She & Her Marriage

She is my neighbour. May be a year elder to me or almost my age.
Let's put it this way-- in a city like Delhi where there is no concept of 'padosi' who says Namaste to you daily or keeps a tab on your health and how the kids are doing at school, this neighbour was indeed full of warmth and affection for me.
It began with a bowl of chicken curry she had made one day which she wanted me to taste. Then it was Pav Bhaaji on another day.
Her culinary skills were too good! I didn't have to order anything or rely on insipid food made by domestic maid every time she would send across these delicacies made at home.

Our camaraderie soon led to us gossiping and complaining about one domestic maid who used to work at my place as well as hers.
Everytime didi won't come for work, we would go on a rant about maids and how life is still difficult even in their presence.
Then one day, she complained about her husband being stingy so much so that it was difficult to manage household expenses.
'I want to start my own thing of sending tiffins to students nearby', she once told me.
I encouraged her and even pitched in with a suggestion that I will ask around at workplace if someone is looking for home-cooked food on a daily basis.

There was an aspiration in her to work, a desire to have a separate identity apart from being someone's wife and mother of two kids.
She used to work at a beauty parlour before marriage and had been a housewife for the last 7-8 years.
Almost a week after she shared her idea about starting tiffin service, I bumped into her again while I was on my way back to home from office.
With a sullen look, she informed me that her husband had trashed the idea.
It was an awkward moment because for the first time she had opened up about her marital life which was undergoing a turbulent phase.

I didn't know how to react initially and told her to negotiate with husband later when tempers have cooled down a bit. She nodded in agreement. I also told her to think again about tiffin services as it may not be profitable all the time given that vegetables might be costly and students/office goers may turn out to be choosy customers. She got the cue and said that she will think about it again.

Few weeks later, I got a call from her while I was in office. 'Are you back from work?' she asked, her tone sounding the usual way. It was a busy day due to unpredictable news cycle and I hung up very quickly after telling her that I will see her after wrapping up work. As soon as I entered her drawing room, it looked like anything but a normal household. A bunch of plastic flowers was strewn across the room, it seemed as if a hurricane just went past this place.

Her husband sat at one corner with a grumpy look, she huddled in another corner, anger writ large on her face. 'Aap meri kahin naukri lagwa dijiye (help me in getting a job)', she urged as soon as our eyes met for the first time in midst of the tension inside.

It took me a few minutes to understand that I had been called upon as an arbitrator to negotiate between two parties, a husband and wife in this case. With few statements urging both of them to resolve differences either on their own or with the help of a counselor, I decided to leave, feeling very uncomfortable being in midst of this unprecedented situation.

Remember the courtroom scene from the 1979 legal drama, 'Kramer vs Kramer', starring Meryl Streep? Separation by legal processes can be painful and heart-wrenching as every single piece of information one may know about his or her spouse is out there, it's mutual 'washing of dirty laundry in public' just to part ways on your own terms and conditions.

Thinking about my neighbour and her struggle with marriage as an institution, which she believed to be a sacrosanct one but had turned out to be otherwise, I really thought if she was still ready to step out of it.

I decided to keep mum instead of pushing her and we switched back to discussing about usual mundane stuff.

Some months later, as I was about to doze off at around 11 pm, I heard a thud sound very close to the wall of my bedroom. Her house was close by and apprehension of another violent fight between the couple forced me to step out yet again.

I was joined by two other female neighbours as well who had also heard the sound.

Once again as we stepped inside her drawing room, table laid upside down, a crack on the wall-mounted TV confirmed that it had also suffered damage. Her husband again sat in one corner with a grump look, she huddled in another corner, anger writ large on her face.

This time even the three of us failed in our peace-making efforts as my neighbour-cum-friend broke down into loud sobs, screaming how unjustly she had been treated by her husband. Unable to pacify her at her home, I persuaded her to come over to my place for sometime.

A cup of tea soothed her nerves as she began narrating horror tales of how her husband had once pulled her by her hair when she was late one day even as dozens of utensils remained uncleaned.

