When Happy Prince visits a violence ravaged land

Even in his wildest dreams, Oscar Wilde would have never imagined that Happy Prince and his close confidant little Swallow (two of Wilde’s most adorable characters) from his famous short story “The Happy Prince” would one day land up in Manipur, a trouble torn geo-political structure in India.

But, they did, the two do-gooders, when they came for a pilgrimage on Earth, they decided to visit a place which has been ignored the most, even when it suffers the most.

As they entered Imphal, the state capital of Manipur, all they saw was Indian armed forces lining on the road, as long as it gets. The long queue of jawans in fatigues and bandanaas, created a hallucination like feeling for the visitors. They are spread everywhere. As if trees of a particular height are being planted all over the place, holding their rifles with great pride.

But what Happy Prince and little Swallow missed the most is the hurly-burly of civilian population, which generally provides the first impression of a place.

“Where are the people?” whispered little Swallow.

Cabbie Suresh, a local Manipuri youth, who was ferrying the visitors from Imphal airport to a hotel, smiled at the question raised right in front of him.

“This is Manipur. A bandh is on, and a blockade at national highways. How could you expect people on road? Everything is closed here. Since you are special, our state guests, so we are moving on the road without any restrictions,” Sunil answered.

Swallow got more curious.

“Is the situation that bad? I know, Manipur is a violence affected area, killings and counter-killings among militant groups and army is a general trend, but never thought life would be missing in Imphal. It is a sad sight,” softly muttered little Swallow.

The desolate roads and closed shutters of shops dotted across Imphal created an eerie feeling. Happy Prince moaned within, and closed his eyes, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Sunil tried to console his bereaving guests.

“Please, don’t cry! I know it is difficult for a sensitive person like you to experience such a situation. But truth is always harsh, and we Manipuris (as people of Manipur are commonly addressed as) are living a painful existence. Life is difficult here, and we have accepted it,” Suresh elaborated.

In order to calm down the situation, and make his guests comfortable, Suresh turned on the local Manipuri FM radio channel. A sweet female voice crooned love notes, expressing her desire to be in the arms of her man, whom she did not meet for few years.

“This is a beautiful voice. What is she singing about?” asked Swallow.

“This is a love song, a woman longing to get re-united with her lover. Now, you must be thinking, love in Manipur? Is it practical? But, then love has always defied all norms, so does Manipuri people. In spite of everything, we Manipuris have not forgotten to fall in love, and experience the most beautiful thing in nature,” Suresh smiled.

Suresh further cheered his visiting friends.

“Get yourself ready for the evening, I will take you to a party,” Suresh announced.

“What? Party?” Swallow questioned.

“Yes, I will take you to Manipur Sangai Festival, a yearly ritual underway at Hafta Kangjeibung, Palace compound. The 10-day-long festival showcases everything beautiful about Manipur. Be it art, culture, indigenous sports, eco and adventure sports, to scenic natural beauty of our land, everything is at display in the carnival,” said Suresh, as he took his permission to leave, promising to treat them in the evening.

Evening came as another surprise for Happy Prince and Swallow. As always, Happy Prince was quiet, expressing himself only when he felt the most. Swallow took the lead in inter-mingling with everyone he met, opining on issues and concerns of the state, making large numbers of friends on his way.

On a complete contrary note, as whatever Happy Prince and Swallow had witnessed at their arrival in Imphal, festival in the evening was choc-o-bloc with people.

“Entire Manipur has descended here. They don’t get such as an opportunity every day, so making most of it,” explained Suresh, as he guided the duo through the festival venue.

Seeing people, from all age groups—beautiful women in their traditional fineries, men holding their little ones in laps, to youngsters in latest fashionable clothes, everything looked normal now. A smile spread across the face of Happy Prince. He smiled for the first time, after he reached Imphal.

“This is beautiful, life at its spirited best. I love this. God bless Manipur,” Happy Prince muttered his prayer.

But, Swallow was concerned.

“What if there is a bomb planted here? With such huge turnout, the place could be a prospective target for anti-social elements,” said Swallow.

“Yes, yes, why not? But risk is our constant companion. We play hide-seek with risk. Sometimes we win, sometimes risk,” agreed Suresh.

