यह शहर मेरा डरा सा है

इस शहर को फिर आबाद करो

किसी भी खुदा तक जो पहुंचे

ऐसी कोई फरियाद करो

वो शहर जो लाखों की पनाह थी

आज वो ख़ुद बेपनाह सा है

वो जहाँ भीड़ छटती न थी

आज वही शहर तन्हा सा है

Hey, Its Love!

This falling in love business is an extremely tricky one.

For starters, it has no sense of time or timing. It comes upon you when you are most unprepared, and it stays away when every fibre in your being is prepared and anticipating.

Secondly, it comes with its ancilliary complicated emotions. Emotions that are bloody tough to handle and which come as these unwanted latch ons with the primary feeling. You'd like to shake these unwelcome additions off, but you never seem able to. Feelings like anxiety, worry, tension, insecurity, fear.

Yes. I am in love. All over again. After 5 years of an intense relationship and 2 years of marriage, I need to tell R. That its official. That I am in love.

And boy. Am I glad I wrote my post Nappy Rash when I did. Because if I hadn't, I'd have clean forgotten exactly how tough this road to amore had been. How fraught with misgiving and fear, how seeped in inadequacy and self doubt...

Yes, its official. I am in love with our daughter. I can't imagine when I said 'I can't cope, its too crazy, I am overwhelmed...."

Because now, no mile is too long, no night too exhausting, no effort too much.

I am in love. I adore her. I dote on her. I could do 48 hour days for her. And still smile.

Pyaar hai hi aisi kutti cheez, kya karein.

So R.... eat your heart out. You have competition. Serious competition! :-)

(except, he seems to be falling in love with the same person, with the same intensity... so.... um.... boy... competition was never this tough....)

Over Exposed

What was the dream again?

Somebody tell me.

What was that thing, so far?

Behind the shadow lines?

Where did it go?

That train that left from nowhere?

How was it sung?

That song with no one tune?

I laughed, I remember.

It was crystal lilac blue.

And it took on hues

From the seas and sand.

But then again, I could be wrong.

Perhaps the prisms in my mind,

Left me blind.

Genetic Coding

She’s made of passion,
She’s made of fear
She’s made of broken things held dear

She’s a song left half sung,
Beside blue seas
She’s the many half faces
Of the many ‘you’s, ‘me’s
She’s the telephone chat
We never quite finished
She’s the empty glass
And the refill in it
She’s the books of poetry
Inscribed, exchanged
She’s the music copied
The moods arranged

She’s the misunderstanding that got resolved
She’s that puzzle called us. The one we solved.

7th October 2008

The Trade of Tradition

I bring my clutter, you bring your mess,
Some floral patterns; sticks of incense
A book leafed through, some prayers read,
Patterned afternoons, what to have with bread
When to bring out the wine, how the tea is had
What god to cherish, which demon was bad
New clothes, old habits, which magazines to scan
What teams to support, in whose life span
The cricket chased
Through lazy days
The music we bought
The poets we sought….

It’s an exchange of ritual.
That cluttered thing,
This trade of tradition
That lovers bring.


6th Oct 2008: Durga Pujo, Mahasaptami

Half a Spoon of Sugar in my Tea

Lets love... but not passionately
Lets protest... but not vehemently
Lets talk in half whispers...
Lets weigh life out in half measures...
Lets just have half a spoon of sugar in my tea

Lets sulk... but still talk of the necessary stuff
Lets quit... but still take the ocassional puff
Lets form only half pictures,
Lets sense life out in half pleasures
Lets just have half a spoon of sugar in my tea

Lose weight but don't be skinny
Make friends but not soul mates
Taste everything but don't pig
Eat all your meals in quarter plates

Don't go overboard
Don't overdo it
Hold back a bit
Don't screw it

Give up sweets but don't make your coffee bitter
Don't laugh out loud, can't you just titter?
Exercise, but exercise caution too
Have a view but pander to other notions too

Why are you so trigger happy?
Why are you so sugar rushed?
Why can't you just have half a spoon of sugar in your tea?

