the blockhouse window - the forbidden, the hexed, a much dreaded sighting of the spirit of a British army man that uninterruptedly haunts Fort George. 

Monday, 8 am - As Karl's warnings go in vain, the morning alarm does it again. I am lying with my eyes fixed on the ceiling still trying to regroup myself, while the husband struggles and tries to drag himself out of the bed. Oh my sweet baby Jesus! I always knew the stories we love the best do live in us forever. In our dreams, and in reality. They continue to occupy a certain part of our brain. But what I had been in-cognizant of, will now remain my greatest treasure until the cows come home : Some never cease to torment us, some evade temporarily to return by page or by big screen. And we wait to welcome those glorious kings men back.

From Garam Masala Burger To A Reversal Of Roles

2 pm - Back from the gym, I quickly manage to get through with the most important phone call of the day. Epiphany is, despite the time difference of almost fifteen hours both the zones keep all of us well connected when it comes to our daily communique.  

My mum-in-law sounds edgy and complains of her ninety year old father not abiding by her instructions on a torrentially rainy day in Kolkata. 

'Dear, I repetitively asked him to hand over the list of groceries to the maid, yet he didn't listen. What if he slips on the footpath and hurts himself?? You know how scary the manholes can turn out during Monsoon right?' 

The idea of hiring a helper for him is to ensure the senior citizen at home does not need to take the pain of going out when it comes to such trivial requirements. But our daadu is a kind of a person who even though not in the pink of his health, would prefer to do his own things. That certain amount of space, liberty and psychological independence is so very precious to him, that our sense of concern and restrictions often seem to be clapping him in irons.  

I, pretty much instinctively craft a justification to make my mum-in-law's life easy which in due course might reduce the risk of a possible wrangle with her dad over his movements outside the house, solely keeping the unfavorable climate as well as the shoddy road conditions in consideration :

'Why don't you simply tell him - The maid is literally making a hole out of our pocket. Please utilize the services baba!' And I snort. 

My mum-in-law is highly impressed with my people skills and believes I can handle old people much better; in fact, to the extent that drives rest of the house at their wit's end. So it is invariably expected of her  to want me do my bit of coaxing daadu not to exert himself unnecessarily as there is someone else to assist him all the time.

 

 2.45 pm - I catch up with my bestie in Delhi for an unusually long prattle on her birthday. Thanks to Whatsapp instant messenger and her hubby's cellular device loaded with tons of games to keep her awake in the middle of the night! I recapitulate those heavy duty hours in our office where we trained communication and soft skills together a couple years back - and how at times she'll feel dizzy over her long-term affair with a not-so pleasant smelling betel leaf which I am sure she must not have got rid of even now. She has been the light of my life stuffed in a jam roly-poly with her endless supplies of Bengali ghar ka khaana. As and when possible, she helped me with a welcome change for my palate to eschew my regular diet of raajma chawal and aaloo ke paranthe in a Punjabi vegetarian surrounding. She was a total savior in such scorching and sultry season of the capital region, and sometimes her handbag will fill up with fresh aloe vera plants from her garden rather than her favorite munch-on-mania of Lehar Kurkure and Hippo Chips. The heat and the intermittent power failures made my skin underneath those heavy corporate attires erupt every now and then. As I served well in my attempts to cushion the blow for her extra lengthy and over time working hours, her soothing home remedy nurtured me to heal from my generally crusty temperament owing to the inexhaustible dog days.

As I re-live my golden maiden phase with her, she goes on saying - 'I seriously need to get hold of a shorter version of Uddalok!'. I was like 'Whaaaat?? Why?? Why does she want the man of the house to transform into a goblin and be on the trot to round off a perfect comedy of errors featuring himself and a comparatively larger-in-frame wife? The stills might very well start showing up in the daily American soaps that sings 'Heigh-Ho'!! She retorts -'No no! I meant his name is unique yet very long. May I also start calling him UV?' I fortify her simple logic whole-heartedly as nobody knows better than me what can happen with an atypical name like that of mine in this land of milk-and-honey! 'Yes dear! You can surely call him UV. Even I had to cut Ushasi short into Ush/Payal permanently here. Yikes! Sounding out such etymological trials can play a havoc on the Yanks for sure!