In fact, on last day of the festival (November 30), a bomb went off just near the entrance of festival venue. Thankfully, it was during morning hours, and public presence was very negligible, helping in restricting death toll.

However, a rickshaw-puller who was hired by a little-known militant group to carry the bomb inside the festival venue was killed in the incident.

Next morning, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to take a stroll on the roads of Imphal, to understand the valley better.

Again similar situation greeted them. Deserted streets, closed shops, and few vehicles plying on roads, were enough to give the impression of situation at ground. Human presence was almost negligible, all that was there was army marching on the road.

“Is this a war zone?” Swallow wondered.

“I guess, worse than that. No war, but still fear of a war is lingering on. Fear is a silent killer. It can make anyone go insane,” Happy Prince regretted.

On their way near Kangla Fort-- the seat of erstwhile Manipuri King and former home to the Assam Rifles—they met a child, carrying a bottle of milk in his hand.

Happy Prince and Swallow greeted the kid.

“How are you, little one?” asked Swallow.

“I am fine. Thank you.”

“What are you doing here,” asked Happy Prince.

“I have been to my Uncle’s place to get some milk for my little brother. Milk is very expensive. Everything is very expensive here. My mother cannot afford to buy milk for us. My brother is sick, I want him to drink some milk,” said the boy, holding the bottle close to his chest.

They learnt during their stay in Imphal that due to regular blockades everything in Manipur is beyond the reach of commoners. When in rest of India, a gas cylinder costs around Rs. 450, in Manipur during 120 days of blockade the price went up to Rs 2000. The difference between the “mainstream” India and tiny state in the Indo-Myanmar border is huge.

Forget about its precarious geographical location, or the distance that separates it from rest of India, problems of Manipur is a reflection of neglect being meted to the state and its people since ages.

“What happened sweetheart? Your father?” questioned Happy Prince.

“My father is dead. He was mistaken as a militant, and was shot dead by the army. My mother has no job. She stitches clothes for people, whenever she gets an order. Money is always a problem for us,” boy said, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Happy Prince started searching himself all over, if any thin leaves of fine gold are still left in his body. But, unfortunately, all his body was dull and grey, bereft of all previous possessions.

He had nothing to give to the boy. So, saddened was Happy Prince, he almost cursed himself.

All he could afford to do was took the boy in his lap and kissed him on his cheeks. The boy bade goodbye, and marched his way towards his home.

As they continued their walk, they came across famous Ima Keithel or Women’s Market, where few brave women entrepreneurs were doing brisk business.

The beauty of the Ima Keithel is that thousands of mothers “Imas” run the place.

At one corner of the huge market, an old mother with her handloom products was eagerly looking for buyers, to purchase her products.

“Good to see you. How are you?” greeted Swallow.

“I am fine. But, you’ve come at a wrong time. The Market is almost empty, except for few of us, opening our shops. Had you been here on any of these normal days, which actually is a rarity these days, you could have witnessed a sight of great amusement. Women here trade and bargain their way out with customers, selling vegetables to handloom and handicraft products,” smiled the mother.

Swallow asked the mother about her views regarding complete lawlessness and almost missing administration in the state.

“What to tell you son? We’re a cursed lot. Our problems are never ending. The 120-day long blockade might have been removed now, but then another blockade will be imposed. Bandhs as you have seen is a daily affair. So, we at times also ignore it, and brave our way to open our shops,” she introspected.

Happy Prince and Swallow then decided to meet someone special, whom they admire a lot. The Iron lady of Manipur, Irom Sharmila Chanu, about whom the angels of heaven also talk in great reverence, is nothing sort of an idol for both of them. The civil rights activist from Manipur who has been on an indefinite fast since November 2000 is demanding repeal of the draconian Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 (AFSPA).

As a resident of Imphal, Irom has seen the dance of violence in her state from close quarters. But that day on November 2, 2000 when ten innocent people were mowed down by security forces in Malom, a village near Imphal, Irom could not bear it further.

She told her mother that she had to embark on her non-violent protest, to get Manipur rid from the curse of AFSPA.

Within three days of her fast, Irom was arrested by the police and charged with an "attempt to commit suicide". Since then, Irom Sharmila has been regularly released and re-arrested every year.