To a Higher God

There is a disturbing, scary wave in the air in our country today. It is wave that follows every bomb blast and precedes every festival.

It's more sinister than a wave of communal violence or aggression or hatred. It is a wave called communal identity. Suddenly each one of us are retreating back into our rigid religious identities and instead of opening ourselves up to a wider sense of self, we are shrinking into narrower definitions of who we are.

If things continue in this light, soon India will once again fall prey to the worst communal violence ever, maybe not seen since the days of partition. From isolated bomb blasts and area specific rioting, we will rapidly flame into the worst nationwide conflagrations ever. With global intolerance peaking against every community possible except one's own, this Us vs Them fight is poised at a nasty, sinister place.

It's simple. If we don't stop being "Us", the rest of the world will not stop being "Them". So lets take a first step.

If you click on the url provided below, you will find some of the most evocative prayers from every religion. I request you to please put your name against a prayer that is NOT from a religion you were born into. And if you like, then a pledge below that.

It does not matter if you are an atheist or an agnostic. The very idea is to reject a preconceived identity and be willing to put one's name next to an alien one. If every Indian can do that and truly believe that no, they will NOT rot in hell for doing this, then maybe this country will stop exploding every day.

After you've done your bit, and if you feel strongly about this issue, please do mail this link out to as many people as you can. What is important is that this philosophy be passed on: that there is a higher God than the petty gods who create hatred between us all. And yes, it is possible to pray together, crossing all barriers, for peace and prosperity in this world.

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=9Gk7DKo4tfW2EXmtdC5zfw_3d_3d

Guilty Until Proven Innocent

That's the plight of this poor sad crippled corrupt country. And who can blame anyone? In a nation where so much goes wrong, who is going to notice the few times when they don't? Or rather, who is going to notice that sometimes when something goes wrong, it may not be because of the flawed character of our confusing country?

The way we, the westernised, urbanised, public school educated, english speaking cosmopolitan lot, jump to blame the entire system and machinery here whenever we have an unpleasant experience, reminds me of these lines from Tagore's wonderful poem Puraaton Bhritto (the old faithful servant):
Bhooter Moton Chehaara Jaimon
Nirbodh Oti Ghor
Jaa Kichhu Harai Ginni Baulen
Keshta Baitai Chor!

Translated, it means: [The old servant Keshta] has a face like a ghost, and brains softer than pulp; and whenever anything gets misplaced around the house, the mistress automatically assumes that Keshta is the thief!

Tagore's poem of course goes on to paint a tragi-comic, pathos filled picture of this old faithful - a fixture in homes of yore. And similarly misunderstood and short changed, yet loved and cherished, in a curiously confused way by the employers.

Today our country's lot is a bit like Keshta's. Whatever goes wrong, we are quick to jump to the conclusion that it is because of the inherent "there is something rotten in the state of Denmark" situation here.

I had an interesting experience today. A friend of mine had to attend a special function at 8:45am. where his autistic daughter had to perform Gulzar's evocative bhajan "Humko Mann Ki Shakti Dena". Needless to say, he was excited, and made sure he reached the venue well within the time that his ex wife had specified.

When I spoke to him around noon to find out how the performance went, he had reached his office. And was mighty pissed off. In response to my query he rued, "I didn't get to see her sing. I was late for work and the performance got held up because the minister who's the chief guest, was late."

"Late? By how many hours?" I asked flabbergasted, "Its noon now, and the performance was scheduled for 8:45 I thought?!?"

"Are you new to this country?" he asked gruffly. India bashing, by the way, is my friend's favourite passtime. His tirade against all that is woefully wrong here, never seems to end. And his hatred for this country is only matched by his passionate admiration of the west and the values they espouse. Values, that I must confess, I hold very dear too, and often uphold in the face of classic Indian sentimentality and lack of clarity. Though I can't say I share my friend's total rejection of this country. Simply can't relate to that.

On further enquiry I was even more disgusted by the morning's episode. Apparantly the function was to recognise and reward institutions engaged in special education; the minister was to give away the awards and the kids were to perform. Hence my friend's daughter was there representing her institute - Action for Autism.