3:30 pm - Indic words, as they might be grueling for the Caucasians, the spice from a land of infinite variety and diversified cultures definitely has the power to add some piquancy to the lives of many out here. It so happens that I start casting fairy tales about my parenthood that is yet to come into existence, right after getting enlightened with the interesting story of a nine-year old Illinoisan genius who has recently created magic on our President's gastronomy. Someone has rightly stated that the way through a man's heart is through his stomach, and Obama knows it the best how to alter a plain vanilla Healthy Lunchtime Challenge into a culinary talent hunt. My overtly ambitious mother instinct seems to have found its wings and little Shreya Patel whose Garam Masala Quinoa Burger has been doing rounds is the reason behind it. Who knows few years down the line some spicy execution from my kitchen bowls over another Kids State Dinner at the White House only to have the head of the state and the First Lady drool over my baby's aptitude? 

4:30 pm - At the very thought of good food, the only craving I feel, happens to be for a Masala Dosa. I look up on the Yelp, miserably fail to find a decent option wherein they would agree to deliver anything below the amount of $30. Not even 'Madras Masala'! A joint that claims to serve the best Dosa in entire Toronto! As I meticulously go through the menu so as to figure out where else can I set my eyes on except for the fermented rice pattered crepe, I accidentally stop at 'Methu Vada' ( Fried Lentil Donuts) and 'Rasam Soup' ( Traditional South Indian Soup With Tamarind). The husband will simply go bananas if I ask him to share any of these with me, and with the very reference of Thayir Sadam (Yoghurt Rice), I shudder, there might be a possible case of homicide on the thirty sixth floor of the hotel due to a brawl over his most detestable cuisine! At the same time the idea of swallowing anything from the menu other than what I was giving my eye teeth for now feels like biting a bullet and starving myself for next three days in order to put the taste of coconut chutney in shade. However, with extra delivery charges and a whole lot of cajolery, here arrives my dosa!

5:15 pm - I call up the room service in need of a plate and a bowl to pour in the crystalline Sambar which I wonder would be better to sip in from a tumbler. The amicably prudent hostess puts an irrefutable question over the phone - 'Hello Mrs. Vasu Mallik! It'll be my pleasure to inform you that there is a charge of $5 for a room service delivery of crockery and cutleries, so should you wish to sign on the invoice now, I can send it across to you or do I directly post it to your room?' Being with the hotel industry for several years in the past, it doesn't really bring much shock and awe to me, however, the inevitable no ifs and buts that I am going to face from my hubby dear for genially submitting to such odd policies starts ticking my mind. I disprove - 'This is the first time I am being charged for something unreasonable. No leading hotel does that. The other day I asked for Wine glasses too and the Front Office never seemed to have a problem with that. How can you not waive it off for a regular guest even though you adhere by such a stupid service guideline?'  She meekly mumbles - 'Ahh well ma'am! I do waive it off for you today as a gesture but going forward it will be difficult for me. I understand : had I been in your place, I would have felt equally angry on being asked to pay for such small things. I don't know why our managers superimpose these codes and we are instructed to tell so to our guests'. 

My tongue-in-cheek response to this makes her giggle! - 'The thing is, you will never be able to decipher the riddle behind these brand standards until you get up from that chair and swap your position with me. I , could never do that either.'

6:00 pm - The man of the house is back from work and now heading for an elaborate business dinner. He asks me to help him with the selection of a suit and a tie and quickly reverts to a couple of official emails while I snuggle up on his lap after a day's severance. After listening to our Haryana puttar now turned into one of the most sought after (currently held in Padukone captivity) Bolywood  hunks - Ranveer Singh's Dubsmash video, I am always looking out for an 'eye-to-eye' contact with my better half. With the slightest absence of that I feel like a 'butterfly....without fly'. 