She has been lodged at the security ward of Jawaharlal Nehru Hospital in Imphal, where she is being forced-fed through her nose. The security around Irom was too tight, and all their effort to have a glimpse of their idol proved futile. As Happy Prince and Swallow decided to leave the premises of the Hospital, a young man came running towards them and handed them a letter, saying it was sent by Irom.

When the letter was opened, a poem was found tucked between the crumbled piece of paper.

We have lost our paradise/tell the gods of your heaven/to come visit us someday/every day we are dying/ Music has fallen silent on Lai-Haraoba too/ Shiroy Lily does not flower anymore in Shiroy Kashang Mountain/My land is left with only orphans and widows/No body walks on the road anymore/Dogs are scared to even bark/do tell your gods not to create another Manipur on Earth/for human life comes cheap here/falling prey to guns of army every day.

However, nobody signed the poem, so they were not sure whether it was written by Irom (who is also a prolific poet) or someone else. But, truth was spoken in those few lines, and was enough to make Happy Prince cry again.

On the second day of their Manipur trip, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to visit Churachandpur, around 65 kilometer from Imphal. On their way, as they passed through the hilly terrain of Manipur, they came across beautiful hills and dales, with wild flowers waving their path in a sunny November morning.

Once in Churachandpur, the streets got crowded and congested. Small time vendors sitting in various corners of the street with their fares, is a common sight in the town. Right from hot chillies, to dry fish, to trendy clothes smuggled from border of Myanmar, in Churachanpur, shopping is something to indulge into.

But inside the dark alleys of crowded Churachandpur, Happy Prince and Swallow did not expected something as shocking as they got to witness first hand. Boys and girls, as young as 15 years old, were found injecting drugs, smoking cigarettes and becoming part of prostitution and drug peddling, to keep their supply of drug flowing.

Proximity to Myanmar border ensures easy and quick flow of drugs into Manipur. Users are multiplying with time, but who cares, in a place where guns and drugs are the only solace to provide some relief to the complexities of Manipur.

Simon, a former drug user came face to face with Happy Prince and Swallow. Simon realised the two are new to the place and somewhat lost. He joined the two, and walked along with them.

“So, what do you want to see? You won’t get anything here. But, yes free flow of drugs and booze. I was part of the web, but thankfully, has left my previous life,” said the lanky chap, as he handed over his half smoked cigarette to Happy Prince, thinking it would provide some relief to the visitor, after they witnessed dark secrets of Manipur.

Taking his first puff, Happy Prince looked at Simon, and smiled back.
“Would you go back to drugs again?”

“No. Here reality is much more intoxicating then drugs could ever provide you. I am part of this unpalatable secret, and I am not going to run away anywhere,” Simon replied.

Then and there itself, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to tour across northeast India, and its neighbouring countries, to understand the alienated geographical crevices dotting the world map. Perhaps the journey has already started, and we don’t know where they are now.

(Those who have not read the beautiful story The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde, here is the link http://fiction.eserver.org/short/happy_prince.html. The poem in the text is not written by Irom, I wrote it, as part of the blog. I don’t even know whether it could be considered as a poem or not. But, never mind. And, I am not sure whether Happy Prince and Swallow ever visited Manipur. But yes, all the incidents and episodes, in regard to Manipur mentioned in the blog are true.)

Springing up a surprise protest

The street was long, unwinding, pitch dark, blinding its way ahead. But in unison they were seen marching their way forward, as if light within was too illuminating to demand electricity from the perennially power starved Bangalore Electricity Supply Company (BESCOM) Limited.

No, they did not stumble upon potholes, spotted everywhere in Bangalore. No, breaking of bones by police baton was also reported. It was a free flow of human chain. One after another-- men, women, and children--followed each other, to a greater glory. To everyone’s surprise, that day the SUVs and BMWs patiently waited for the never ending caravan to proceed ahead of them.

Ubiquitous pedestrians took the form of a collective giant. The Frankenstein crowd surged every nook and cranny of the city. It was looking monstrous, but, the monster did not whip fear factor, rather provoked unexplainable sensuality, asking everyone to take part in the feast of human bravery and dignity, when oppression became unbearable.

That day, all hell broke loose for arm chair intellectuals and analysts. They failed to comprehend the sudden adrenalin rush amongst the otherwise calm citizens of Bangalore. Even at ground zero, observers were astonished and amazed by turn of event.