"Hang on a minute," I said, incensed. "So that means ALL the kids there were special children, right? Either autistic or spastic or retarded....?"

"Yup" my friend fumed. "And they were made to wait for over 2 hours for the minister for social justice and empowerment, Meira Kumar."

Needless to say, the story made me furious. True to my trigger happy style, I instantly started working the phones. Being with the TOI group has its advantages. Within the hour I had passed on the story to the programming head of Radio Mirchi Delhi as well as 2 different editors from the TOI, as well as the brand head of Indian Express.

Which is when my friend got a bit miffed with me - after all, not everybody wants to spend a regular work day rubbing ministers the wrong way. An argument on integrity versus hypocrisy followed. He agreed to do the story. And that is when he decided to cross check the facts with his ex wife. Ex wife confirmed the facts but couldn't be sure.

At some point my friend realised that with such a vague and unclear picture, it wasn't right to give a story out to media. So when one of the journos finally called him, rather than giving some half clear account, he passed on the phone number of A.F.A so that the journo could get her story directly from the institute.

The journo called back in five minutes. Apparantly the minister was only 15 minutes late. The kids had all been called early for rehersals. The performance had happened as scheduled.

My friend had missed it because he had been told by his ex wife to be there at 8:45, and he had planned his day accordingly. And the reason he'd been given that time is because she had been asked to reach by then, and she had obviously not bothered herself with further details on what was rehearsal time and what time the performance was. After all, she had to be there early anyway. Perfectly reasonable, perfectly understandable.

Obviously I sent one round of apologies out to the various people I'd contacted. They all generously said it was ok - guess they are used to false leads.

A slight bit of confusion handled without too much fuss. But what I was really taken up by was that mid day conversation about "the sad state of India".

India. Guilty until proven Innocent.

No matter who actually gets what facts wrong, at the end of the day, it's a classic case of 'Keshta Baitai Chor'.

The Lady and The Throne

One is my mother and the other my daughter. Can't tell which one is more pleased!!!

Neck to Neck

I was telling Ranjit the other night that while many of the things that have been said about motherhood have seemed like hyperboles and cliches to me, and, as I'd mentioned in my post titled Nappy Rash, a lot of it appear to be hand downs from male fantasies, there is one strange thing that does happen.

The committment to the child's well being, the sense that nothing, absolutely nothing in the world should make her uncomfortable, is an almost matter of fact setting I find in myself.

It's weird - it doesn't feel like a new emotion, or a wonderous new sentiment. There, in fact, is nothing sentimental about it. It's so part of me, it's almost as though the feeling always existed, and has simply been switched on.

And the sheer unacceptability of her discomfort is, as I said, almost cut and dried; matter of fact. Her pain is inconceivable, like walking naked down the road is inconceivable, like peeing in your drawing room in inconceivable, like not eating for a week is inconceivable - ya sure all these things can happen, but one doesn't think of them in the normal course of things.

They are simply not done.

My baby in pain? Yeah, happens probably. But it's just not done.

Getting Cheeky

Can't even begin to tell you how it feels, my friends!!

Bottle The Bitch

No, I'm not talking about pickling and bottling any villanous bitch in my life.

I am talking about bottles. And what big bitches they are in a new mother's life. I have envisaged many scenarios in life, I am fully aware of the 'aggressive person' tag that I carry and therefore have often thought there could various types of rivals in my life... funnily enough, there never were any. Maybe its arrogance; maybe I never considered anybody good enough to be a rival in the school, college or the work space.... call it absent mindedness; maybe I never noticed when one popped up... whatever the case may be, the fact remains that I don't remember ever having a rival....

Until now.

When I was planning and shopping for my new baby, right up to the 7th month of my pregnancy, I bought many things. My mother in law, sisters in law and my mother too put together a lot of stuff they thought I'd need.

Therefore, one of the very first things I acquired were bottles, bottle nipples and bottle sterilisers. Simple enough, you'd think, right?

Wrong.