I have known Pakistani singers to be endowed with a knack for extremely soulful music which stays with us for long after it is heard. Likewise, Atif Aslam's 'Doorie' makes us forget everything else in the world till date. But it looks like as much as Ranveer has stolen our hearts with his troll, the target of this lampoon is shot to fame overnight for being the new butt of a joke. As per the rib-tickling lyrics, Shah janab wants to 'make love with the eyes' and those eyes are of course 'human eyes'! 'Essential sensational eyes', 'Your eyes and my eyes'. On showing the original clip as well as Singh's meme, the husband asks me - 'Is he trying to dedicate this to his beloved or someone has conveniently run away listening to his mambo-jumbo leaving him at the mercy of Singh's parody?' 

7:00 pm - My partner in all crime looks strikingly dandy in his Armani and is ready to leave only after planting a routine peck on my forehead. Dripping with curiosity he asks - 'Today ain't Tuesday right? It's definitely not your Hanuman ji day. What is it with the awful vegetarian choice for a dinner?' 

How do I explain him my apparently purposive decision to detox has an imperative bearing on the appalling accounts of what is going around the world every day? I mutter - 'Can you imagine how heinous it could be for organizations like Planned Parenthood shipping aborted fetus parts? Ughhh!'.....

He swiftly ripostes - 'So by refraining from meat you will spread some positive energy globally and stop such ill practices from continuing further right?' 

I take a pause for a fraction of a second sighing over how the poor dog must have whimpered at being tortured brutally by the ogre whose temerarious visual evidence of the violence has gone viral on social media. Regardless of reading about it, I deliberately avoided envisioning the macabre contents as animal sadism of such kinds breaks me into pieces. But that doesn't take away the constant tribulation I underwent until the brute was detained. Are these the manifestations of a bona fide member of an equivocal and mightily sensitive tribe of women hailing from The Age Of Aquarius?

Ah well...Ever since I was a child, I have been a bit different. Faintly weird as I term it, failing to fit in anywhere! What brushed off others and withered  in dust easily, has always touched me. It has been some sort of enigma for me - Why is it so - What the world at large witnesses today, overcomes and forgives effortlessly, gets tugged at my heartstrings. All I knew is - I never wanted to be in control of my emotions. I wanted to use them, to enjoy them and to dominate them. Boo-ya!!

I promptly vent in utter relief - 'That beast is arrested! You know that? Men won't be called dogs now onwards. They are switching roles you see!' .....

The love of my life can feel my discomfort and pulls me affectionately towards him : 'Why do you wish to deprive yourself of something that is not going to help those victims stand up for themselves? Be it the dead baby or an animal in pain, a child trapped in trafficking or a woman in marital abuse!'....

Sometimes all you need is someone to tell you that such weirdness is in fact, positively brilliant.

 And I so feel like huddling up in his arms wishing I could turn back the clock! Sigh! The cocktail is about to start! Hastened with remorse, I mumble - 'It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply'..........

Journey through birth canal to the maternity ward

Are we aware that a report on child abuse is made every ten seconds?? Do we pay a heed that eighty percent of adults do not utter their grimmest secrets of childhood abuse yet in retrogression meet the criteria for at least one psychological disorder?? Does it bother us that forty million children are subjected to maltreatment each year?? Do we realize what it means for annually those three million young girls who are put through genital mutilation? Our society is nothing but a sum total of certain ghastly facts of human trafficking and negligence, which we at times unconsciously, and often very conveniently turn a blind eye to! This drafted endeavor is dedicated to every four of those ten women victimized in domestic violence and destined to put up with the cold-bloodedness of their child predators. This is not just a verse sharing an account of a debilitated woman's unpleasant past, but also how she chooses to comply with and succumb to the perils leaving behind her split image in a new life brought into the world. What if the baby is another girl child?? Should we let our girls capitulate and put their servility to an ugly test at every little while?? Must we not divulge and arrest every misconduct that occurs behind closed doors?? Such disgraceful state needs some flesh and blood to hear out the screeches and stop the shame permanently. Resolutely.

TRUST ME, THIS WILL TAKE TIME BUT THERE IS ORDER HERE, VERY FAINT, VERY HUMAN.

Long ago I stemmed from your unpremeditated move,

Soon you called me illegitimate and your folks chose to disapprove.

You were made to forget that we united through the umbilical cord,

Sigh! You accused me of fettering you with a curse from the Lord.