The reporter from the local Kannada news channel could not believe her eyes. At 12am in the midnight, the human chain, spread almost across Bangalore, matching each other's footsteps in a choreographed fashion. Few were found holding each other hands, others too ecstatic to bother for any human touch. Some hummed in incoherent tunes, clapping their hands against all forces, chanting a new anthem. The protest anthem was two liners “free 99% from clutches of 1%; free the humanity from all practiced oppressions…”

When repeated again and again, it formed a song. The freedom song, Bangalore was unconsciously waiting for long. This is how the protest movement in Bangalore started.

Like all other protest/rebel/reclaiming…movement springing from Arab to America, Bangalore also found its road to freedom.

Again nobody knew who and how it was started. Many tried their guessing prowess to come to a logical conclusion. In India’s tech hub the movement germinated from a social networking site? But, no concrete evidence certified the movement to any individual, or group. As if all wanted it to happen, they all wanted to scream out aloud, for suffering heaped on them since ages.

The high decibel protest chord, created cracks in the walls of Vidhana Soudha. The legislators were found running hither and thither, nearing to comical conclusion, when many accidentally tripped on their own lungis/dhotis, leaving themselves naked in the process.

In search of safety havens, the much protected VVIPs ended up in cells. Gowdas, and Yeddyurappas were seen locking themselves up in jails meant for hardcore criminals in their hurried bid to save themselves from public wrath. Who knows, the angry mob might had indulged in orgy of violence, turning the roads blood red?


The glassy corporate towers too succumbed to the pressure, it quickly fell into crumbles. The rebels walked over the high secured zones of power, once denied to commoners. All of a sudden powerful were stripped off their power. Defying prescribed norms, without the robe of power covering them, they too looked akin like malnourished children dying everyday in far off corners of Karnataka. After all, donning shinny polyester tuxedos does not make anyone immortal. Death will come to all of us one day. Be a king or pauper, as mound of earth bury the body within, insects crawl over pounds of flesh to bite off the vanity, life looks in a listless motion. It mocks at us, mocks the false pride with which one group inflict tyranny on another. Calling of life takes a simpler note, come join me, death is life ahead.

The protesters on Bangalore roads were said to have conquered the fear of death. Thus they had all left their homes and families which took them ages to nurture. But, when death evokes no fear, god too has to come out of the temples to join genuine demands.

That night god of protest smiled on Bangalore too. Long live the movement!

(Disclaimer: This is how I would like to see Bangalore protest taking off. Don’t worry my dear brothers and sisters! The entire episode is just a figment of imagination. You all are safe in your cocoon to continue with your daily lives. But, you never know, someone somewhere in your own city might be planning for the coup, and maybe, you too will decide to break all rules guarding your ordered life, to be part of the protest.)

Being Homeless

Ever wondered how does it feel to be homeless? No, no…not in that existential sense of the term, where NRIs (Non-Resident Indians) lament being miles and miles away from their matra bhumi. The coinage actually should be fatherland. I am saying this with malice, lot of malice, as feminism is just an “ism” left in the hands of a few intellectuals to be practiced, according to their convenience. After all, masculinity is the order of the day. But, then again I love men.

When I take up the subject of homeless, I am talking about it in the real sense of the term. Being homeless, without a roof over your head in a big city like Bangalore, that too when you are a relatively new entrant, without any family or friend to bail you out of the crisis. And, yes, here you are a typical middle-class Indian woman, who generally thinks haazar times before checking into a hotel room alone, and, of course, with little money in hand. Then, it is no good.

Moreover, you cannot join the squatters on the narrow alleys of Brigade Road at night. You can find quite a sizable number of them, especially after 11pm, when the traffic wraps up its day in a narrowing tizzy. They are in all age groups, children, breastfeeding mothers, middle-aged lepers and in what not deformities, shaking your mental inertia sarcastically. The best thing is that in spite of their countless inabilities, they are open-hearted, generous and courteous, even welcoming a complete stranger into their fold. Guests matter a lot to them too.

But then, fear, that chilling maddening fear, what if they eat my fleshy body in moments of desperate hunger? After all, they are all hungry and naked souls.

