What part of a NO is unclear? ~ From a nomad's diary

I have had a good childhood. I have been pampered, been apprehended time and again when there was a need to restrain my wild surges, have been provided with everything I needed and most importantly, got an undivided attention from my parents (as I was biologically late to my family party). But then, there have been times in my growing years, when I have thrown tantrums of the worst kind, when I did not get what I thought I wanted so desperately at that instant, despite knowing the truth deep down inside that what I may have wanted at that precise moment may not have really been that important to me outside the fit of that one passing moment. My mother being the strong personality that she is, was stern in terms of discipline and as I grew, we had our differences (although as of today, we are best of friends). Her NO to something in those days bruised my ego badly and I wanted that thing even more, just to prove her otherwise. However, my father being the cool person that he is, voiced his NO in a way that there could be no further debate/argument/discussion over it. His NO was a NO and final. It was the dot period to all the idiosyncrasies I managed to pull out of my hat of tricks. It was never rude. It never sounded superior. Most importantly, his NO never hurt. And more so, it would slap that question on your face, sans any minced words, “What part of a NO is unclear?” The question camouflaged the essence – “Learn to accept a NO for an answer”

Coming to the present day, where I am a mother myself, I find myself in umpteen uncomfortable occasions where, saying a NO to my son, or saying a NO to friends or saying a NO to even myself has been taxing, or more appropriately put, testing! On a lighter note, I agree I have been a royal pain in the neck for my parents way back then. But, I get to taste my own ego battles with my son, as making him understand a NO to chocolates, late night TV watching and playing all day long out in the sun exhausts my patience and energy alike. And not just as a mother, but even as a social being, making a point across when one is drowned in a whirlwind of coaxing and cajoling, has been an effort. And then, more often than not, we tend to go with the flow. We are either too scared to voice a NO lest some 'feelings' get 'hurt' or perhaps, we are too doubtful about ourselves that a NO doesn't find its way out from the tongue and, when it does come out, it turns out to be a YES. And then, the suppression of the real self beats the hell out of the conscience that somewhere one did not do what was required to be done. And then, all it takes for a person across to understand a NO, is the right moment, the right words, the right tone with a touch of appropriate humor.

So the question stands, “what part of a NO is unclear?” So, next time when you feel you are just appeasing a falsified ego of a person sitting right across you, while the real feeling is to not do it, then you might as well say a firm NO in the right tone, laced with harmless humor. And if that NO fails to create the required impact, it means it is time to give yourself more importance than you usually give, meaning a relation as that is not worth your time. Period.

One Love...

  "The number you are trying to reach is currently unreachable."

She tried his number once again, but the monotonic voice on the machine answered instead of him. 

It was exactly 30 days ago when he first saw her. It was an NGO. She was feeding a blind kid. His eyes were transfixed at her. He couldnt help but look at her... her smile.. her simplicity.. her face.. there was something very striking about it that made her diffirent, that made her stand apart from the others. There was something about her that hooked him immidiately. There was an instant pull...and he couldnt help but get drawn to her with each passing second. 

"We have started ABS organisation. It is an online job searching portal. We are looking for an intern. Would you be interested in being a part of it ?"

The more he got to know her, the more drawn he was to her. There was an enigma about her...something that kept pulling him towards her. She was this simple-fun-loving-hard-working-intelligent girl. Nothing special in her appearance. Most of the times he saw her, she was plainly clad in a t-shirt or a kurti and denims. No make-up... a high pony... either busy on the phone or something else... never having a dull moment in her day... there was something...something... he didnt know what, but something in her that pulled him towards her. 

"Here are the details, I want you to mail me the final draft by tonight."

She was so simple. Maybe it was her simplicity that attracted him...maybe something else.. he was still figuring it out. They spend most of the day together...either working or taking about work. It was a completely professional relationship. Only work...no play. But all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!

"What are you doing tonight ? I have got this amazing movie...and we can have some pizzas if you dont mind..."

Now he started knowing her. She was a completely fun-loving girl. She loved bike-rides...enjoyed long drives...was a complete foodie...she survived on chocolates...was a diet-freak... and there was something else too... she was engaged to her childhood sweeatheart.