My sympathy for her, until this moment, had turned into a diabolical rage which wanted to punch her husband really hard. I, anyways, had stopped respecting the man sometime ago.

The two other female neighbours, who had also settled down at my place, in an effort to calm down the situation, also told her to muster the courage and release herself from the pangs of such an abusive and violent marriage. She nodded even as we explained her the steps to be taken for filing a divorce, jobs she could take up and extra help we can get from activists who are working with such victims.

A week passed. We were waiting for a reaction from her side so that we could spring into action at our end. NOTHING HAPPENED!

One evening as I had just returned from office, she called asking if I can lend my remote for TataSky set-top box to her for few hours. I am anyways not a fan of watching television after work so I readily agreed.

Days after the fight, her husband had bought a new TV and the remote which was damaged in the last brawl, was needed to check if the TV was functioning fine. 

As I stepped into her drawing room for the Nth time, it seemed like any other typical middle class drawing room, everything seemed to be in its place.

'He had broken the remote that day so...', she smiled as I gave her my remote. 'Sure, take your time, I anyways don't watch TV in evenings', I said and returned to my hole.

It was life as usual for her. It was marriage as 'normal' as it can be for her. To each his own I thought with a resolve never to interfere in her affairs again.

As I sat down at a nearby theatre watching Thappad starring Tapsee Pannu, I couldn't stop my thoughts which were hell-bent on drawing parallels between real and reel life.

Yes, a slap was all it took a female protagonist to call it off yet women still choose to suffer in silence without knowing that they are killing that side of theirs which wants to stand on itsown feet, start tiffin services and earn few thousands every month instead of being beaten and abused by your better half every day.

P.S. I still hear sounds next door occasionally, I ignore them. 

5 Months, 3 Men & Yet I'm Single!

The analogy between the 2009 blockbuster Bollywood movie '3 Idiots' and my life since October 2019 may not be an appropriate one. But then I thought of drawing few parallels between 3 crazy, passionate, rebellious engineering students in the movie and 3 weird men I encountered in the last five months.

I have found traditional matrimony in India to be one of the most stupid and illogical ways of getting two individuals hooked up. 

IDIOTIC, that's one word which aptly summarises all inane activities such as matching of kundlis, comparing pay packages, wanting a working girl but refusing to acknowledge efforts of a woman working as a journalist with erratic timings, not to forget Indians' typical fetish for fair & beautiful.

No matter how much aware, financially independent and assertive a woman is, I too, like many others had to bow down to usual pressure by family and those in our social circle. Mating is a personal choice and should be left to an individual to take a call BUT we THE INDIAN SOCIETY don't care...

Sometime around Diwali, in October 2019, I had sent a request to A on one of those matrimonial websites for which I had subscribed to a 3-month package of around Rs 1500. 

A accepted my request, which meant he was interested. Being a paid subscriber meant I could access the contact details of A and take it a step further. My father called on the no. provided and had a word with A one fine day as I sat next to Papa hearing the conversations that followed.

He seemed to be nice, polite and courteous. To every sentence uttered by my father he would reply with a 'Ji'. He was a follower of the digital portal where I worked. 'Wow, he seems to be the enlightened one', I thought to myself.

Kundlis matched, one round of discussion took place and we moved on to the next step that of 'ladka-ladki aapas me baat kar le'.

It was at this stage when he suggested that my father have had a word with his elder sister who was the point person in this case, his mother was too old and hard of hearing.

The Didi was not among those who could be pleased easily, my father anyway gave her my contact no. in order to pass it on to the prospective groom.

Elated at the idea of things progressing finally, I tracked down the guy on social media. To my relief, a quick scan of his FB timeline assured that he wasn't a Bhakt. Few articles from The Wire shared on his timeline along with his own comments on abrogation of Article 370 confirmed he wasn't a BJP fan either. Ah! I heaved a sigh of relief. 'We would be a good match', I told myself.

Just like Christine Barnanski's character Diane Lockhart asks her beau Kurt McVeigh in the Amazon Prime series, 'The Good Fight', -- 'Did you vote for Trump?'

