Lipstick under my Burkha-A curtain raiser to the real self

“Lipstick under my Burkha” The Burka and the lipstick both incarnate a solitary notion of feminine character in a very paradoxical tone.  One speaks about a subjugated reality veiled under by macho ideologies of society and the other exemplifies a more enticing, liberated entity yearning to be the real self, unpretentious, free, without any gender specific regulations...a mere human spirit  enjoying the primal instinct not at all underneath the piles of blanket thrown over to hush the escatatic moans.

 Ratna Pathak Shah believes this film to be away from the conventional median, it is a leap from the destined sketch designed by the society about female sexual ardour. It is a journey, a realisation, a feeling, a smouldering wish underneath the covers to relive and enjoy the basic instinct without any underlined phrase.

   

As a Man, as an animal, as tree, as a bird, as a human and as  CREATED by NATURE.

The story of Alankrita Srivastava’s “Lipstick under my Burkha” is all about four women, heaving high in ecstatic moaning in every act they do in life.  Ratna Pathak Shah plays a woman in her fifties clinging to the different layers of her femininity, quintessentially bolder from the norms. Pathak talks about the film, the unconventional storyline rebukes the stereotypical   stigmas attached to feminine mannerism bestowed by the society. The film depicts the tangled mindset   of our generation which is engrained in patriarchal aroma.

The release date of the movie is on 21^st July. This film has an innate flavour of contemporary new age film making genre.  The film promises to intellectually stimulate   many sane minds and also bring a disgusted sigh for many who always have a say about the ethical jurisdiction about everything from a lipstick smudged lip to a nail paint supposed to entice men....even the skirts flirted with shameless moves according to them.

The actor also felt that Alankrita had devised the script keeping Pathak in mind.  The very script had the appeal to be a part of the film journey. A well written script on female emancipation made Shah fall in love with the story and sign as a main protagonist. Usha is the character who attempts to learn swimming at a ripe age, that surely knocked Shah as she herself has a fear of water.

 The actor feels that women would specifically turn the wheels for this movie, by embracing their bolder version; the burqua and the shade have many undertones and revelations to be contoured. The women in this film have been portrayed just as “women”....Burkha and lipstick both have their own story line... story about  female entity, story about life, story about 'herself'  .....the film has just deciphered that in a deeper connotation

Men are not Aliens from Mars, neither Monster from ‘Lala land’ and I am not a Feminist

When we were growing up, we did not have social media with us neither the strong social platform. There has been a leap, many say in our thoughts, in our upbringing, our society and our parenting or just that the media has started glaring too much with their search for content. There might also be a graphical change in the societal morale and value quotient. The men of our society going haywire with devious instinct? The women folk keeping aside the conventional tag ‘Your fault’?  It goes on.....I might not be the right person to dig on to the reason.Or the women of our times have started being their own self, just the way they should have been, free spirit, an un-tangled identity, a human. Some say that's where the hue and cry is. Women have become "Feminists"...that's what they say.

The crowded bus, the abusive uncle, the creepy cousin, the uncanny boss, my slightly revealing 
dress, the skirt line, the fact that I was attractive, the fact that I wasn’t, the fact that I was submissive, the reality that I spoke too much, the truth that I smiled back, the notion that I was single, my age, my face, my anatomical graph, my social status, my cultural background, my gender....Do they speak without my knowledge? Or they display invitation cards? I never knew that. They don’t ask for joy rides, a lift, a consoling touch, a pat on the back.

The child, the teenager, the middle aged and the old-Did everyone  evoke a half naked alien plunging, grooving, prying for his victim in the darkness, in the broad day light, at a corner, even without the corner, in the streets, at the gathering, the road, the club, the hospital, the school, the temple and even at closet of the home.

I still believe in humanity.

My daughter grows up to be a teenager, I hold her fingers show her the blue sky, the better grass, the greener pastures, the heaven, the butterflies, the roses and then I drop the idea; take the plunge, the flight to the ground.

Words of wisdom-From Mummy

• Masked faces might have a familiar smile.
• Touch does not always mean pure love. IT COMES IN MANY SHADES

• ‘No’ has no submerged undertones. IT IS SIMPLY A ‘NO’
• The face, the cleavage, the legs are simple biological extensions. Invitation cards look different
• Either it’s “Yes "or a “No” there wasn’t a disclaimer written “Read between lines”, fantasies are cooked up stories of perverted minds.

Harsher laws, severe punishment, stronger action and off course a few things beyond the law. 
Men are not aliens from Mars, neither monsters from ‘Lala land’ and I am not a feminist.

 I don’t know why I write this article, may be as a  writer, as a Blogger, as a Mother or just as a Human Being, my right to express,  my choked up feelings, my blocked up apprehensions and that dilemma to teach my daughter about life, men, feminists and aliens.

pic -Google Images

Published   -https://www.mycity4kids.com/ 

The perfect Woman

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

Perfection is a perception. For me perfection does not have any defined dimension- She has a golden heart, she carries a diamond personality, she wears wisdom, she smiles just on the perfect line. Her dance moves could not be more adept, 'Oh laila' how could she have such a face, perfectly contoured features, she walks like a gypsy,  she wakes up in perfect poise, even in her lowest mood swings she disperses superlative lingo , her hair stretches in perfect streak at the middle of the night when she turns the other side, she gets off the crowded bus with her eyes radiating sparkle, the symmetry of her kohl rimmed liner stands perfectly in cycle, just "1-inch" below her eye balls  though there had been a few pushes, kick stick movements with fellow passengers while returning back from office.Her Boss would never look at her with his curved eyebrows, he knew she could move mountains perfectly( clients were just mere mortals)

The home  front-It is an  epitome of a perfectly piled up living and non living  species.  She opens the door, she had tucked the clothes in symmetry perfectly buried at the right hand corner of the left hand side of the drawer, none had moved a bit from their lined up position, the books looked at each other from their spacious corridors inside the book shelf, they had a 2 -inch distance amid themselves, they too were perfect in their task of maintaining a perfect decorum. The kitchen was another place- may be it exhibited Godly attributes.

