Oh boy!

It is politically correct and rather fashionable to say that you can’t marry a man and expect to change him. So much so that we have started believing it. But almost every woman I know is subtly and steadfastly working on her man to at least change him enough to be able to live with him. For instance: Change what he eats. How often he sorts his paperwork. What he wears. What he buys. How much he talks. How much he doesn’t talk.

For most men, marriage is the ultimate and possibly, the cheapest rehabilitation program. Let me officially rechristen it to MRP (Man Rehabilitation Program). Coincidentally, MRP in its other avatar is a trivia most men love staring at. For example, the husband examines every bit of packaging, from a tooth brush to a jar of mustard for manufacture and expiry dates. Funnily enough, my father does the same, and so does my brother, and the former even sniffs everything like a dog would.

As if one MRP wasn’t enough, most of us are on multiple ones. I am on four, since I have a father, brother, husband and son.

I know what my friend meant when I told him I was taking a baby sabbatical and he said, “No, you are not. You are making a man.”

Had it been a girl, would he have said, “You are making a lady?” I guess not, because it is assumed that unless something really untoward happens, all girls grow up to be ladies and there’s really no work required. For boys, everything is a work in progress, whether they are seven or seventy.

Most of us have had fathers, brothers or both as projects when we were growing up, and did our best to redeem them. They either ate badly, flung clothes around, smoked too much, played the television too loud, messed up the kitchen, had bad friends or were just being themselves.

Yet, we go and get married. And then wonder, how did the men get by life thus far? And let’s not even get into lousy wardrobes, bad accessories, cholesterol friendly eating habits, electronics overdose or retail junkiness.

And then some of us go and give birth to men. And then actually end up doing more work in not getting him to turn out a certain way.

Curiously, the rehabilitation never ends. And the men aren’t really complaining, although it is considered macho to whine about it in male company. But secretly, they are grateful that someone finally makes them look good.

The husband has one redeeming feature though . The love for order. On a totally superficial level, but there it is. Call it OCD or what you may, but it gives me one less thing to do. Perfect.

Woman, uninterrupted

Something happens when a stunningly attractive woman walks into a group of men and women. The pH of the atmosphere changes. Things go from alkaline to acidic in seconds and the room is not the same again. Women are visibly disconcerted and men are ridden by part-anxiety and part-curiosity.

So she was hot. And chiselled. And funny. And kind. And friendly. And well turned out, despite the bikini-top-under-black-mini, with visibly no intentions of getting into her bikini avatar (good call on her part, considering the gentry floating).

The girls at the brunch wanted to know who she was, her back-story, her status vis-a-vis the guy she was with, so that they could compute how often would they really bump into her and whether they should bother being nice, or just pretend she never happened.

The boys wanted to know if she was really ‘with’ the one she had come with, or did they stand a chance at all, considering he wasn’t exactly a Greek god.

In short, she generated enough ripples to last the afternoon, which was not difficult as the only other ripples were tsunamis in the micro-pool generated by a bunch of somewhat gauche men who had no qualms about jumping into the water in their underwear, boxers or briefs notwithstanding.

It’s a tricky thing, being hot and attractive. While it’s ok to be hotter than the lowest common denominator who could be Ms Thunder-Thighs-still-wearing –her-high-school-clothes or Ms Bad-Make-up-camouflaged-by-uglier-sunglasses, or the I-am-two-sizes-too-small-pink-top, it is technically a crime to:

a) Be a stranger in a party and be the hottest thing around.

b) Be hotter than the girl women are not afraid to call hot, because men don’t find her hot, so they are not in the reckoning anyway.

c) Be hot and nice/clever/funny at the same time.

So then, the men didn’t speak to her—probably thought she is so stunning— what if she rejects us outright? And the women seemed disgruntled as the objects of their affection were somewhat distracted.

It struck me that while people are fairly okay celebrating the average and the mediocre and thumping each other on the back, when it comes to truly superlative beauty or brains, the world prefers to stay quiet, almost aloof. I wondered why. Beauty always comes with the ‘guilty-until-proven-innocent’ baggage, and so it was for the girl in question.

