A polish, quadrilateral

I was not a "make-up" person as a child. Or as an adolescent. Or as a young adult. I am not sure whether I found it terribly boring, or I considered myself too cool (the cool word for nerdy) to devote time to make-up. Also, it did not help that my parents were strongly against the very idea of make-up, and I never did want to disappoint them on any plane (my grades stand testimony to that). However, over the years, my views on make-up have changed. I have learnt to respect people who love themselves enough to spend time on and with themselves. And, looking good always makes one feel oodles better. Now, the years are all lost, and I have nothing to blame but my own laziness for not having loved myself enough. Though realization has hit me late rather than never, it hasn't really changed anything on the make-up side. I still don't own any make-upy products, though it ain't for lack of trying. 

Oh yes, I have attempted to walk into fancy shops in high end malls selling the latest in make-up, but always paused at the entrance, my feet growing colder by the millisecond. What will I ask for? Wouldn't I look dumb if I didn't know a foundation cream from a foundation lotion? Wouldn't I seem stupid if I didn't know what tone of face powder suited my skin? Would that good looking beautician over there look down upon me if I told her I don't know how to apply mascara? And, so, I would drop the idea, and quickly walk out of the mall, congratulating myself on saving money than spending it on make-up I don't understand.

While make-up has been, is, and will continue to be an elusive dream, I do have one vice (or virtue) that makes up for the lack of make-up. I love nail polish, always have. And, mind you, no disapproving glances from the parents have turned me off the allure of the polish. The only problem is, I don't get the damn thing. I mean, not get as in find or buy. I just don't have a very healthy relationship with it. The polish doesn't turn into an elegant show of beauty on my hands and feet. Ne'er has, and looks like ne'er will. 

Countless are the times when I, as a 12 year old put it on, smudged the whole thing on all my nails because I wanted to walk immediately to the bathroom and wash my hands and feet, and then removed it impatiently with the nail polish remover. Typically, by the third such cycle, I would be done for the day, only to resume a few weeks later. Strangely, it has never bothered me that after all that investment of time and polish, my nails would be colorless. 

Now, as a grown up, it is no better, though I have learnt the art of approximately fitting some color into the almost-quadrilateral surfaces my nails are, blowing hard and strong at each nail for a good 2 minutes after the application, and then resume my walk to the bathroom. Also, I have learnt why I apply nail polish, without bothering about the inelegance of the outcome. I like the idea of coloring my nails, and the time I am doing it keeps me happy. It doesn't seem to matter that the end result wouldn't be beautiful in the socially acceptable sense. 

How liberating to know that I have always loved myself in my own little way, applying quadrilateral polishes to my hands and feet, if not skin-tone foundation and sky-blue mascara to my face!

An evening by the sea

Which is your favourite sun? The early morning one easing you out of dreams, the mid afternoon one sending you off to sleep, or the rainbow maker, sprinkling its surprise rays amidst a soothing drizzle?

My favourite sun is the 7 pm one, an orangish round ball playing peekaboo behind that screen of clouds, swaying in harmony to the beats of the waves, an approving smile on his face at my date with twilight, with a mild and calm wink reminding me that night is 'round the corner. 

As he slowly sinks into the horizon, retiring for the night, the sea blanket tucking him to bed, she rises, the queen of the night, casting a warm yet cool glow on her subjects - those lovers holding hands whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, those boisterous children running around with rubber balls and plastic bats, a walker here, a gymnast there - and on it goes, another moonlit evening by the sea. 

Body shamers

I have always been what one would, if they wanted to be polite, call "healthy" - a chubby child, an awkwardly big adolescent and now, a rotund adult. Neither I nor the people around me have forgotten that, and when I am not taking digs at my own size, my family and friends would run jokes on my behalf. In fact, my cousin's childhood nickname for me was "Moti", and he most definitely was not referring to pearl. I have never considered digs about my weight or size "body shaming", till almost a decade back at B-school.

At the end of a morning class session in the first term, a classmate came up to me and told me, very gleefully, how a bunch of guys in the last bench were just discussing about how large my arms were and the apparent sex appeal in them. My friend, who was sitting next to me, shooed him off saying he was talking 'bakwaas' and he should shut up. But, I was mum, a tad too numb, because I was too shocked that someone said that to me, about a specific body part. I didn't turn up in class the rest of the day as I spent the day wondering about what body parts of me people would be looking at or thinking of instead of talking to me, if and when I turned up. Of course, I went to class the next day, because I couldn't miss the course for the sake of a few bozos. However, my only regret for so many years now has been that I did not give it back to that guy, and had it buried inside me for so long. 

That situation has now been taken care of. The person contacted me for something, and while I was still mum during the initial conversation, something in me snapped when he said, "Looks like you are loving fitness routines. Your photos seem to suggest you have lost weight." I just told him that I am still the same person, only that no one body shames me any more unlike a bunch of bullies back in B-school. It felt good, though it was many thousand hours late.

Body shaming, as the urban dictionary informs me, is about shaming a person for their body. And, it isn't always about a fat person. It is about that girl who has a stick thin body and is insecure about it, because someone once told her that her clothes hang on her like on a pole. It is about the dark skinned boy who is compared to the night of the new moon or a 'karuvadu' (sun-dried fish in Tamil) day in and day out. It is about that short boy being told he will not find a girl his size and a tall girl being informed she is too much of an ostrich for marriage. For years, marketing companies have used our insecurities and these body shamers' words to coerce us into buying and using things we may perhaps be better off without than with. 

No, I am not going to spend time giving links to those advertisements and the outrage in media over them. Many a good samaritan has already taken care of that. I am just going to remind you, the body shamed (no one has the picture perfect body after all), to give it back when someone tries to shame you. You may yell, you may talk nicely, you may smile, you may not smile. Just drive the point across. The more you call out the shamers on their shaming, the lesser they will shame everyone, and the better this world will be, for us and our future generations too.