Your naysayers denounced to banish my life before I arrive on earth,

But you bore up against wench-shaming and stayed staunch until my birth.

I thanked you for letting me be alive as the midwife sponged and I cried,

The joy was transitory though grave could be a possible feticide. 

You held me in your arms, and my vision began to thrive,

The despots frowned and I could hear them connive.

One fine afternoon you suckled me in pain and wanted to rest,

The fiendish limbs made off with my cradle far away from your nest.

Holy Moses! My lanugos stood on end - Was I heading for some atrocious sin?

I was throttled on the way and my fate awaited inside a waste bin.

Abandoned and daubed with grub I lay unconscious in the dumpster,

A condemned girl child whom nobody wished to bring home and foster. 

They say tomorrow is another day and nothing could have got worse,

Rescued and sold off by a cobbler who was castrated, my new parent was a nurse.

A terminal ailment struck my widow mother, and she left me in delusion,

Her villagers were my tender-hearted guardians now, who determined my circumcision.

This is what society defines as the keeper of woman's chastity,

Blood cascaded, and the mob celebrated a tot's decontaminated morality.

No fear of expulsion, no proscribed lust or carnal desire,

These are some of the disproportionate norms setting the seal on our welfare. 

I grew up quelled, learning to survive in a fiercely misogynistic domain,

My blighted puberty haunts me to death as a forever baleful omen.

My fifty something step-grandfather helped me in my homework,

Catering to some deviant whims and a salacious appetite came as his costly perk.

I was threatened to stay reticent about my cyclic ravishment,

Watch me bleed and snivel heightened his amusement.

My innocence was deflated under the harrowing thrust of his virility,

Those flying colors in school was his victory over my deflowered purity.

Now that I anticipate a long and traumatic labor,

I am sore all over to gather strength or ask for a favor.

 A throbbing life within me does not detain them from debauchery,

The inequity getting larger with this eternal savagery.

I don't tell a soul, I don't cry a river anymore,

Oh girl I am a woman, my voice fails to deplore.

The tormented soul aspires to shuffle off this mortal coil,

All sufferance is on its last legs fizzling out in the soil. 

Oh God Bless us, God forgive us!

Thursday  - 11:00 am - The man of the house is off for work and has left behind a wide world outside the window of our hotel room for me. As I feel tempted to head my way back to the room and permanently fix my eyes on the beautiful view of the bustling city of Toronto, I try and finish off my daily work outs with utmost zest and zeal. It's challenging enough to maintain your fitness and keep a strict watch on the weighing scale when you are not at home and can't help but gorge on the best of gourmet Hors D'oeuvres that the hotel has to offer you. Hence, for an overtly self-conscious me, squeezing in even for thirty minutes is better than nothing. 

12:00 pm - The cerulean horizon, a glass of freshly squashed Orange juice with my Ipad flipped open gives rise to multiple subjects for contemplation. The skyscrapers stand lofty and unyielding in its identity, yet they look so cut off and isolated from the earth. Each of the towers bear a story of their own. Our temporary home dazzles in the name of Sheraton and every structure in and around is of some historical momentousness or fulcrum of the business district of downtown. I have been hearing and reading a great deal about The Old City Hall for some time - one of the most haunted buildings in Canada. I have always found myself in an uncanny and strange fascination for digging deep in such mysterious and paranormal tales from the past of various places. Even in my home state, I have very recently done some research on the most cursed avenue of New Jersey - Clinton Road. The creepy accounts from the mouths of the onlookers based on the disturbing factual details that they have to share continue to spur a sense of yearning for the old, unearthly and unfathomable in me.

As I plan my journey through the transcripts of the eerie happenings at the center of Old City Hall, I can hardly wait to visit the Toronto Public library and start my new supernatural analysis that is going to be one of a kind. Standing by the window, I try hard to probe my eyes through a multitude of superstructures and settle for this 1890s building that serves now as the city's municipal court and also one of its courtrooms (33) is claimed to be haunted by the spirits of the last men condemned to hang in Canada. 

