Ruby Woo and the associated insubordination

(It isn't wrong to say crises can make you or break you. Whatever I am, as of this August, reflects the slew of emotional changes I've been through over the past few months. The direct manifestation of this rather obnoxious disturbance was my inability to express. I have been extremely distant from my usual articulate self.

Today, though, something stirred within me and the corpse of writing was bought back to life.)

A smidgen of a deep purple lipstick, black eye liner, shimmery eye shadow and a bindi that overshadows thinly plucked brows. This is what the appearance of an average lower income group Indian woman has come to. Income classifications aside, Indian women have begun wearing makeup and I for one, could not be happier.

I have originally been the sort of person who associates makeup or any upkeep in appearance with anti-feminist notions. In sharp contrast, more recently, I have moved on to regarding even a dash of kajal as a secret handshake between women, saying, “Hey, this is the uprising we are a part of.” Having witnessed scores of women asked by their fathers/brothers/husbands to not wear ‘loud makeup’, a bold lip is my favorite symbol of defiance on another woman.
I do not care if you can contour like a supermodel or not, but seeing a maid wearing a nice pink lip gloss, makes me feel like she is overlooking the drudgery of living with a unemployed, drunken husband and accepting her responsibilities as the sole bread winner, proudly.

 Also, this is in no way discriminating against women who do not wear makeup because ultimately appearance is a matter of personal choice, but nothing satisfies me more, than seeing ten different women with the most intense and intricate winged eyeliner in a crowded Churchgate bound train at 8 am.
Multiple Indian middle-class women finally reaching their global counterparts in makeup application might seem like a vain idea but it signifies the snail-paced but growing voice of the Indian woman who is unafraid and unapologetic about her red lip terrifying you. And yes, she will wear it as often as she wants to, lest you sexualize her or her sisters.

Delirium.

It has been 18 days since I left Bombay and as eager as I have always been to jump wagons between Bombay and Delhi, I suddenly miss that annoying city. I have never really identified Bombay as home nor do I think I ever will but as is the case with blood relations, despite hating them, you grow up and realise that they actually were tolerable after all. In fact, you might even feel that you liked them at some point. This is exactly what is happening with me, vis-à-vis Bombay.

I don’t miss it, but something strange happened today while my uncle was driving me from his home to my workplace.
I was reading a book and my head had stooped over, almost making me look like a crane dipping its head into water for food, my water being the book. As the car moved onto the main road by crossing this huge intersection beneath a flyover and my head continued to stay bent over, I had this strange sensation that I was actually in Bombay, at this certain part of the highway, that I traverse by almost everyday. I didn’t raise my head for the fear of loosing this sensation. It was like balancing a soap bubble on your fingertip, you know if you move, it will pop.
As the car moved straight along the way, I began smiling to myself, not looking up from my book because how real it felt was proportional to how unreal it actually was.  I kept my head down and continued reeling in this happy sense of delirium in this sensory feast, where my brain despite knowing my real location, was letting me enjoy a moment of some strange satisfaction.  And then we hit a speed bump and my reflexes made me look up and everything vanished.

Was this a hallucination? I don’t know.

What I do know, is that it was beautiful, getting to live in one city, mentally when you are physically in another.