The only one who was truly democratic about it was my ten-month old who approved of her the minute she played his (current) favourite peek-a-boo game and passed his test. She was excited. So was he. They bonded. She stood a chance.

She had him at peek-a-boo.

Thank god for children.

Head over heels

Dear Harsha Bhogle, Virender Sehwag, Jackie Shroff, Akshaye Khanna, Salman Khan and millions of other men who have spent fortunes getting their manes repaired.

Why?

I cannot understand what makes men (and some visibly sensible ones at that) go in for hair transplants (or weaves or whatever they call them these days).

I am sure they feel like a million bucks (especially after spending something that’s close to that), but do their women think they do?

I can understand if they have moved with their new manes to an entirely new habitat where no one knows you and you can start all over again, pretending it was always like this. But what intrigues me is walking into a party where everyone and his dog knows that it is a crop acquired overnight (or however long it takes).

I wonder who their women are, and what they thought of the idea. Did they not feel the slightest trepidation, cupping a manufactured mane in their hands, and fearing that they might damage it? I would be worried silly if I dated such a guy and worry that I might be responsible for diminishing a wee bit of that crop every day even with my gentle ruffling.

Imagine Sehwag going, “Oh, that’s fifty thousand rupees worth hair gone!” every time a girl is sweet on him.

I can still get it if you are devastatingly good-looking, like a Johnny Depp and one fine day woke up to find your locks diminishing, you may have a case for some hair-engineering. But how many men who have had hair tragedies can really call their face their fortune?

A few handy tips for men on the verge (and believe me it’s nature’s way of saying that you may have to reinvent yourself):

· No hair is better than bad hair.

· A comb-over is a sure sign of a loser. Women run away from losers.

· Shaving your pate is one way to ensure you will never have a bad hair day.

· Think of all the money saved buying hair product and going to fancy hairdressers to cut hair that barely exists.

· Think of all the men you know who have gone bald. Now think back and remember them when they had hair. Which one is better?

Over to my men. The husband currently has a decent crop, which I fear is suffering gentle erosion by a certain hat he seems to have developed a fetish for. To the point when aunts have started asking me, “Why does he wear that? Is he balding?” Well, all I can say is that the son can sure learn the letter M from the father’s forehead at this point.

The son, on the other hand seems to have inherited the luscious and curly Iyer mop, so I don’t have to worry about him, at least for now. Unless the Y chromosome takes over as the dominant gene. Or he starts wearing hats too.

But I have an unofficial pre-nup with the husband which states that the day he starts visibly balding, he shaves his crop, because I will have none of the cover-up or hair cultivation business.

Hairrrumph!

Cat-a-pulted

When in doubt, bring on the cats. Yes, it’s been a while since I went into feline zone, a subject of great interest to me, more so because it is something that I can never hope to fully unravel, even after spending four years writing this column on gender politics.

And thank god for small mysteries. Lessons from cats far supercede the Mars-Venus anomalies in my world, but I am not the first person to tell you that. I still can’t get over the fact that despite my glorious cat history of two decades and some spent with cats of various temperaments, personalities, quirks and lineages, I have never come across a pair such as my current twosome who are so into each other, and yet have enough left of them for human consumption.

So here’s Learnings from Cats - Part Two:

• Everything around you is not worth comprehending. Why does the fan creak, why does the cook look like she’s had a Happy Meal too many, why do people ring bells even though they can see you sitting right there, why do crows hover around and not have the guts or glory to swoop on you, and why do they find strength only in numbers and why does the neighbour lady talk to me like I am a dog — all a mighty waste of time in the cat world.

• If he’s into me, why is he not calling me, and why is he writing on walls of random sluts, is definitely not a cat preoccupation. When a cat is into you, it makes it amply clear, no mystery there. If a human works any other way, move on.