 

12:30 pm - As I start scrolling down my mailbox and start composing a couple of unavoidable replies, I hear the Old City Hall clock tick-tock in a phantom language. Soon the church bell rings and it's time for the afternoon mass. 

I am forced to leave my workstation once again and ponder upon the juxtaposing treaties of life. Moment of truth and acceptance as it may be defined, there must be several parents praying for the long life of their little ones during the mass, contrarily I can visualize some parents also counting the numbered days of their children admitted in the sick kid's hospital located next to us. The idea of such foundations and Hospices continue to muddle my tranquility and ability to decipher the paradoxical nature of survival and death. 

13:00 pm - The man is back to hotel for lunch and we a grab a bite of some garlic breads. I stoically glance at the butter case kept next to the two bowls of French-Onion-Mushroom soup. Now, let's accept it - Asking the husband - 'Main thoda butter le lun? I guess I burned out enough calories for today' and his spontaneous and patented reply - 'Kyon, maine tumhe mana kiya hai kya?'  - will all be an unnecessary baloney for the busy hubby's hurried break. 

As a matter of fact, we all have been banging our heads against a brick wall while trying to cope up with the sense of guilt that too much oleo can cause us too much trouble in the fitting room. We haven't been victorious in breaking free from the age-old myth of how a woman should ideally look before and after marriage, how many pounds she might at the maximum gain so as to successfully eliminate the risk of being assumed as expectant!  Picking herself up from that seesawing affair of either remaining a proud possessor of figura de ánfora, or slipping into the shoes of a slightly chubby and over sized Dev-il-may-care newly wedded wife has been tormenting for many women for decades. They have somewhere been made to forget how to be comfortable in their own skin. The moment you pretty satisfactorily reconcile yourself with this post marriage 'passing phase' of few extra inches, you get to realize it's high time you write an open mental note stating - 'Dear world, a lot of things like your failed attempts to investigate why I'm putting on weight are none of your business. I am not pregnant, I'm just happy in my conjugal life.' 

14:00 pm - One of the top stories of US Daily appears in front of me and it reads - 'Pregnant Kim Kardashian Covers Baby Bump in Rock and Roll Outfit for Sisters' Day Out: See the Photos!'

The fourth (Thurs) day of the hostage situation couldn't have been more jinxed with Kimmy darling taking over as Jesus Christ spreading her glory everywhere to be worshiped by not only a certain generation of younger men and women abut also the entire press. Sometimes she is seen breaking the internet with too much oil and grease which becomes a news as big as an enlarged buttock, and often her bare and dare see-through becomes a grist for the gossip mill over those all exploding out of a White corset poster girl image with flowing hair extensions and unusually plumped up bee-stung lips. I am paranoid to leaf through the Cosmopolitan off late. I signed up for Scoop Whoop a year back to enjoy realistic first hand narratives from all age groups but that bliss too has been snatched away from me. Every other heading seems to be superimposed and who has filled in the role of drawing us closer to pay homage at the altar of the notion of perfect womanhood is someone very fake pulling the wool over our eyes with some silicone implants, or some Botox and fillers  and casting some spell of a melanin surgery.

Is this what we all are struggling to engage ourselves in every morning when we face the mirror? A real-life vanity fair where we keep chasing the ever-evasive routine perception of a picture perfect woman? Or are we happy with a dash of pink lip gloss, a stroke of kohl, and getting a hair cut that suits us the best? Doesn't that sound more like respecting ourselves in true sense and redefining beauty and that sex appeal in our own terms? The other day I came across a very meaningful video which in a way exceeded my expectations from the virtual world and I didn't hesitate passing it on to every girl I know and love. It talks about the issues of pressurizing one's own self to live up to the prototypical essence of the iconic plastic beauty of women and throws a volley of questions on if we are showing our girls the right path. In connection with learning the rudimentary aspects of grooming and personality development, I remember our trainees undergoing intensive programs of self-familiarization, confidence-building and effective communication. It makes me sad when I see the younger lot nowadays aligning more towards positing an artificial persona and starting their day with layers of make-up from a very delicate age yet incapable of presenting themselves as they should be leaving a strong and positive impact on others. Looking smart and behaving sexy isn't just about how revealing clothes one must choose or how far or away one is from a size-zero frame. One requires to surpass the boundaries of impressing people sitting behind the computers and stand up for reasons that will make them special for who they are. We get swayed by what we like to see and our susceptibility as viewers lies in the irony - we are nothing but puppets in the hands of some amazing makers and producers of optical illusion, which necessitates huge money and publicity galore in the showbizz every hour.

