An eye for an eye. Then let's go shopping for glasses together.

Every time someone has said women are their own worst enemy, I’ve shaken my head in vehement disagreement. Every time someone’s said (usually a woman) that men are “lessy bitchy, more honest and less complicated” I’ve found arguments to counter each of those adjectives. I’ve quoted mother-daughter relationships; I’ve flaunted the example of my aunt who raised two stunningly-behaved boys with the express intention of making comfortable the lives of the women these boys would eventually choose to be with. My biggest example has been the shining picture of all those brave, hurt naked women protesting against the army in Manipur after the rape-torture-murder of Thangjam Manorama. What exemplifies better the fact that we are all sisters than mostly middle-aged, probably not very educated, women shedding clothes and any vanity to create a voice for the wrong done to one of theirs?

But over the last year, that conviction has defeated me more than a couple of times. I find the reason women need men, will always be dependent on them – apart from the usual, natural ones -- and claim to have better friendships with them is because they are willing to first blame a woman in any situation, even if there is a man involved and in a logical, non-PMSing world you can see that he is as much at fault, if not more.

I am no saint: I’ve been guilty of it myself, squarely blaming a woman in the situation rather than seeing the contributions of other people involved, generally speaking. But that was before I got my wits around things, a few years ago. Ever since, especially if there’s a man involved, I’ve found that while I see how both have contributed to the situation, I do more or less successfully condone both their behaviours; or condemn, as the case may be. (That said, I am no one to condemn or condone but I am not sure what other word I can use without diluting the sense of what I am trying to say.)

Even when it comes to kids, I find other women will first question the mother’s integrity, involvement and love when they perceive a kid is uncared for or misbehaving. I remember a woman asking my then not-yet two-year-old, because her nails were a little overgrown, “You haven’t cut your nails? Mama doesn’t cut them for you?” Maybe I am being oversensitive but I took that as a subtle dig at me. Surely, my young daughter can’t have answered that question, so perhaps it was meant for me. And typically, this is from a mother who is insanely involved in the lives of her kids, with rarely an interest outside her own offspring. Most women with other interests wouldn’t worry about slightly overgrown nails too much, I believe. Blame the guy once in a while, ladies. Remember how difficult it is for you to do everything. It’s the same for the other girl.

Or for that matter, how liberally mothers and sisters will blame the woman their son/brother is married to for any behaviour that they don’t approve of. What makes them think their boy has suddenly lost the ability to think independently? He could equally be responsible for that really ugly – perhaps, cheap? -- sari that he gifts them or crappy things that he says. Why call the woman he is married to controlling? (If you ask me, I  have so much faith in women that I think men'd do loads better to be controlled some.)

Look at situations where women are the boss. Women subordinates will bitch and moan about every aspect of her being – her fashion sense (or the lack of it), her perceived inability to run a team, probably her husband and kids too, and not to mention what they see as favouritism to a male colleague. I don’t see these women complaining when a male boss favours them over men colleagues. Neither do I see them nitpicking at his mismatched shoes and belt or his dirty fingernails. Heaven forbid the otherwise well-dressed woman boss who walks in with cracked heels or chipped nail paint.

In a complex, messy situation, involving both the sexes, the thin veil of civility and politeness will necessarily be worn when two women confront each other in front of a man. (I am talking about reasonably intelligent women who sadly believe calm words are stronger than fists. You might come across as more sophisticated with the former but a fistfight is immensely satisfying. You should try it sometime, girls.) Take the man away and it’s likely to go two ways. Either they’ll be cold and ignore each others existence. Good way to go, I think, but leaves you with no closure and an avenue to constantly bitch about yet another chick. Or they’ll call each other words, enlist their own army and cry war. This is good also. Because you aren’t repressing any of the anger or hurt that you are feeling. And a bitching gang-bang always makes you feel superior, right? Except, this approach requires you to be prepared for defeat – either by the same coin or by silence. Either way, you have a war-ravaged entity to clean up afterwards.

My sympathies will always lie with the woman. Always. It’s a promise I made to myself in my effort to create the sisterhood that I see around me. A sisterhood that I see is in the same existential pain as me.  This incessant need to retain their bodies according to an ideal of beauty, the crazy race to be a better mother, a better sister, a better girlfriend, a better everything, not just a good something. Always better in comparison to someone else.

I may not like her, I may see through her and I may tell her exactly what she is but if she’s been wronged, then that’s where my sympathies will lie.

I have tried to understand what it is that makes us so ridiculously competitive in the minutiae of our lives. Is it because the majority of us don’t play sport seriously? Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but think about it. Playing sport or following it passionately builds an attitude of resilience, partnership and appreciating someone exactly like you. It gives you that famous spirit of being a good loser. And you’ll admit most women are sore losers for most their lives. Or until they reach their 40s and have accepted themselves. Sport I believe gives you a little more than your little world to focus on.

Is it because we are, since childhood, encouraged in subtle ways to compete against everything – including the boys? For affection, attention and approval? Is it because we are taught we are “little princesses” but then we grow up and find out the princesses are common as pimples? That we have crooked teeth, bad hair and not the greatest sense of humour when we are out fraternizing with other princesses?

At risk of sounding like a violent person, which I probably am, I’d much rather sock someone’s nose in, receive a black eye, be bereft of fistfuls of hair and leave scratch marks on someone else’s pretty face than war coldly.