• Saying it like it is the best policy. No point air-kissing people and then bitching them out behind their backs. On the other hand, if someone’s feet catches your fancy, by all means give them a lick, or a scrub, or a full pedicure, if you please. Rewards will suitably follow.

• Less is not more. I have noticed friends, who in celebration of their newly acquired (read starved) bodies are dropping clothes, showing off cleavage, shoulder, navel, whatever it is they can find more than ever before. It intrigues me, the sudden state of nakedness, not that I am conservative, but the fact that women think that putting their boobs on the table is what is going to get them the guys. It is so not. What’s hidden is always intriguing. And there’s things the degree of buttoning in a shirt or a stray collar bone can do that all the world’s off-shoulder, one-shoulder, microminis, cleavage maximisers cannot. Notice how a cat swathed in your favourite shirt or sheet looks far more intriguing than one flashing its belly in abandon?

• If you are not into someone, make it amply clear. This will just waste less time, yours and his. A bird in hand is only worth two louts in the bush. So what would you rather have?

• If you are gorgeous, do nothing. Or better, just curl up. Let others do the work. If you are not, pretend you are, and things will work just the same.



Miaaaaaoooow!

An inconvenient truth

Friendship is not always convenient. There was a time when you dropped everything that you did for a friend. And friends did the same for you. Now is a time when people ask you to drop by “If you are this side” or “If you are not doing anything” and making plans to “catch up” which they have no intention of keeping.

This is an age of promises, of “must do” and of “like.”

Why doesn’t anyone say, “Come and see me?” or, “Can I come and see you?” Why would I want to do anything else if you want me to do something with you? After all, you are my friend and you happened to me much before the trappings of marriage, motherhood et al.

And yet, friendship, unfortunately does not operate on autopilot and takes work. Sometimes much more than a relationship. Since most of us have more friends than relationships, it takes work on different counts. And some people are more demanding, more complex, less articulate about their feelings than others, so you have to read between the lines.

I thought I was good with the motions. I never wanted to be one of those people who ‘forgets her friends once she is married,’ so I try harder to prove myself. Sometimes it is confusing, as people still look at you suspiciously when you say, “Call any time you want to unload, or you feel like a home-cooked meal” (that much therapy I can do for friends anytime)

But when you move from the world of singles to doubles (in my case, threesome, or fivesome, if you count the cats), there is a kind of reluctance that comes in making a plan with you. It’s like you are being punished for leaving the singletons’ clan, or that you have to try harder to be taken seriously, or that you are guilty until proven innocent. I think it’s unfair.

Yes, it is about maximising, and yes there are friends who would club you with airport rides or visits to Oshiwara furniture market, and it’s not that Bombay is such a large city, but I am willing to let that pass.

It’s almost as though the motions of friendships have changed from calls to text messaging. And that’s another can of worms altogether. The instant reply versus the delayed reply. The instant call-back versus the delayed call-back. It’s like saying, “Yes, I know you called/texted, but I have a life full of things to do, so it took me time to reply.” Do people really think that an instant revert means you are just sitting around with nothing to do?

So then, there are friends I have known for decades, now all measured about putting themselves out, and I am left wondering what did I do. Why so? Why has friendship (aside of a few exceptions, and thank god for that) become political? My theory is: it’s the imbalance of life. There will always be someone who has more money, a better job, a dream house, more sex, more friends, better networking capabilities than you, but in my world, friendship has always transcended such politics. Or has it really?

Mixology

Over to something shallow after all that musing over mosaic. Parties and making lists. The husband and I had one recently, and since we have less house and more people, we decided to do it in a staggered way, and round one is finally over.

Since I have lived in Bombay all my life, and the husband has been here five years, our lists are as different as our personalities, but we have some common ground that forms a suitable critical mass, so at least it’s a start. Then there are people you meet in ones or twos because they are good for your cerebrum, people you meet because they are kind and dependable, and people you meet because they know all your secrets. At things like weddings, you have no choice but to mix them all up, and the result was not too bad when we did it at ours.