"Have you seen this lake... its on the outskirts... not too far.. just an hour drive from here... but its a beautiful place... specially around this time...when the sun sets..."

She was beautiful. There was this calmness in her...she was so happy all the time. And now, at the lake shore, when the sun came down, painting the sky red...she looked so pure...so beautiful...so perfect. She felt like an island he longed for. With her, even the silence felt good.

"Dont.... You will fall in love with me."

She laughed everytime he said that. He knew she wouldnt fall for him. He was just a good friend to her...nothing more. A special one for sure, but thats it. He knew it would never be love... a two-sided one, between them. But that didnt stop him from hoping for it. Be positive, she always said !

"I am here for only a week now. When you are back from home, I'll be gone. Seniors first, remember."

He was graduating the very next week, and she wouldnt be here. She was going home for a short holiday. Her wedding day was closing down and she was busy with the wedding shopping. They still spoke on the phone for long hours. He knew he had to cut the chord that was slowly getting stronger day by day. 

"I am sorry if I hurt you, but I wont come for your wedding. And please, dont say please..."

It was his convocation day. His family was besides him...his friends were cheering for him...the entire batch cheered and whislted for him when they announced his name in the best student category. But he felt an emptiness around him. He knew... it was now or never. He had to cut the chord. She had a different life, and he couldnt live that way. Life must move on...

"This is probably the last time we are talking. I want you to know that you are very special to me. A very special someone. And I cant be in touch with you anymore. And dont ask me for reasons... I have never given you any. I wish you be happy in your life forever. Goodbye! "

Surging intolerance, How racist are we? ~ From an Nomad's diary

Sometime back, watched this episode on NDTV that covered the debate on racism against the North East Indians. The debate focused on the assault of a 19 year old student from Arunachal Pradesh, one of the beautiful Seven Sisters of India, which have a rich cultural heritage and a landscape endowed with beautiful waterfalls, Tea gardens and thick forests. The debate ranged from how the North east Indians have faced racist attacks in the past and how they have been fighting hard within this society to keep their identity up and sustaining the odds of appearing different. The debate was powerfully action packed with panelists consisting of political leaders, human rights activists, a student and a couple of academicians from reputed universities. As one stated, not enough is being done for the Seven Sisters on the growth and development sector, that has led to a huge exodus of their population, now predominantly settling themselves in metros to earn their livelihood. And then, there were a few who felt, there was a need to look beyond those mongoloid features and accept them for who they are, with respect. Whatever, the debate had a lot of sensible arguments, a few careless statements, some thought provoking questions and some crucial facts about racism in India. It ended as usual, in a truce where there was no solution, but just the basic definition of racism laid out in a more elaborate manner.

And, that set me off thinking – “What is racism?” And the Internet showed me the most passable definition – “the belief that all members of each race possess characteristics, abilities, or qualities specific to that race, especially so as to distinguish it as inferior or superior to another race or races.”

In my growing years, I have had a slight (if not intense) taste of racism (by the definition given by Internet) and those questions at the time have been piercing and rude. Well I am not from Seven Sisters. I am a migrated South Indian whose parents have settled in North West part of India for a very long time. Despite the migration, certain ridiculous questions concerning one's ethnicity don’t seem to go away. I have faced questions like, 

“Oh! You are a South Indian?"

"You people eat on banana leaf right?”

“You people wear lungi no?”

and ridiculously stupid questions like, 

“You people don’t speak Hindi at home?”

"Are all south Indians dark in complexion?" and so on and so forth!

And the funny thing is, even today, some people are not aware that there are four states in South India having their own regional lingo and culture. Having been brought midst an upper middle class neighborhood mostly inhabited by North Indians, our Hindi was never an issue as we spoke it fairly fluent. But then, there is always an uncouth section of people who have little knowledge about the demography of India and absolutely no knowledge about the cultural heritage of our country. When I started working, I got questions like, “Oh! You are a Tamilian? You don’t look like one! Your Hindi doesn't sound that way!” Of course, I restrained myself from replying “Why? Aren't Tamilians supposed to speak other languages? Go get a life!”. However, I wished people stopped shooting a tirade of such senseless questions, which though annoying never bothered me to this extent until I saw this debate on NDTV. And then I realized, racism is this! It is terrible! The recent death of a 19 year old student in Delhi who was beaten after a heated altercation over asking directions for a place, was appalling. And if this is what people face each day of their lives in the so called progressive metros of our country, the word regression would not be good enough to define the mentality of the society we are surviving in. The struggle to fit in a racism ridden society, and still managing to keep one’s identity intact is no joke.