Knock at the door, the kids were home, two little monsters “oops” two perfectly trained little super kids. They came, they conquered the cupboard, the clothes still remain at their perfect settings, the kids know exactly where to find the clothes, the shirt aligned to the right side rests in stoic discipline long after the kids had gone, kids had their meals ‘perfectly’ rejoicing the mother’s recipe “karela “ “ lauki” singing sweet nothings about the health benefits of “karela and lauki”.

Buz, huzz, tuzz, reversed gear, blah blah blah,abra ka dabra... perfection turned upside down, whizzed, sizzed, hush hop, oohlala...I stand there ....perfectly  berserk, ransacked territory on the upper shelves of my head, just below the eyes had kohl rimmed eyelashes, black patches running towards the nose, the kurta was blue, the kurta had been looking for a perfect match but the trouser always betrayed her spirits, yes they were 'blue'. The perfect blend ;)

The metro ride was as heavenly, the pigs even spoke in a better pitch, back home, the house was delighted as ever to find its master who  lost  her way every day just like her clothes , they  yearned to be in perfect alignment with colours or even pairs, lost in the rumble, in their crazy delight they were “perfect”.  Books, they too enjoyed every bit of their romance with playmates, caressing the other pages, sitting over, hugging, indulging here and there free as a "free soul". This was my house.

 I suddenly look at the mirror, I seek perfection but I smile, I laugh, I scream, I fondle my hair and there I say " I still am perfect”. 

 "I love it that way,  I make blunders, I make errors, I scream, I dream, I yell, I shout, I lose, I win, I live,yes I live".

“I am perfect to me “ The mirror yells too "The perfect Woman"

They still carry “Happy Feet and Sing Happy Tunes”

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Happy feet

The coffee maker had turned on the whistle, she yawned, hurried back to her soft satin blanket, eyes could not be generous, frugal, shadowed and then there were the fast forward settings of an urban life stint. The perfect blend of her hand pressed handloom “salwar kameez” went well with her motherly aura, the lunch box smiled - finely tucked mushroom chicken sandwich for the kids, the husband was trained enough to read the alarm signals on time, he had revised his office timing last month, the drop at the bus stop, the maid stood there perfectly in her imperfect style- that’s it, undoubtedly the urban upper middle class women worked hard-a long day but life showered better perks every time she toiled hard.

 But here in my blog I am not counting the perks of those familiar faces rather I would count on the splashes of sweat dropped on hot sunny afternoons by familiar strangers, wet monsoons too cannot deter their smiles-maybe they had worn spirits in their sleeves. We have seen such faces everywhere; around the corner, behind our lane, on the foot path, at my house, on a trip, in the clingy railway station and just on the road. They all had expressions, unique each of them in their own special way.

Walking along the himalayan trail  for a livlihood

 The handloom plant Dharamshala

One monsoon afternoon @India Gate

Sitting around the foot path selling  “hot cakes” every day, I see such faces. 

 She dabs extra lemon juice on the last make. “Makki”  “Challi” “Bhutta” she spends the whole day sprinkling lemon and salt, heating those yellow pearls on golden light. She is happy; she makes a round figure of Rs 300 that was more than enough for the day.

Welcome to another sect – my blog is not about glorification of their struggles through my words but it’s a capture of their invincible spirit. They work hard, harsher sometimes; apathetic conditions of livelihood but colours still flutter from their tattered   sacks, everyday those wrinkled paper notes head on to the market to buy household stuffs. She giggled, the last customer bargained for 5 rupees “Sahib 5 rupaya ki to baat hai, kyun kum de rahein ho?” She had thought he would happily depart with that note, colours ran strong around her.  She straps her basket, leaves her happy trail and catches the next local at 10-45 pm.

Colors @Delhi Haat

She sat there in the busy haat, every night she carved a niche through those artefacts.  “Boutique” “woh kya hota hai?” She knew the harmony of colours and rhythm of designs. She was the sole earning member. She sold her designs in the nearby busy market. Last year “Brinda” had bought a beautiful lamp shade, she designed a new corner in her French villa where she unfolded exquisite artefacts from different corners of the world “Foreign tourists don’t bargain.”

These women galloped their way, everyday to new destinations; they might not have reached pinnacles of glory but who cares about glorious memoirs. They paint a perfect odyssey of life. My salute to the ordinary yet extra ordinary women of India. They leave their own foot prints. Welcome to the “New breed of fire wagons”.

Who cares about the "Superwoman" tag?

“Men to the left because women are always right”

“Behind every successful man there is a woman”

“Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice”

Why does a woman have to be right always, why does a woman have to carry all   the good omen or ill luck for a man’s success story, Isn’t’ he his own architect? And last but not the least does she  need to have all the sugar and spice elements rolling from her head, heart and body ... common tread on to the nearby bakery shop for that;)