But eventually, there are people you meet and there are people you party with. If your lists are overlapping all the time, you have issues. But more about that later.

When I was single, I was always struck by the insensitivity of some married couples who threw regular parties, but never bothered to balance the singleton dynamic by throwing in a few more interesting singletons of the opposite sex. There were exceptions, but I would rather not recall them. So I eventually ended up being a court jester for the gathering, until I began to insist that I take my own personal jester along, which ranged from best friend to boys I was dating, and even random acquaintances on occasion.

So now, when I make lists for parties, I make sure I balance the dynamic out. That there are equal number of singletons of either sex, or at the very least, a fair ratio.

Which is why when one of the singletons wanted to bring a date, I yielded, even though I normally don’t entertain randoms at my home. Since the operating word was ‘cute and sweet’, I was thinking of the larger good for womankind, considering there were at least four other single women in the house. And cute never hurt anyone.

But we all know the lack of philanthropy at parties. That no one who knows someone exciting will offer them on a platter to you. That it takes a phenomenally large heart to play Cupid, or open the game to competition. So, the date is actually about making oneself look good. It’s about making good pictures. It’s about making an entry. It’s about having an exit option if you want to go out partying after a conversation-driven home party. But more importantly, arm candy attracts arm candy. For example, the hotter your date, the more attention you get, the more the number of people who dig you, or want to be the date next time. It’s simple physics.

My point to all my gorgeous single friends is: you have arrived at that point where you are your best arm candy. So, way to go!



P.S. “Cute and sweet” never showed up because he was nursing a hangover, but the girls had fun anyway.

Mosaic musings

You had me at mosaic. Perhaps that’s what I would say to my new apartment if I could talk to it. You also had me at imperfect walls, a hallway full of surprises, alcoves full of mystery, old-fashioned geysers, naked pipes and wires, book cases laden with tales, never mind the World Books that came as part of the inheritance.

You sang to me at brass taps, a letter-boxed door, old fashioned windows, a mango tree kissing the balcony, jhadoo wallahs, chhuri wallahs and bhaji wallahs singing their daily song and peddling their wares.

You shook me with sulky, brusque, un-uniformed watchmen who have no time for pleasantries, neighbours who walk up to you and say warmly, “I am your neighbour. Welcome to the building.” Who also diligently sort their wet garbage from their dry, lest they invoke the fury of the masked garbage boy, ala the Bandit Queen who will not touch the trash with a barge pole unless it’s sorted.

There is something about mosaic. Yes, it’s imperfect, irregular, and doesn’t always ‘go’ with manicured, sterile, mall-reeking furniture that is so today. But that is the least of my worries, as I am a corner shop girl, and will always be so. It almost feels like the return of innocence to my life, which had begun to be enveloped by the claustrophobia of sterile elevators, people as fake as their Facebook profiles, their excesses as vulgar as their inboxes, their hugs as manufactured as their smiles, their conversations as dumb as their Blackberrys, their lives as camoflaged as their LBDs.

And so begins the story of life in our new abode, where the husband, the child and the cats have each found their favourite spots and duly adopted them. I hope it lasts, at least till I soak in all its idiosyncrasies and weave myself into its tapestry. I hope that this one does not bite the redevelopment bug for a while, like most things we have loved and lost. What the flat has done for me, and for the husband is question our excesses, as we sort our garbage, which has become an interesting morning ritual, trite as it might sound.

At a brunch this Sunday, I ran into an old friend who whined (yet again) that he was still single and when was I going to do something about it. He added that integrity and humour hadn’t got him anywhere and wondered if he needed to reinvent himself, get a makeover, inside out. Which made me wonder: why are men and women so uncomfortable with their mosaic-ness? Why the need to constantly redevelop, like most buildings around us? Why are they constantly trying to smoothen out their edges, bleach their mosaic into marble, conceal their wiring, seal their balconies, join the monochromatic brigade?

Thankfully, I still have mosaic friends. And my son loves its texture, and has asked me to double his floor-time. Because, to him, every tile is a story waiting to be told.