And that makes me wonder, Why all the superiority complex, after all? Yes, superiority complex is equally dangerous and more intimidating than its alter ego – inferiority complex. Being fair skinned alone doesn't make you bright. Being endowed with sharp features alone doesn't make you any sharp. Acting superior because you are a North Indian or acting literate because you are a South Indian does not make you a person worth looking up to! The recent incidents only show the growing intolerance of each other which is perilous to the mental fabric of our society. We need to know for a fact, that we all need each other at some time or the other. Berating someone or trying to flaunt one’s shallow personality is never going to help, neither the instigator, nor the victim. And the general notion that a certain community’s migration has resulted in job loss for another, is so totally lame. If a community feels so, they need to work upon their skills and make sure that they are indispensable, rather than resorting to driving away their competitors.

We all love to compete as long as the word healthy caters to us alone. We, as a society feel happy when we get success but feel otherwise when others achieve it, or worse when others achieve better than us. A sense of intolerance to anything and everything is one of the prime reasons for increasing incidents of racist attacks. We need to groom the next generation to be more tolerant and sensitive to people around and also ingrain in them that, “there is no religion or sect or caste or creed that will decide your success graph. There is only one way that will lead you there and that is hard work clubbed with sincerity”. And yes, no fairness cream will decide your oomph factor, but your intelligence definitely will. No sharp nose and doe eyes are going to fetch you glory, your dedication and hard work though, will! Only then, on a personal level, we will we be happy and then as a society, we will find no trouble coexisting with diverse communities in peace and harmony. 

BTW here is the video on the debate from NDTV.....

But, he said "I love you"

12th December 2009

I am sitting here staring at the computer screen.
An email open in front of me.

To anyone else it would look like just another email. For me it was different
It was the wedding card of the man I loved the most.
The man I have dreamt of living a life with every waking hour.
It gave a very bitter taste in my mouth to read someone elses name in the place where I have pictured mine to be.

There was a link of wedding website in the email too.
They say "curiosity kills the cat". This time it hit me real hard and I opened the site "Mayan Goya weds Ishjal Frakha" was written in big bole cursive letters
Beneath the title was the story of how they met.
I realised, the man who promised me love, promised it to someone else too.
The places, their meeting points mentioned there were the places where we held hands and promised togetherness.
The way he proposed her was they way I had described my dream proposal to him.

There was a picture of them holding hands, hugging, him kissing her forehead.

A bile rose in my stomach.
I wanted to throw up all the bottled emotions that have rotted without proper nurturing.

Its a weird feeling knowing soon he will officially be a husband. ...someone elses husband

I want to scream out loud, I want to shed every unshed tear, I want to rip off every emotion I have for him, I want him to know that he has hurt me real bad, I want him to know am breaking inside
But, I sit here silently penning down my feelings.

19th January 2014

Now, stumbling over this letter hidden in between my files makes me feel how dumb I was then
Why did I cry over someone who wasn't worth anything
Karma is a darling when she is on your side,
But, it surely doesnt make me a bitch when I get this sadistic pleasure to hear that he is going through a traumatic divorce because she was caught cheating on him.
Maybe this is what is called 'What goes around comes around"


Image Courtesy: Google Images

Are we 'good' parents? ~ Challenges of parenthood

A couple of weeks ago, we had attended a party. And the following conversation took place between a parent and his three year old son. Sample this!

The father: “Beta! Life me apna haq cheen ke lena chaiye, maangke nahi! Samjhe!”

The son (with two chocolates in hand), now looking at a smaller child with a smaller chocolate: “Accha papa! Thik hai! To main uske haath se chocolates cheen ke lata hun!”

The father said nothing. Although he held his son’s hands back, he stood there smiling, as if that was precisely what he had expected his son to do.