Being a Modi fan and Modi hater was crucial for me in order to say 'I do'.

Alas, the conversation finally hit a roadblock with the Didi telling my father, 'Ab A profile samajh le (let A understand (your daughter's) job profile)'.

10 November 2019, a Sunday was when we were supposed to meet, it was his birthday as well. But I never heard from him. 

Nursed a broken heart for few weeks before bumping into the next 'idiot'.

December is that time of the year when my father has a fairly long holiday at workplace.

And so we decided to boost our efforts of finding a dulha.

At Rs 9000 a national daily agreed to carry matrimonial ad for four weeks on weekends.

Just like Gandalf says in 'The Lord of Rings' movie -- 'So it begins....'

Enter Mr B who hailed from Bihar. His father contacted mine after seeing the ad on newspapers.

Kundlis matched, he was earning less than me and seemed to be slightly obese, at least, in the photos.

I agreed to meet him. 'Equality begins at home', a friend suggested on the issue of disparity in pay package. 

B was really sweet and courteous in our initial few exchanges via SMS and WA messages.

And on a Sunday sometime in January 2020, B came all the way from Gurgaon to meet me!

He was fat, so much so that it affected his gait as well. A half-hour long conversation at the nearest CCD went off well. We talked about usual stuff, family, career trajectory, etc. 

It's difficult, next to impossible, to judge someone on the basis of one sole meeting. As I got up to leave, he asked 'What's your assessment of this?' 'Should perhaps meet again', I replied and smiled.

'You deserve better', a close family member thundered few days later. Something was indeed off about B's appearance a fact that I realised later. 

I went into flashback mode and rewinded our conversation. At 37, his brother would drop him and pick him up from office, he didn't know how to drive, his younger brother had even escorted him upto the first floor at CCD where I was waiting for him. 'Was B hiding something?', it was this question that made it difficult to say 'haan' to the rishta.

Mind has its own way of conjecturing to give you pleasure, hope and joy. Even as confusion prevailed internally, my heart, had willfully decided that I will wear the red silk saree next time when I meet B in Gurgaon. 

That, of course, ladies & gentlemen, wasn't meant to be.

A polite refusal to B's father closed that chapter forever.

Disillusionment with matrimonial websites led me to try dating apps. Office folks sweared by it and said that it did really work.

A month later, I 'matched' on Hinge with Mr Lawyer.

We started talking in January 2020, conversations were funny, interesting and most importantly there was a flow in our daily talks which seemed to strengthen my belief 'He's the one'.

Which makes me wonder -- does this blog already sounds like a sequel to the sitcom 'How I met your mother?'...an Indian version of 'How I met your father?'...

Guess what, I got stood out on the date when we were supposed to meet. Not sure why he got cold feet. Tried reaching out to him on WA as well only to realise the next day that I have been blocked!

I often wonder what explains the dichotomy between one being at his politest best and in another second being this ruthless individual who is impossible to reach out to.

And so 5-months-and-3-men later I'm still single, wondering at strange twist in fate. Is it really 'kismat ka khel'? 

Three months of sorrow and heart-break as the tarot card of a heart pierced with three swords will have you believe. Okay then, no problem, I told myself before getting along with life as usual. 

Stories & Their Impact

'You first tell me, how will it benefit us?', the woman with a thick Bengali accent, on the other end of our mobile conversation, demanded.
'Well, let's first put the information in public domain and that should be enough to put pressure on the government', I tried explaining in a bid to convince her to give me an interview.
The lady's younger brother was in the Army and had gone missing while on duty in Gujarat in 1997. Since there was editorial interest in the story, I was trying hard to get her on record about the efforts made by the family in trying to find their only son.