As soon as the baby's been born, and your stitches hurt, you look like a bloated balloon and all you want to do is sleep, one ham handed nurse appears out of nowhere and starts squeezing your breasts pretty much with the same delicate touch and sensitivity as one juices a lemon. With pretty much the same results. A reluctant sticky trickle.

Then she makes a disgusted face, picks up your precious wrinkled bundle and stomps off. You look on bewildered.

Thats when the head shaking and tongue clicking begins. Congratulations. A nemesis called Breast Feeding has just entered your life.

Little did I know when the bottles, nipples and sterilisers were acquired, that the very use of them will be considered akin to black magic. All real mothers, all good mothers ONLY BREASTFEED.

Get used to these two words. In large font, bold, all capitals. They will come back to haunt you, new mom, every day, every moment, every miserable inadequate trickle by trickle in those first few nightmarish weeks. Doctor's prescriptions to friends' advice, notes comparing colleagues to internet information, slightly older new moms to slightly interfering old maids - everyone and everything will extol the virtues of great milk engorged breasts and of mothers who have gushed out rivers of the white nectar for their babies to draw sustenance from.

Every single paediatrician's prescription I have so far - whether I went for my baby's vaccination or a common cold - had those formidable words printed at the bottom: BREAST FEED ONLY. NO BOTTLE FEED. The icing on the cake was what I noticed on my second visit to the doctor's clinic, on the soft board in the reception area - believe it or not, a roll call of honour, of all those babies who'd never been given the bottle! With a little 'take a bow, mothers' congratulatory line at the bottom. The sheet of paper had row upon neat row of babies' names, mothers' names and mothers' mobile numbers - apparantly these milk flowing demi goddesses had happily consented to having their phone numbers plastered all over a doctor's reception because they didn't mind their privacy being invaded if they could be of some help to us hapless lot.

Ok, so you're still not getting the drift? Whats the big deal you ask?

The big deal my dear is the simple truth that some women simply don't have enough milk. They need to either add on formula feed to breast feed, or at times, totally substitute with formula. HOWEVER, when you are a new mom, you NEVER seem to come across such women. All the moms you meet were milk river gangotris. They had so much milk their breasts hurt. They had so much milk they had to let it all out during their baths. They had so much fucking milk that their babies gagged on the mighty streams.

Bah.

Except for one very dear very honest friend who called me from the U.S. and told me not to feel guilty about formula at all, none of my contemporaries said anything about inadequacy. They were all splendidly adequate. If anything, they didn't know what to do with all this milk of human kindness. They spurted, they soaked, they overflowed. Paucity? They had never even heard of such a problem apparantly. I was a freak.

Well, my baby is nearly four months old now and I know I am not a freak. Many women face exactly the same problem. Some don't realise or recognise it. Some are in denial. Some hide it. And yes, of course some also genuinely don't have it. But guess what? The genuine ones don't send you on guilt trips. They tell you to chill, relax and enjoy your baby, and let good old lactogen step in to save the day if need be.

God bless my mother, my mother in law, my gynaecologist and my husband who relentlessly encouraged me to give my baby girl the bottle whenever I felt inadequate, restless or tired. God bless them for being practical, sane and yes, very importantly, funny. Thank god for my nut of a husband who kept saying - "look at me, bottle fed and VP at a radio network. Look at you - bottle fed and another VP at the same network." Idiot.

Their support helped me cope with the fact that I had had a baby in my mid 30s, and after my history of huge gynae issues it was a miracle in itself that I'd conceived naturally and delivered a healthy child. Their lack of judgement of me or my milk supply allowed me to rediscover my real self sooner, because I could step out for a meal or a coffee and not worry about my baby's next feed. Their refusal to see the output of my breasts as a sign of my competence as a mother helped me get back to a dieting and exercising regimen sooner than I could have otherwise.