I, a feminist, say this sadly, in the end. Ladies: 0, Gents: 10

More money than sense

Being a journalist is not easy on my pocket. Bad enough they pay my tribe badly, even though for most of relevant history, people couldn't dream of beginning their day without a newspaper. We should have just gone on strike long ago and said the IT guys are coming, so start paying us well or go find your own news. But because most of us have a social conscience and an ego the height of Burj Khalifa, we still continue to wear the badge of news hunters, gatherers and providers (even though increasingly, journalism is hardly that anymore) first and a tax payer later.

These days, I go out to many events that I shouldn't be going to because of the simple reason that I am vain and believe I should dress nicely when I go out to meet people and perhaps network with them. In my carefree,  worse-paid days in India, I used to not care a bit about being badly dressed. But 30 did something to me and if I step out, I gotta have nice things on me. I don't know why.

As I've left behind the inverted snobbery I used to indulge in where I'll deliberately dress bad and look down upon the well-heeled, I feel the need to own a few good pieces that will hold me in good stead these days when I go out on events.

And this post is not about those pieces.

This post is about a little advice I'd like to dish out for whoever is listening or cares. You see, most of these events I've been to astound me with their clutches of similarity.  Almost always I can look at a woman and say what bag she'll be carrying, what perfume she's doused in or whose watch she's wearing.

Older women will invariably wear Dior, more so if they're Indian. Omani women are a little difficult to figure out fragrancewise because a lot of them carry a hint of the frankincense that some of them use at home. But my guess is a preference of Givenchy, Boucheron and some Dior. The younger women, across race, I've discovered, are usually bathed in Davidoff's Cool Water Woman. I am SO tired of that scent, it's not funny. The Lebanese/Egyptian/Moroccan women tend to lean towards Gucci some, especially Envy. Or something just as aqua smelling.

The shoes, strangely, are something a lot of women this part of the world give little importance to. Sure, they've gotta be nice. But it doesn't have to be designer. Maybe it's because it all disappears under the abaya or if they're Indian, the sari, I can't tell for sure, but the shoes almost always are unbrandable.

Which brings me to watches. Omega, Omega, Omega. The grossly underrated Raymond Weil has some really nice pieces but Omega it is on most the wrists of most women I see at these dos. But if they aren't the corporate type big, flashy Guccis, very imaginative DKNYs and Tag Heuer are de rigueur.

Honestly. It may sound like generalising to you but you'd be very  hardpressed to find something that doesn't fit this profile. The rest that goes with this image are: A French manicure and pedicure, rebonded-straight hair (which for the life of me I cannot understand or appreciate because I love curly hair), a BB or iPhone.

And all of it is so boringly predictable it makes me want to yank my nails out from their beds without anaesthesia and get salt sprinkled on the bare wounds. Really, isn't there a strong case for originality already out there?

For example, I've never seen a woman wear a Hublot. I love those things. Even though some of it has gold in it. Agreed they're mostly made for men and agreed I'd have to spend 7 years working 48 hours a day and not spending a baiza of my salary to afford one of those. But hey, almost all things meant for men look really nice on us. And not all women are paid like journalists, correct? There are some women there who can afford them.

Speaking of affording, I keep wondering why people seem to have more money than sense. If I see one more really ugly Louis Vuitton bag, I am going to make it my life's mission to meet the head of LVMH (the handbag section) and dance naked in front of them to My amma say you love me, your Papa say you love me, Love me Love me, till they admit that every time someone buys one of their bags, they fall over laughing because their joke of selling seriously ugly bags at prices for which you can buy an African village is really working.

Seriously. Who they hell comes up with those terrible designs? And if the colours and structures weren't bad enough, they go and splash the entire thing with their logo. Why is it cool to flaunt LV in sequins and why is it not cool to show off Naidu Hall? If you really like designer handbags and insist that the only way you'll get value out if it is by spending what is one month's pay for me, then what's stopping you from going for a Marc by Marc Jacobs, or a Marni. They do it SO much better than LV and in such subtle style.

While we are on the subject, can the dissenters point out the good in LV, please? Just so that I am better informed when I  meet the handbag section guy.

Random thoughts of kindness

Every few days I make a note to myself in the morning (on my phone, so that the thought doesn't vanish) about what I need to/want to/must blog about today. And by the time I've chewed on it on my way to work (which is where my writing thrives) it's gone through so many processes that I don't feel it's worth writing about it anymore.
I wonder if it's just my laziness that finds excuses by the time I do the 21-km ride.
Which brings me to a realisation - I am the only person I know (and a lot of others know) who moved from Bombay and travels more to get to work in Bangalore than she did in Bombay. 8 against 22. Tell me again why I did it.
It's been a rough few days really. So my 'Notes' section of the phone asks all kinds of angsty questions - where do young kids (who are caught in situations they shouldn't be in in the first place) find cloths to cover their faces when there is a police raid (and I am asking because none of them had a dupatta as part of their clothing)? How long do I have to wait till I have babies? When will I have enough spine to stand up to myself and say that I don't have to be near perfect all the time? Why is Amitabh Bachchan giving interviews all over the place and why are all the newspapers calling it no holds barred?
Now really, that last one is bugging me. Ever since the colourful, whirlwindy, it's-all-in-the-details Bombay, I've sort of become less enamoured with what people say. And even less believing of what they do. Of course, then there is the question of why I need to know AB is the good sort or not. I don't have an answer.
And this whole Rajni-AB comparison. I mean, for god's sake, they're just actors. Yaawwn!!
Speaking of yawning, sleep's a rare commodity these days. When my house is not sounding like some horror movie, I am busy getting myself plastered through the night and alarming my best friend of 18 years as to how much I can talk. Or smoke.
Getting home at 5 a.m. completely pasted after so long was fun.
Meanwhile, where to get super, over-the-top sexy shoes in hot pink and peacock blue feathers?