The STORY & Its IMPACT, that's the classic dilemma for any journalist who would want his or her piece of work to send ripples as far as possible but often that's not exactly what happens with people always wondering if it's worth the effort at all.
And why is IMPACT important?
Hmmm...let me try to elaborate on that front.
On 8 June 1972, Associated Press photographer, Nick UT, raised a storm after his photo of the 'Napalm Girl' unraveled the savagery, of the Vietnam War, before the world.
Imagine one photo left the world stunned ...that's the kind of impact a journalist's piece of work can have -- you can shake the governments as it happened in the case of Watergate, you can expose corruption as it happened in the case of famous sting (Operation Westend) done by Tehelka magazine in 2001, or it can be just an interview like that of Tanushree Dutta that initiated the MeToo movement in India.
Between stories that never see the light of day and those that make heads turn are innumerable tales that do affect the common man yet are not able to shake up the system.
In May 2019, while covering the General Elections, I had gone to a village called Ghatigaon near Gwalior in Madhya Pradesh. My point person on the ground wanted me to highlight the ordeal of several villagers whose houses were left incomplete under the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana.
As I sat down outside the kuccha house of one of the villagers, two women came inside the porch and sat down, their gaze intently fixed on me.
(can watch the full story here)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3woi4rCoh6I
Both these women, in their late 50s, were daily wage labourers and wanted to speak to a mediawalla about the corrupt Sarpanch who had siphoned off the money meant for building their 'home sweet home'.
'Inko umeed hai ki apki story se shayad inka kaam ban jaye (they are hopeful that the work will be done after your story)', the local contact had told me while we were on our way.
The story was published in the height of election season and as was expected the BJP led by Narendra Modi came back to power with a thumping majority.
For months, after I came back to Delhi, often while returning from office on a rickshaw, I would recall the sullen faces of those two women -- Ram Snehi and Rona -- those were their names.
It's not easy to live under a thatched roof in the blistering heat of May that too in rural parts where there is no fan, no cooler. 
It's been almost a year and I still don't know whether these people got complete pucca houses with plastered roofs and walls.

And that's the dilemma I often face as a reporter, somewhere at the bottom of pyramid who files stories hoping that lives would change for better. But nothing changes and it's still business as usual for those in positions of power and authority.

Sometime in June 2019, following a spate of attacks on doctors at government hospitals by patients' family members, I got a chance to work on a short documentary on the condition of government-run hospitals and dispensaries in Delhi.
(can watch the full story here)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilAGXLveYoU&t=44s

While we were working on the series, a colleague walked up to me and said how we need to do this on a repeated basis to drive home the point -- that hospitals are overcrowded and government needs to invest more in improving the infrastructure of public healthcare. Of course, he gave the example of Ravish and how his show on trains getting late actually pressured the government to ensure that trains start running on time. As much as we revere Ravish, the fact is that not every journalist has the luxury of deciding the primetime agenda, in our case, there is this much only that we could have done.

As a student of journalism at a broadcast media institute, I remember one senior TV journalist coming for a guest lecture who told us quite bluntly: 'Don't think you can change the world'. It was 2012 and at 26 years I was too optimistic to believe what he preached.

The problem is that somewhere down the line I have now started feeling guilty. Am I doing enough professionally? This question often bothers me as I firmly believe in the principles of public interest journalism. I do have this fancy notion that my job is no less than an IAS officer who has to jump into fray, tackle one of the most intricate and complex situations and make sense of the news as and when it unfolds.

Like just two weeks ago, while covering the plight of women labourers in East Delhi's Gandhinagar locality, who were out of jobs after MCD's sealing drive, those women did ask me the usual question, 'Isse hume kuch fayda hoga? (Will this benefit us?)' 

(can watch the full story here)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDQivOitxYY
With a poker face, I told them that at least their issues would be highlighted ahead of elections. Once working for 5-6 hrs a day and making a measly Rs200-300 per day, they knew how tough it's is to be a working woman, especially one who opts for field job. They not only fed me but even asked if I wanted to use the washroom.

In hindsight, instead of falling prey to usual coverage of toxic electoral politics replete with religious slurs and remarks about a particular community, at least there was a sincere effort to bring the real issues to the fore.

As long as truth, objectivity and conviction is there...perhaps the impact can take a backseat, many more such ripples may create a strong wave one day. Inshallah!