The above conversation rattled the pit of our stomachs as my husband and I turned our faces away in disgust. After the party ended and as we drove back home, my husband started explaining to our son about what good manners mean. And the first thing he said, “Never hurt someone smaller or weaker than you. Bullying someone only shows your cowardice.” And, this had to be made clear to our son, as we all were spectators to the episode (including my two and a half year old son). Our son nodded and both father and smiled as the understanding between them was clear and crisp. I looked out of the car window, trying to adjust to the nippiness of the starry winter night, and then a series of questions with the same word hit me, “Are we obsessed parents?”, “Are we competitive parents?”, “Are we cool parents?”, Or “are we just regular parents?” And, that is when I decided, I had to write.

Oh well, let me just group parenting as ‘obsessed, ‘competitive’, ‘cool’ and just ‘regular’. ‘Obsessed’ means, keeping a 24/7 watch on the kids and restraining the kid’s actions most of the time in the fear of being ridiculed for the child’s childlike behaviour. Precisely, they can’t bear the thought of risk (of any kind). The ‘cool’ breed is the one that loves to parade their kids in funky outfits, often trying to get them to look like some child rock stars just getting ready to talk/scream and gyrate like adults. And then, there is the ‘competitive’ breed who are always on a watch as to what other kids are doing and then getting their own kids to do the same.  Finally, there is this regular breed which is seldom known but much common, where parents try hard to raise their kids with caution and at the same time, do not push them around much, giving them their own little space.

Now all the breeds that exist are somewhere influenced by their own upbringing. Some love to pamper their kids rotten. Some love to live their dreams through their kids. Some raise their kids with an iron hand, trying to bring them up with utter control and not letting them have their way for anything. Some love to give all those comforts to their kids, of which they themselves were deprived of. And some, raise their kids with the perfect understanding of when to spare the rod and when not to. Of course, like children, parents too evolve with time. So it would be difficult to comment on parenting styles. 

But then, there are certain habits and manners a child needs to understand the importance of such as,

• Finishing morning ablutions on time
• A hearty breakfast that must have milk, A healthy lunch with green vegetables, cereals and pulses, A light dinner followed by a glass of milk.
• Lot of physical activity, creative learning and social interaction
• Reading good books and listening to good music
• Wishing elders promptly by the time
• Sharing toys and books with friends
• Following the rule of ‘A place for everything and everything at its place’
• Throwing the waste in the dustbin
• An evening of games and company
• And a prayer to the Almighty at night, thanking Him for food to eat, clothes to wear and for the roof above the head

Of course, I am not a parent who can, at this stage say, “Oh! Been there, done that!” I am yet to cross the bridge as of now. And I am also fully aware of the challenges that lie ahead, as kids for most part of their lives, are influenced by the surroundings they live in. So, as far as inculcating good manners are concerned, I will definitely strive hard for that. It will be a daunting task as it is for every parent. But then, there are good examples around too. As my husband keeps telling me time and again, “Sweetheart! Thank all the parents you meet in life. The ones who teach you how to raise kids and also the ones who teach you how not to!”

Isn’t it? Absolutely!

P.S: The other day, after both my husband and our son came back home after a long drive, my husband removed his shoes and placed them in the shoe cabinet. As he turned around, our son was holding his pair of shoes waiting to place them in the shoe cabinet, right next to his father’s. We smiled at each other.

If you want your child to build a good character,

You be the inspiration, you be the example!

A Silent Thank you

I know a lady, a gem of a person for a really long time..like really really long.

When I looked up, I saw her smile at me. She clapped, I could see it, She wanted me to react to it. But, I couldn't.
When I was about 2, her husband left her because of me. I couldn't really tell what happened but I could guess the expressions even then.

She was there with me, rock solid. She was determined to get me through my life, like I was.
Silence was my life.

Yes! I cant hear. I am deaf.

No.. No.. don't give me that pity expression, don't doubt my capabilities.

I was made fun of at a normal school, I could read, I could write, I could feel, I could lip read.
But, all people saw was I was deaf. I used sign language.
I knew one more global language. The smile language.
Its that language that the lady taught me.