Now that I have gotten over the guilt and the angst and the sheer sense of failure, I hear of new mothers who can't go anywhere or do anything with themselves because their babies are stuck to their breasts like leeches. Hey, thats exactly what I went through. 5 hours non stop and the baby still cried and still wanted more. First of all, I didn't want to be cruel to the poor kid: she obviously wasn't getting enough. Secondly, hey, is it a crime, I DIDN'T LIKE BEING THAT WAY. Stuck, rooted, bored, fat, useless, brain dead, baby breasted and glassy eyed. I am sorry for not being sorry. I am sorry for opting out of that way of being. I don't think that that kind of exhausting, demotivating and completely energy sapping way of life was the only way to prove to the world that I was a caring mom and my baby was my biggest priority.

Heck. Why should their be any way to prove anything to the world? What my baby means to me is something for me to know and her to feel. A few bottles of formula will not determine how much I love my child.

Trust me, I am not making a big deal of a small issue. If you are planning to biologically produce a a baby, or if you partner is, believe me, this will become a bigger deal than you can even begin to imagine.

So whether you are male or female, in case you are planning a family, here's my little bit of advice: do certainly breast feed / encourage your partner to breast feed because it is genuinely beneficial, genuinely healthy for the baby. Nothing compares to breast milk in terms of nutrition, immunity and basic bone building. But, please please please don't kill yourself over it if you find that you can't do it, or can only do it partially. It is ok. Genuinely ok.

Because, like my mom said: if you go insane, its unlikely to help your baby.

A Month of Motherhood

1. A "wailing baby" graduates from being an irritating experience to a heart breaking one.

2. Within a span of 30 days, your middle of the night thoughts gradually shift from "god wish I could go back to sleep" to "god wish she could be comfortable again"

3. Smells stop bothering you. Any kind of smells.

4. You change 5 times a day, for the first time in your life, not for vanity.

5. Checking email becomes the biggest adventure of your life.

6. Taking a bath becomes a luxury and a high point.

7. You develop a whole new sense of respect for a phenomenon called 'silence'.

8. All sense of personal privacy goes for a merry toss. You can expose your breasts in front of nearly anyone.

9. You can't remember what lipstick looks like.

10. You make the world's most boring conversation.

11. You look like shit. A lot of shit - since you're grossly overweight.

12. Your concept of time gets redfined into 2 hour slots.

13. You define 4 hours of undisturbed sleep as a "relaxed easy night".

A Short Bark of a Poem

If I wasn't so tired, I'd be in rage.

Only neanderthal men refuse to change nappies in this day and age.

Nappy Rash

Now, I must word this post most carefully, because I do hope that when my daughter grows up she will be sufficiently interested in me to want to visit my blogs - current or old - and read up on old posts.

So nowhere must I express a sentiment in a manner that is either inaccurate, or exaggerated, or unfair.

However, I also hope that my daughter's mind, moulded as it will be in her formative years by the way her parents think, will be lateral enough, if nothing else, to understand and empathise with the sentiments expressed ahead. And she will not take personal slight.

The bald fact remains: adorable though new born babies are, the first few weeks after their arrival is not fun. No, its neither an enriching, nor a fulfilling, nor a heart stopping, nor an "I was born for this" nor a "this is the true meaning of life" type of experience.

It's plain exhuasting. And bloody dull.

And whoever first introduced the myth that its the most fulfilling moment in a woman's life, was definitely a man.

Nappies and bottles, feeding schedules and milk adequacy, farts and burps, baths and belches, diapers and sleep deprivation, is not the stuff that "life's purposes" are made of. Plus, if the baby cries in that especially heart wrenching baby way, there is distress to top it all. You hate to see her in pain. And you want to do everything in your power to ease it. And sometimes you can't.

No, its not fun.

What sees me through however, is the constant image of a toothless toddler chattering to me. Or a voluble five year old asking me ceaseless questions. Or a confident ten year old telling me exactly how things are. Or a confused teenager not quite being able to articulate her shadow world of pain and perplexity. Or an opinionated young woman taking me on with her radical political views.

Every time I wake up in the middle of a tired night, and try and prise open sleep stuck eyes, what gives me the ability to smile at that tiny, helpless, vulnerable infant cradled in my arms, is not that present moment but the dream of so many future moments when I will tell her about these back breakingly exhausting nights; her giggles and my belated indulgent admonitions.