Intern With Schizophrenia

His name is P. I met him seven years ago, in 2013, probably somewhere between 2012 and 2013 if my memory serves me right.
I had just graduated from an intern to a researcher in my previous company, an English news channel. And therefore, would consider it as my moral responsibility (which I still abide by dutifully) to treat interns well and help them as they try hard to make a mark at a place where nobody cares for them and hardly anyone notices them.
I befriended P and soon our mutual interest in news would lead to discussion on current affairs and stories and conversations revolved around journalists we adored.
It was a month-long stint for P and then he left. We continued to stay in touch in the banal world of social media and LinkedIn.
A year later, in 2014, one day I got a call from the reception that Mr P is here to see you. I wasn't sure who it could be and was pleasantly surprised to meet P again.
He came with me inside the newsroom and after a brief exchange of social niceties, since the show I worked for was about to go on air, I began giving him hints that it was time to leave.
And he left, so I thought.
Next day, a senior colleague informed me that my friend P had been the source of a mini ruckus at office last evening.
Apparently P had come again and behaved absurdly before a female anchor and had to be escorted out with the help of security guards. As scandalised as I was, it was still befuddling for me as I tried connecting the dots...what led P to behave like this?
I didn't have his no. so couldn't get his version.
Days went by, few weeks later, I got a call from the reception again informing that Mr P is here to see you.
I was furious at P's audacity to come to my workplace yet again after all the earlier tamasha, not to forget the embarrassment I had to face because of his kiddish actions.
Often when one is faced with an unwarranted situation, a very generic human tendency is to shut out that person or those circumstances because you are not in a position to process them.
This is exactly what happened, on a 9-hr shift for a primetime show at India's leading news channel, I didn't have the mental bandwidth to process what P was going through.
At the front office, I first asked him to step out for a chat and then lashed out at him for his eccentric behaviour. 'Just go away and don't use my name', I screamed at him.
In a shaking voice, he, then said, 'I'm suffering from schizophrenia', and held out a newspaper clipping with an advert from his family, his photo and some appeal which I frankly couldn't register then and so can't recall now.
'Just go away now', I shouted at him again.
And P went away.
Three years later, sometime in Feb 2017, after switching to another firm, I was on my way home after attending a friend's engagement ceremony. Had stopped midway to catch up with another pal. While I was waiting for this friend outside a restaurant, I got a call.
An SHO from a police station in south Delhi wanted to record my statement. It was about P again. P had again tried to allegedly call and harass another anchor at my previous company and this time a formal complaint had been filed against him. 'Give me some time, will let you know when I can come at the thana', I told the guy and hung up.
I knew P's internal demons had got the better of him yet again. Few calls from the police and some months later I decided not to record any statement. My own personal and professional life demanded a lot of attention at that point of time and everything else eventually took a backseat.
I blocked P from everywhere -- social media and mental space.
December 2019. Capital was and still continues to be abuzz with protests against the controversial Citizenship Amendment Act.
I was outside Jamia few days after the violent crackdown by the Delhi police in which students were injured leading to a charged atmosphere against the State.
I had just reached the main gate of Jamia, taken few shots from the mobile and hand-held selfie stick.
Had to send visuals back to office via WhatsApp so had taken a step back from the crowd milling around gate no. 7 on both sides.
'Hi Akanksha', someone said from behind. I turned around, few grey hairs, some more weight but it didn't take long to recognise who it was -- P stood in front of me, smiling uncomfortably.
He didn't say sorry. 'Got acquitted in the case as judge finally realised that my actions were not in my control. I will be on medication throughout my life', he informed. 
I was busy as usual, it was a news heavy day when I had hit the field and after brief exchange of pleasantries, I bid P goodbye.
We didn't exchange numbers. He did promise to check out my stories. He remembered the last one I had filed as an intern. 'About kids who were mathematical wizards', I was astonished at his memory.
P is working these days, hoping to build life afresh.
I wanted to unblock him and reach out again....but this time I couldn't track him in the banal world of social media.