The breastfeeding mother sitting in the corner of a pavement told me to be careful at night on Brigade Road. She confessed that her infant, too ,has stopped trusting her. In spite of his repeated attempts to find warm milk in her young breasts, all he tastes is disappointment, evident as he looks helplessly at his mother. Mild dose of blood can be always seen oozing out of her breasts, as the baby accidentally bites her flesh in the hope of food, but unfortunately his hunger gets aggravated.

The boy smirks at the taste of blood. He demands for milk, which his mother cannot afford. Throughout the day, she keeps her blouse unbuttoned in the hope that her infant finds some food in her. Thus her deep brown pair of breasts is always at the mercy of public viewing, scrutiny and at times squeezing too. A mother’s small, firm breasts hardly understand the meaning of any purdah system, Indian women since ages have followed without ever questioning it.

The chilling December wind slowly coagulates the blood, circling around her nipples due to non-stop suckling. It looks as if the nipples are wearing red rings chiseled out of blood around it. The little one looked nervous. He stared at me with his big rotund eyes, shining bright within the structure of his dust- washed face. He looked older than his self, much older. He who refuses to get down from the lap of his mother knows that poverty denies you the milk of your life too. A primitive right of having mother’s milk, as old as human existence goes.

Even after encountering such horror, I still could not muster up the courage to go back home, just 10 kms apart, which I left only in the morning, never to go back. Leaving your home can never be easy. It was not easy for me as well. But, when you pack your suitcase, and the rest of the inmates at your home make your existence look meaningless, you march ahead, to fill some sense into your senses, and find out what deeper meaning life holds for you.

So, you decide to sit on the pavement, next to a huge mall, mulling what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would scream about. Dazzling with stars, the vast sky suddenly transforms into the figure of a roof over your head. Under the huge, unending roof, you feel a sense of pride for owning so much in a world, where you have been denied almost everything. Perhaps, this is the same sense of pride beggars and the homeless of Brigade Road flashes at you. They are the owner of the night sky. Tonight I share some space with them. I am honoured.

Morning takes it own time to wake up, before it becomes all bright and sunny. Suddenly, all that you saw and encountered the night before disappears. You find yourself cuddled in the bed with your loved one in your home. Doorbell rings the arrival of the newspaper. It carries the same old front page stories --- business merger of an IT giant with a well-known European behemoth, a Kannada starlet gets engaged, and prices of vegetables soaring.

The briefcase reads, bodies of a woman in her early 20s and an infant were found in the middle of Brigade Road by the police on late Monday night. The body of the baby boy was found next to the woman suspected to be his mother. Injury marks were found on the woman’s body and the baby’s mouth was smeared with blood. Both the bodies were taken to Bowring Hospital for further medical investigation. Police are awaiting the postmortem report to find the truth behind the deaths.

Lalbagh witnesses country’s first ‘lusty’ debate

I must say, this juicy piece of news was missed by dozens of newspapers and TV channels -- as they buried themselves busy and screamed their lungs out over war against corruption, (I didn’t know graft is a new malady. I wonder where was everyone when Bofors, hawala, fodder and a number of unearthed scams were sucking the economy dry), tainted organisations and individuals besides the new-found love for the IPL matches, especially after the miraculous Cricket World Cup victory.

It was a debate session, sometime back, under the amorous night sky of April at the glamorous Lalbagh Botanical Garden in the heart of Bangalore.

The two feisty contenders (debaters) were none other than Mr Love and Mr Lust. And, of course, I don’t have to mention the topic of discussion. Yes, you have guessed right, its —“What is more moral in the 21st century -- love or lust”?

The guests in attendance were a bunch of intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals (like me), who took upon the lawn at Lalbagh to provide an apt and patient listening to the debaters for the evening.

And Mr Love, with his usual good looks, clean-shaven face, wearing a designer suit, first took upon to an imagined stage, standing almost 6 feet tall.

Mr Love started the debate with a conventional slogan: “Love makes the world go round”.

Mr Lust, with his belly protruding from his ill-fitting T-shirt, did not let Mr Love continue even for a second and interrupted.

“Lust produces babies, babies grow up into men (women), and they further produce more babies. This is how mankind is surviving and ruling the planet, with its sheer numbers. Lust is in nature and you, my dear friend, cannot ignore nature,” said Mr Lust, flashing his crooked smile.