Basically, a strict eye for hygiene may well prevent my tiny one from getting nappy rash. But women like me tend to get a metaphoric layer of it over the surface of our minds, during these first few crazy weeks.

The fact remains, my darling Shaayari, my beautiful little piece of alive poetry, that I already love you more than I am capable, and to the infinite limit of my heart's capacity. However, that doesn't prevent me from wishing that your neck was firm, that you were potty trained and you could talk to me and tell me about your troubles, rather than leaving me guessing and fretting at your every wail.

As for all my single women friends who are still contemplating the idea of having a child: remember that most of what is said about new mothers and their experience of motherhood is a product of male fantasy - a fantasy that many women have adopted and started believing to be true through years of socialisation and psychological percolation.

I personally have come to believe that there is nothing especially different between a man and a woman when it comes to parenting. It's an acquired skill and a slowly developed taste towards worlds of delight. The first few weeks are formidable, and while a man can chose to participate at will in those few weeks, a woman has been declared by nature and by history as the primary care giver. She, her mind and her body have no choice in the matter. She cannot frown, display irritation and walk into another room. She cannot pull a pillow over her ears in the middle of the night and she cannot shake off the sheer guilt and in-built separation pangs and anxiety, should she even attempt to take off for a couple of hours - hey, I've tried this one, so I know. It doesn't help.

The woman is bound. By hormones and sociologically adapted and mutated genes, and by nature's inherent building blocks and by social expectations.

The fact that her mind may have become more androgynous in the intervening centuries does not help. Because nothing else in evolution has kept up with that one rapid change. Neither the rest of her, nor the process of pregnancy nor the needs of an infant.

So ladies, be forewarned. It is the dream of a future delight that should tip the decision in favour of procreating. Not the anticipation of any sense of immediate fulfillment. Because as far as my limited experience goes, the latter is a bit of a handed down myth; the former a genuinely beautiful vision.

My Daughter and I

Not uploading any images of Shaayari just yet, since she still mostly looks like an old man. And since all new born babies look the same, will spare all visitors to the blog the insincerity of having to exclaim "oh how cute" and "looks just like so-and-so".... the moment she stops looking like a fried egg, I promise to load many pictures.

She has grey eyes, by the way. All smokey, yet sharp. Quite lovely.

In the meanwhile, will give in to a moment of vanity and upload this picture that Ranjit took of the two of us in hospital, barely a day or so after Shaayari was born. I think Ranj captured quite a quiet little moment. I like the mood of the picture. And the glow.

All Out of Scheduled Status

Apparantly my husband can give the gujjars Scheduled Tribe status. Especially if his train reaches Mumbai 8 hours late and arrives at 6 in the evening instead of 10 in the morning. Or at least, the gujjars and meenas seem to think so.

What else would explain their ripping off a part of the tracks that the Delhi-Mumbai Rajdhani runs on and therefore forcing this super fast express to divert via Bhopal and then reach Mumbai Central? The people whom we consider to be decision makers and powers-that-be, in our dubious democratic structure, will never travel that route, never face that inconvenience and never get impacted by this novel form of protest.

Oh. Their conscience is meant to get pricked because my husband's day has just gotten wasted. Yup. Righto. I can see that happening.

My husband, on the other hand, DOES get hugely impacted by this loss of a precious Monday. He's traveling to Mumbai to pick up a duplicate of his high school certificate from his alma mater, since he's misplaced the original. And the reason he decided to go by train is, firstly, to control expenses and secondly, to avoid rain related interminable flight delays and diversions. Ever since we heard about that infamous Jet Airways flight that took off from Delhi at 8:30 in the evening and arrived in Mumbai 5:30 the next morning, none of us really want to see the inside of an aircraft.

However, all this clever budget management and pre planning didn't really help. Because the gujjars believe that if my husband gets disgustingly delayed in picking up his high school certificate, somehow they will get their scheduled tribe status.

An obscure bit of logic that escapes me. But then, I must be dense.

Singled Out

Rainy days and leafless trees
Silhouetted birds in grey frame freeze
A random city crossing from a car window
At a red light pause in life.