A Date With Mr Lawyer That Never Happened

It's 11:10 PM and I have been up since 4 am today because of Delhi elections coverage.
Yet, 19 hours later, I felt compelled to write this post before memories of this recent bitter experience vaporise away.
He's a lawyer, a corporate lawyer to be precise. Sometime in January, his profile popped up on the dating app I have been using. The guy seemed fine to me, you anyway don't think much in the beginning and process later, alas!
I only initiated the conversation. He responded. I missed his initial one or two messages but then there was something about his responses that I started checking out the app even in office hours!
'A lawyer and a journalist, if we can rope in a cop we would be an unstoppable force', his message said one day. I couldn't help but smile. I was already floored!
On the other side of 30, I often find it excruciatingly difficult to keep a tab on messages from an app. There are news updates and social media alerts that I have to track for professional reason.
But in midst of all the usual madness, I somehow, would anxiously wait for his next response.
He's fond of travelling, the photos confirmed his penchant for sight seeing and exploring new places.
At 6 ft 2 inches, he was your typical tall-dark-handsome protagonist straight from a novel... will have to start wearing heels I thought if I really start dating this guy.
A month into these chats we decided to meet. Day was fixed. I told him to let me know the time and place. And then?
I waited and waited througout from morning till late evening but he didn't respond. He got cold feet? Whaaat? Why?
I was pissed, really angry at him. In a fit of rage, resembling quite closely to teen years, I resolutely uninstalled the app, hoping never to see that stream of messages from him ever again.
Sheer curiosity led me to find him on social media and once I was sure about his surname, I stumbled on his blog posts written somewhere between 2010 and 2012.
Simply loved his reading, his minute observation about people and life in general did strike a chord.
I particularly relished his post on how men and women waiting for a local at Bombay railway station are suddenly transformed into this unruly mob, which even he's a part of at times.
Don't know what happened there. There were so many imaginary conversation I have had in my head which I planned to have with him in front of me. About my stories, my past, family, friends, losses, disappointment, fears, and insecurities.
How much I wished I could have told him how I feel butterflies in my stomach every time I went outside office to report, that I hated defamation laws in this country and his take on anti CAA protests especially through the prism of Muslims.
None of those conversations could ever happen between two individuals in flesh and blood.
Here's to a date that never happened!
Dear Mr Corporate Lawyer Wish you all the happiness and comforts of companionship.You will never be able to read this piece but will continue to feature in my sublime thoughts for sometime at least.
As Zuckerberg said in The Social Network, 'I need to distract myself.'
On second thoughts, such experiences of mine would make for a superb Indian version of 'Ally McBeal' ..what say?

Finding love in the time of dating apps

'I dream of rain, I dream of garden sands in my desert land, I dream of love as time runs through my hand', those were the lyrics of Desert Rose song by Sting. 
At 34, it seems (and probably dawned on me) how love is an elusive commodity. No matter how much brands like Archies try to eulogise and encash 14 Feb celebrated as Valentines' Day, it simply boils down to a transactional relationship between Adam and Eve. 

Disillusioned and disappointed with matrimonial websites led me to trying my luck on dating apps. Office folks assured it works! 
A month, probably that's how much time I spent diligently at least on one such app and it seems as if 'flesh trade'  of a certain kind is flourishing here. 
First things first, I have never seen so many men flaunting their scuba diving skills on one platform. So yes, compared to my humble upbringing and middle class ecosystem, there is a class out there who have the privilege of dating as they continue to showcase their wealth, affluence and look-how-cool attitude.
Even though it's a dating platform, classic Indian masochistic behaviour is on full display -- using initials like X,Y,Z instead of full name to disguise identity. Arre bhai, 'Pyar kiya toh darna kya', after all yahan pe identity anonymous rakhne ka kya funda hai???
And somehow if you still manage to bump into sensible guys, their behavioural pattern is unpredictable. On the other side of 30, BUT 'not looking for anything long-term', one of them told me unabashedly. Quite revolutionary and enlightening I thought to myself. Not everyone has grown up reading Eric Segal novels!

After un-installing and re-installing the app, here I am, hopelessly optimistic that some mystic power may work on app and its algorithm and I will find my Mr Right purely by coincidence!