I grew up, I got pity, I got snarl mean remarks, I didn't hear any. I just walked by like nothing happened. Because I didn't know if anything happened behind my back.
She heard everything, she felt much more than I felt. But, she didn't show it to me. She knew her smile was my strength.
I love to party, go out with friends, I don't hear the music, But i can feel its vibrations through the air. I can feel music and it feels good to me. She taught me feel music, she taught me to read the lyrics.

When a non-sign language using person walks up to me and starts talking, I tell them I am deaf. They have a big doubt look on their face, and they fumble. Its funny to watch. When they are hesitant to talk to me, I choose to be ignorant and walk away.

Things do hurt me. But, she taught me that I'm blessed. I don't hear anything harsh about anyone.

Thank you in Sign language

I have no reason to be angry. Even, if i am angry, I scream..maybe I'm loud..but who cares? I cant hear a thing.

But, today I write this to thank my the woman who has gone through hell for me.
The woman whose partner left her because of me
The woman who taught me to live life with a smile
The woman who was my ears to the world.

I want to tell her, its because of her that Im here and Im very very happy in my silent life.

Thank you Mom!!!!




Picture Courtesy: Google Images

Mission 2014 !

Dream

Not die

Live

Not lie

Smile

Without scare

Work

Without fear

Think

Not Destroy

Create

Not try

 

 

Pen and Paper

Lost in the circles of life..
She reached out for her journal..
The one thing that's a calming balm,
Always her robust stance!

Her mind was blank..
Though she wanted to pen down her feelings..
Her thoughts hit a block every time the pen met the paper..
She knew her stance had rusted a little over time.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath,
And soon she was in her wonder world,
She let her imagination run amok,
Slowly she let go.

All the inhibitions in her mind faded away..
She decided to get into oblivion for the moment..
As it happened, she felt the calmness spreading..
The pen started moving across the paper.

Sorry, Wrong Number

Onika, a 30 year old, average single girl of a protective family.
A young woman, who was dynamic, enthusiastic about life about 10 years back. Now, quiet, subdued, working as an Executive Assistant to a biggie of a music company.

To Oni, her life was aimless, going no where, no money in her bank, no boyfriend, .a few occasional uninteresting flings, some quickies, nothing exciting, nothing to really look forward to.

Marriage was on Onika's mind, but nothing seems to be really shaping up for her.
Opening her Facebook account, felt like opening a global wedding and baby album.
All her friends, were posing with their better halves and the juniors that they made.

Onika, felt she had no luck by her side. And she blamed her name for it
"Onika, whose name starts with an O...a Big O..."
"its my name that my life is also an O and I also look like a big fat O"

In the meanwhile, some nosy internet bugger, released about 600 numbers of famous musicians on to the internet,Onika's number gets mixed among them under the name of a less famous singer Yashika
 
Onika's phone rings UNKNOWN NUMBER
"Maam, I'm a big fan of your. I so love you"
Then 1 sms "you have a golden voice"
2nd ..3rd..4th........55th..........96 Missed calls
155 Unread Messages

Confused and scared Onika wanted to throw her phone, but no she could not throw her only distraction into the thrash.
While Oni find its annoying at first, soon she receives a text from a very cute member Rahul of a budding rock band whom she had a crush on.
Rahul thinks this is Yashika, the singer and send her beautifully composed lyrics and cute messages.
Onika starts feeling good about herself, and her crush for Rahul, slowly turns into love.

Rahul keeps asking her to meet him somewhere, he starts having feelings for the replies that "Yashika" sends. He wants to profess these feelings to her. Look into her eyes and say it.

Onika is scared, for obvious reasons that if she reveals that she isn't the Miss. Hot Bod Yashika, but petite Onika he will go away. At this age it is going to hurt her a lot.

On 31st December, Onika wanted to start her New Year with a clean slate and a clean heart.
"Rahul, I love you, but i have to tell you something. I know you might be hurt. But, I'm not Yashika, my name is Onika and I stay in Thane. I cant sing to save my life. But, my replies to all your lyrics are from my heart"

Rahul read the message and was confused, Did he love Yashika? or the replies that this girl Onika gave him?
He didn't reply for a long time, well..he didn't know what to reply to her.
He types a message "Meet me at Marine Drive at 1145pm today"

Onika didn't know what to do, laugh cry smile..
Time passed too slowly. She picked up her prettiest salwar kameez, Obviously she didn't have any dresses, one pieces or skirts.