15:00 pm - Updating status on Twitter and Face book with horrendous spellings and a shocking rainbow printed display is claimed to convey high regards for equality these days. We all know by now that 'love wins'. At the same time we aren't still legally, socially and moreover, mentally prepared to give nation-wide approval to  same-sex marriages. We are continuously yelling the LGBT message of personal choice aloud and applauding the United States for making it legitimate. But have we ever asked ourselves - how unbiased or egalitarian do we behave with each other and project our society as liberal and fair in its judgments in our day to day life? This concern of equal rights quite congenitally pushes me into a reflecting mode.

In last twenty four hours, all I could see NDTV and CNN covering is our Indian veteran actress turned MP Hema Malini's wounded images. I could in fact, never get the fundamentals of such a powerful media in our country. Every time something good or bad happens, the prime focus is always on the elite class of the society, rather, on the rich and famous. Our Bajrangi Bhaijaan Salman Khan's case of hit-and-run and then the judiciary letting him go scot-free with a bail is the biggest insight into such unfortunate state of a Swachh Bharat. Far from 'Swachh', as it seems to me, no politician, or spiritual leader can bring in that extensive cleansing of the system until we start changing our mentality and outlook towards things happening around us. My understanding is below the level of how things work in a highly gimmicky fashion and yet we keep hoping for the so called 'achhe din' to arrive like a Knight in his armors and rescue us from such distressed and devastated social as well political milieu. Ever since Dharam pa ji's better half's Mercedes has rammed into another vehicle in Dausa state of Rajasthan, the nature of the brouhaha has been worrying me. Apart from the actress, there were other people involved in the grievous incident too. How much we know of them? What happened to them? There was a two year old girl child who passed away due to the mishap and her parents and brothers are still trying to recover the trauma of the accident. It's either at the cost of someone's life (which of course, doesn't seem to have any value in India except for that life turns into a legendary phenomena) or your freedom and personal space is sacrificed to an extent that you are made to feel way above the normal human rank. Besides making it a 'big' news, isn't the media way too enthusiastic to butt in the privacy of the big fishes? Be it even the highest man on the totem pole, doesn't all of us deserve our share of privacy at least at certain points in time? Who would really enjoy being captured on the camera repetitively and featured in the front-line report for that one moment of loss and crisis when she bleeds out of injuries from a collision of two moving vehicles? As much as the fact that the little departed soul 'Chinni' wasn't rushed to the hospital immediately after the tragedy occurred, owing to the entire attention directed towards catering to the medical emergencies of our honorable MP breaks my heart, I feel equally sorry for all the dignitaries when they are deliberately besmirched in the eyes of the aam admi. When we read of such predilections taking over and dis-valuing the innocent and the helpless, another destiny's child is subjected to first-class star treatment. Can there be any distinction in the color of both of their blood? Or perhaps in the shock and pain that both the families of the victims might be going through now? It's very easy to take up an extreme stand for the heck of criticism and portray someone as a high-muck-a-muck, but nobody gives it a thought that change begins from each of us. How many times do we reach out to others for help? People at times remember a face just as a source of a warm and healing hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. But how many of us are ready to take that first step?

As my favorite Maya Angelou rightly stated - we all have been through some kind of seclusion, some sort of wreckage still exists within all of us. Certain external agonies often cause us long-term and irreparable damages. Some pass as mare weather super storms and some linger on to haunt us as spiritual super storms for the rest of our lives. The difference in social status, cast, color, creed and sexual orientation is nothing but a hindrance on our road to evolution into a better individual, and a more civilized community. Every humanist has shown us the gateway to enlightenment. Each of us is more alike than we are unlike. We can understand how it feels to be alienated and not be considered as equivalent, only if we wish to. The choice remains in our hands.