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Hallo Frands, Dahi-Shakkar Khalo!

Creations of a weird girl, Quarantined

During the entire last decade of me appearing for all sorts of examinations, I have never had dahi-shakkar before any of them. Even while being eager to have the good-luck bringing sweet yogurt and asking for it before an examination, I was denied access to it. The standard reply I received was, “Believe in the hard work you’ve done. Dahi-shakkar won’t help you in any way.” Made me wonder, why I couldn’t have it just for the sake of it. Moreover, I never say no to anything sweet. I think we were out of yogurt probably. I never checked, so who knows? On the other hand, I have seen my friends being force-fed all sort of (mostly edible) stuff ranging from sane ones like dahi-shakkar to questionable ones like chewing a gum. Scientifically speaking though, chewing gum while studying has been related to greater concentration levels and greater retention levels. Just saying.

Moving on, everyone in my household forgot to tell the pickle to go bad when a menstruating woman touches it. I really think awareness is the problem sector here. Should we start a campaign to let every pickle jar know that they have a right to rot on being touched by a menstruating woman? And I trim my nails, wash my hair, wash my clothes, get a haircut, buy utensils without calculating what day it is and what disaster might befall me if I do so on a wrong day. This leaves a lot of vacant thinking space in my brain. And khali dimaag toh shaitan ka hota hai na? Maybe that’s why superstitions were invented. So that people can be pre-occupied by what day it is and what are the activities they can or cannot do, that they don’t have enough thinking capacity left to offer to Satan (or Mrs. Chatree, as I like to call it). I don’t have a lucky pen, pencil or for that matter any piece of luck inducing stationery. Neither, do I have normal stationery with me. Curse you, lockdown. Before you come at me with all your logical stories about it, I am not mocking people who do believe in this. I know all (most of them) are done in good faith. I am just stating how my life has been in its absence. There was never a dramatic moment where I could say, “Oh no! Yeh kya anarth hogaya? Aaj toh Saturday hai!”, after trimming my nails.

I am a Cute Little Terrorist

Creations of a weird girl, Quarantined

You guys know what a real pain in the ass is? Being a creative person and travelling. Putting it simply, a creative person tends to have creative tools on him/her. These creative tools can range from a pair of scissors, acrylic paints, a stapler to a precision knife. These are basic essentials for a person to express creativity. You know who doesn’t like creative tools? Security guards. Especially the ones at metro stations. Guess what? It’s story time.

I was gifted a pair of scissors by my mother’s friend. Weird gift. Weird friend. Moving on, it was the most gorgeous pair of scissors I had ever seen. No, it was not embedded with jewels or semi-precious stones. It did not have ‘handles of jade’. (Slight nod to all the ISC folks out there. Calm down all you CBSE peeps. Ahh….no. Calm down.) But it did have my heart. My entire heart. It had long silver coloured blades, with some saying etched on the blade in Hindi cursive. I never figured it out. Nonetheless, when I slipped my fingers into its small handle, I knew in my heart, it was an extension of my fingers and together we could manipulate any tangible material. It was my favourite pair of scissors. I still remember the scissor’s feel on my hand. And mind you, it was the best pair of scissors ever made. The absolute best.

Now, if you’re wondering why I’ve used past tense in the previous paragraph, I have some sad news for you. Sad for you, heart-wrenching for me. You’ve probably guessed it by now. It was confiscated by a metro security official when I got my back pack scanned. I saw complete apathy and indifference in the eyes of the security official who wouldn’t budge despite my waterworks. I remember his blank, completely-forgettable expression as he picked up my precious with his gloved hand and threw it into a filthy tray with shady looking objects that he had confiscated before. Pretty happy with his bountiful seizure he sat back down as I glared at him with utter disbelief. I lost a part of my soul that day. I didn’t even get a chance to say a proper goodbye. For all you heartless, analytic thinkers reading this, no. No, I couldn’t have used a different mode of transportation and carried my ‘precious’ with me. There was a time constraint. I had a train to catch in a few hours.

Now let’s contrast this with another metro station security official who understands how important craft tools are. Similar situation, different outcome. There was a train to catch. This time I had a precision knife in my suitcase. Now, for those unaware, a precision knife is like a much better paper cutter, with detachable blades and nearly ten times sharper. Yes, you can easily slit throats with it. Why was I in possession of such a device? Because I was trying out paper-cutting art. You know what? I am explaining to much in this post. This isn’t my research paper. I don’t need to reference citations or provide explanatory footnotes. Just google stuff you don’t understand, henceforth. (Sorry guys, slight detour.) The security guard demanded to have a look at it. I was not about to open my Pandora’s box and spew stuff on the floor of a metro station. Not when I was already running late. This was a cue to activate my Puppy Dog Eyes. They seem to be working their magic on the official, when his superior decides to show up and jerk him out of my hypnotic gaze. Trivial matter to the superior he expressed his disinterest and left soon enough. Now powering up my eyes to full cuteness I guilt tripped the security official and he barely whispered, “Jao.” And that was enough for me. I fled from there. With my precision knife still intact in my suitcase.

I have also been stopped and questioned for bottles of paint in my bag. Separate times for acrylic and chalk paints. Apparently, there could be some sort of objectionable material in the small bottles. Another time, I was asked about ‘pointy, metal things’ in my suitcase. They were earring. Bloody earrings. And let’s not count the times I have had to show a stapler to them. Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I should just stop being creative. Or find ways to be creative without tools. Anyway, isn’t it good to know the security officials are carrying out their duties diligently?

So, apparently, quarantine is not the only thing keeping me away from art supplies.

Aunty versus Me 3.0.2

Creations of a weird girl, Quarantined

Why do Indian aunties and uncle have this deep rooted urge to comment on someone’s weight whenever you see them? They begin their conversations with phrases like, “Khane peene ko sahi se nahi mil raha kya?” or “Yeh face kitna mota hogaya hai beta tumhara!” or “Dieting start kardiya hai kya?” What is their freaking problem? Last weekend I had a similar encounter with one of my neighbour.

Okay, so yes I’ve lost some weight and now look really slim. She commented on that. I smiled, gave a fake laugh and decided to move the conversation forward. You know, like every one learns to fake reply to standard questions raised by nosy aunties who have no concept of boundaries. But much to my dismay she didn’t stop there. I was standing in front of her completely fine, laughing, looking well. She comes sneakily closer to me and sort of whispers, “Bimaar ho?” Though the question struck me as odd. After all I was standing in front of all her looking cheerful. But okay, I just gave a simple answer in the negative. After which I thought we’ll move the conversation to the Covid-19 topic. But no. The daily-soap drama sniffer’s thirst for secrets wasn’t exactly quenched. So she repeated her question. Thrice more.

Dude! I swear if something was wrong with me I’d be one of those who tell you all about it without you even asking. Like I’d use the hell out of the privilege that comes along with the sickness. All the sympathetic looks, help offered in the form of homemade pastes and powders. I love listening to how weird these concoctions can be. So sorry to disappoint you aunty, but I’m well. I am well. I am well. And guess what, I am well. The same phrase for the number of times you asked me the same question. Also, what is this behaviour aunty? Why are you pressuring me to be sick? Aren’t you supposed to just shoot some random facts about food that’ll boost my immunity? Or at least get the hint when I start ignoring your question! I don’t go around calling you out on how your arm fat has started swinging now. Neither do I want to, just to clarify. So please can we have a mutual agreement and stop poking around in each other’s lives?


Let’s poke around in that of G-3’s aunty’s life instead.