She reached at 11.30pm, and was a nervous wreak,
Would he come?
Would he like me?
Would he be angry?

Then beside her came a nice sports car, and Rahul got out of it, with the most beautiful arrangement of roses Oni had ever seen.

At, the stroke of 12, when the fireworks colorfully gleamed over the Arabian sea, and the city lights reflecting on the waters, Rahul and Oni started their new relationship with a kiss.

Picture Courtesy: Google Images

Contest Winner!

     We told you to write on what comes to your mind when you hear the word "Ghost".

     As promised, the entries have been judged by Sriramana Muliya, author of the book Frankly Spooking. 

     We thank you for participating in the contest (both on the blog and through email). We hope to get more participation in the future :D 

     The winner of the contest is Soumya Mahapatra. 

     Congratulations Soumya on winning the contest! You get a copy of Frankly Spooking along with a custom made story for you as your prize! 

     What Sriramana had to say about the entry

     "Of the lot, it's the best. Combines all the elements well. It is superior on these counts - writing style, suspense quotient, least mistakes in grammar and spellings, also sentence construction."

Thank you so much for taking time out and judging our entries and also for agreeing to gift a special story.

    

     And here is the story that won..

     Beauty

    She woke up in the darkness, confused. Her bed was cozy and warm and she had been dreaming. She had thought somebody was calling out her name.

“Diya…Diya…Diya…”

Like an echo. And accompanied with giggles. She was a little annoyed with herself. There was no one around, only darkness. And in the darkness was she. The calling of the names must have been a part of the dream she was in the middle of. She wanted to go back to sleep, to return to the dream. It was a nice dream and she wanted to complete it. Or…was it? She sat up in the darkness and tried to remember the dream. But she could not remember it. When she had just woken up, she could’ve sworn that it was a good dream, something that she wanted to finish watching. Now, she wasn’t so sure. As she sat in the darkness, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

There had been something sinister about the dream. She frowned in an effort to remember.

If only these stupid people would keep their late night Diwali parties low and stop laughing every five seconds, I would remember, thought she, annoyed.

She was bothered because she could not remember.

In the end she slept, convincing herself that it didn’t matter. She’d dream a new dream anyway.

She woke up the next morning in cold sweat. Somebody was in danger and somebody else was calling her. Or maybe it was the same person. Or maybe she herself was in danger. She didn’t know.

It took her some minutes to calm herself. It was a dream, she kept repeating in her mind, just a dream.

She looked at her cell phone. 7:13 am. The alarm hadn’t rung. Maybe she had forgotten to set it. Dim sunlight was peeping in her bedroom from behind the curtains.

People were laughing some distance away. Diya could not believe that her neighbor’s party was breaking up to go home now. It’s Monday, for crying out loud! She muttered.

And they were sure taking their time leaving. All the while she was getting ready, she could hear them laugh. And how loud were these drunks anyway, to be able to hear them even the bathroom which was on in the other side of her flat. Speaking of bathroom, what was wrong with this mirror? She’d been keeping so busy, trying to balance her social and professional lives this season of late hours in the office and so many, many card parties, she had not even realized that her mirror had developed spots as if it was really old. Disgusted, she covered the old, ruined thing with her hand towel because the ugly thing made her twenty-five-year-old face look like it had spots!

As she got out of her flat to go to work, she didn’t see anyone in corridor. The party had finally spilt. Thank the lord, she thought as she entered the lift.

“Diya! Diya!”

She jammed her hand in between the closing lift doors to prevent them from doing so and peered into the corridor. Empty.

“Hello?” she said, uncertainly. Somebody had definitely called her name urgently. Hadn’t they? They had. It was clear as day. It was a male voice, but feminine. She shut the lift doors now and pressed for the desired floor. She looked at herself in the lift mirror as she went twelve floors down and saw that her eyes looked pale. She had forgotten to apply kajal. Ah, well, no bother. The lift door opened.