Today I am a wife.

Yesterday I was single
And pain had this grey blue touch.
Today, it gets too much.

Sad songs and rain songs and staring out of windows
Needs a solitude of sorts.

The hurt and pain
And the entire bargain
Within the dark framework of twosomeness
No longer retains the rainy day quality

Of a sad day of those single years.

Misery Mapping

"Why do you girls keep talking about us men?" Asked my husband once. There was exasperation there, and let's face it, some degree of condescension, maybe a dash of arrogance.

"I mean, you are perfectly emancipated, perfectly self aware, perfectly liberated, thinking, randomly talented, myriadly gifted, world-view oriented, financially independent career women. So why do even women like you talk, if not only, then largely, about us men?"

I stayed with that question a long time, and it actually brought about behavioral changes. Best friend and I actually did stop discussing men and discovered we had many other things to talk about. That was good.

BUT. The fact remains, we do talk about men. And apart from it being weak and demeaning and needy and dependent and a pile of horseshit, it's also great therapy. I tried to figure for months why perfectly intelligent, perfectly world-aware blah blah women keep swapping notes on men and their behaviour and their actions. And it's not because we are deeply caring in our sisterhood bond and it's neither because we are heartless bitches dying for a slice of gossip.

The truth lies somewhere midway. I call it Misery Mapping.

It may be an ego trip, it may be an empathy moment. It may be an epiphany or it may be a superiority complex. Where our minds and our psyche fits into the mapping varies from woman to woman and conversation to conversation. Sometimes, your man is so crap you make me feel good about mine. Sometimes your man is so similar to mine that I realise my situation is not so unique. Sometimes your man is so much better than mine that you help me make up my mind.

Misery Mapping is like a home grown remedy to a common cold. Its not always accurate, its not entirely scientific, it often takes much longer than medication would, but guess what. Its often effective.

Yes, I agree. Women should not spend all their time talking about men. But Misery Mapping achieves a few things men don't benefit from, because they don't do it.

Because its cathartic, becuase it behaves like the safety valve of a pressure cooker, it prevents us from drinking and beating you up. It prevents us from chasing hot things in tight clothes the moment our belly expands and our jaw line sags. It prevents us from leaving your committment and loyalty of several decades to go chasing after a younger, flimsier dream. It prevents us from giving in to the infantile need of turning every emotional moment into a joke. And it prevents us from bursting out one fine day into cholestrol and heart attack and high blood pressure and hyper tension and dying in your arms leaving you to pick up your pieces.

Simply because we rely on this supremely non-intellectual, home grown remedy called Misery Mapping.

We talk about you. We discuss you. We dissect you. We analyse you. So that you don't kill us. Our insides, our values, our emotional integrity, our fidelity.

Of course we also do all those other things that are considered typically 'male'. We cheat, we lie, we sleep around, we abandon, we are cruel, we leave, we forget, we ditch, we inflict hurt, we humiliate, we forget. This is not a piece about making women out to be angels and men to be devils.

It's simply a relatively straightforward point. Misery Mapping - whoever should chose to do it -gives the participants a context and a rooting into their own lives. And allows conversation to achieve what would otherwise only get achieved with a lot of dangerous action.

Its Lipstick Therapy. Part II

Midday Lipstick

What do men do for Midday Lipstick, I wondered to myself, as I applied those reassuring strokes of confidence and self worth, bang in the middle of the day, just as your overall sense of self seems to be wilting, with pending mail, unattended tasks, unanswered phone calls and undone to-do lists.

Midday Lipstick is a good thing. In fact, it's a great thing. It's sort of this moisturising, plumping, rejuvinating, glossing, shining, re-attractivising feature of a working woman's day. And its highly therapeutic. Especially when you've bought in a new shade, or a new variant of gloss.

It sort of builds you back up from the ashes of a dull day.

Mid day deo is in the same genre, but unless you're really stinky, it doesn't quite have as dramatic an impact.

What do guys do? Honestly. I'd love to know. Felt damn bad for them today, because they don't have midday lipstick in their lives.