But as soon as Diya sat in her car, one look at herself in the rearview and she knew people would be asking her if she had fever or something…that’s how pale she looked without kajal. She quickly took out her kajal stick from her handbag and applied the said product on her eyelids a little vigorously than usual. She turned around to see who giggled. No one. And yet…someone had giggled.

Later that night, when she retured to her empty flat, she saw that the towel was no longer on the mirror. Had he taken it off before leaving? She couldn’t remember. She must have. What other explanation could there be? She saw herself in the mirror. She had wrinkles around her eyes. Is this even possible at my age? Diya frowned.

Three days later, the voice and giggling followed her everywhere. Slow, persistent and in a voice that was neither male nor female, but an odd blend of both.

“Diya…Diya…Diya…”

She was not scared of the giggling. The giggling was an encouragement. She had become so stressed and forgetful off late that it was showing on her face. Her face looked haggard and had fine lines on it, she looked too pale, her clothes didn’t match. Even her hair looked frizzy. Her nails were proving difficult to maintain. And every time she would fix one of these very many flaws, there would be the giggling. Till they giggled, she knew she had not done enough and was still ugly.

It was another Monday now. Diya had spent the entire weekend trying to pretty herself up. But this morning, the mirror—all mirrors—spoke otherwise. In her office lift’s mirror, on her way up, she closely examined the fine lines and wrinkles and the man-woman voice said, “Diya, Diya, Diya,” with so much disappointment that she wanted to die.

Her workstation now had a mirror and she had kept all her makeup in one of her drawers for emergency.  There were blackheads covering her nose and she was analyzing them up close when she heard her friend and colleague Piyali come up from behind and call her. She immediately opened a random file on her computer screen and pretended to work.

“Diya,” she said, coming to her work station, “I need to tell you something.”

Piyali was looking worried and serious. And pretty.

“What?” Diya asked.

“I’ve been worried about you,” said Piyali. She said some other things as well but all Diya noticed was how pretty her skin looked and how  nicely her hair fell on her shoulders. How did Piyali do all this?

“…and, I mean,” Piyali was going on, “look at yourself woman! You look mental!”

Wait…what?

“Yes,” Diya agreed sadly. “My cheeks are especially pale today.”

“Pale?” Piyali scoffed. “You have an entire box of blush on your cheeks. You look like a freaking clown! Listen, I’m worried about you. You’re dressing outrageously. Look at your nails…you’ve shaped them triangular and they’re pointed. Your hair’s made up to look like a nest. Your eye-shadow is spreading on to your forehead! Everyone’s taking about you these past few days. What’s wrong with you?”

“I look like a clown?” Diya said, heartbroken. “Not pretty?”

“Why would you need to look any prettier than you already are?” Piyali asked her matter-of-factly.

Later on that day, while working, Diya glanced at her mirror. To her horror, she saw that her lipstick was fading and her ugly thin lips showed. But she remembered what Piyali said and refrained from applying anymore lipstick.

“Diya…Diya…Diya…”

The voice was urging her, “Diya… Piyali was fooling you because she wants to look the prettiest. Look at you now, Diya, you’re ugly. Apply the lipstick, rub it generously. You look ugly now, Diya. But if you do this, you’ll be a beauty…Diya..Diya…do it…make them red lip blood…”

Like blood. And like that, as if in a trance, she bit her lips till blood flowed and made them red.

It was Saturday now. She woke up suddenly. The man-woman was calling her name. Like an echo. And they giggled. In her dream, she was jumping into the pool whose waters made her beautiful. It was a good dream. She wanted to go back to her dream. She didn’t want to wake up in the reality where she was forever ugly, with pale wrinkled face, her crooked nails, her chapped colorless lips. Or…wasn’t this her dream?

“Diya! Diya!” the voice shouted from the window.

Of course, Diya thought, how silly. I can be pretty. I just have to jump out of the window and I will land in that pool and I will be pretty. I must be pretty.

She climbed out of bed, feeling ugly, and walked to her twelfth floor flat’s window. And as she jumped, she heard the approving laughter of the ghost that had convinced her that she was ugly.