Recovering from this jolt, Mr Love, regained his composure and said, “Lust leads to corruption and further corruption.”

“And, corruption is the order of the day. Even your Mr PM is no more a clean man (notwithstanding the fact that he agreed to form a panel to draft some jan lokpal bill). His hands, too, are tainted with the muck of Indian dynastic politics. Then, why blame lust only?” Lust exhorted.

The gentleman inside Mr Love could not bear it anymore.

“Babies who are produced without love in its ultimate conclusion, that is marriage, are called “illegitimate” or “bastards,” said Mr Love, with his nostrils flaring.

“Why do you want to go into the legality of the matter? That way we all will have to undergo DNA test, including the stray dogs in your neighbourhood. Anyway, they are already under the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike (BBMP) scanner,” smiled Mr Lust.

“So, so …what are you trying to say?” fumbles Mr Love.

“Nothing is immoral? All is fair? Because of people like you, there is so much of paternity tests and subsequent confusion in the world. Why don’t you accept you are bad, dark and immoral?” asked Mr Love.

Hahaha! Mr Lust laughed out loud. I love your pretensions, your dubious proclamations, your I know-all attitude, everything sucks…. cried out Mr Lust.

Suddenly, few khaki-clad men came in rushing, trying to decipher the reason behind loud noise coming out at an ungodly hour from the garden. But all they could find were bottles of beer, cigarette butts and used condoms strewn all over. The stars were shining bright, the cries from the dog were audible too, but no human presence.

“This is a ghostly affair…,” one guard said, confused as they saw two apparitions walking past the garden, singing “yeh dosti hum nahi chorengey…”

Hope Mr Love and Mr Lust have learnt to co-exist together. Anyway, one without the other will be another subject of debate….

Note: This piece of news is written in a humble (read desperate) attempt to save the dying art of blogging (where there is no fear of editors with their ever-sharpened knives ready to chop off ‘important” extracts of your stories or sometimes the entire story.) Hope, the “sexy” topic chosen will grab a few eyeballs, the writer too will get few ‘upmarket’ readers.

Superwomen vs superbombs? Well, some are simply dud bombs

Thankfully, women have a day all to themselves while the rest are being enjoyed by the men,” winks Pammy, my buddy.

In saying so, Pammy is not endorsing the concept of International Women Day’s celebrated across the globe every year on March 8, media immortalising the superwomen who are successful, svelte and sirens even in their 40s.

Rather, my dear Pammy is nowhere close to those archetypal “super women”, bombs who are known for being making it big and bombastic in life. They are the ones who proudly declare to be the face of the fast-changing modern day India, signing mega-business deals at offices, to changing diapers of babies and shaking a leg at the wild evening parties.

Pammy is poles apart from them.

In fact, Pammy’s office routine begins and ends with an hour-long lecture on her “non-professionalism”, by her boss in office. The humiliation doesn't end there. Even at home, her five-year-old son Sunny doesn't miss to point out Pammy's failure in cutting the extra flab around her waistline, while most of his friends have mothers who look like models. Instead, Pammy cuts a sorry figure with her belly jutting out of her newly bought skinny jeans. Her ever-growing waistline has become a cause of embarrassment for both the son and husband. Both the men in her life don't have much to admire in her.

To add to the disaster, Pammy happens to be a miserable cook. "Now, what do we take solace from," they sigh in unison over Pammy’s repeated 'mistake' of over-cooking the rice and adding too little salt on her bland rajma curry.

“Where’s the spice and salt in life?” Pammy angrily asks, snubbing her son and husband who had long resigned to fate of having a wife who even after eight years of marriage haven’t learnt a bit of cooking.

“Eat whatever I cook. I too get tired after a day’s work. I am no superwoman,” adds Pammy.

“Then there seems to be no women’s day celebrations for you, as you are no superwoman. Mummy! Women's day is all about being extraordinary. Superwomen, who are smart, suave, feisty, intelligent and beautiful celebrates the day. Only extraordinary women are seen flaunting their womanhood on the day. And, sorry Momma, you have nothing great about you,” there goes Sunny again with his blunt and honest observation.

After Sunny’s thunderbolt, comes Pammy's quiet retort.

“Yes, dear son, women’s day is all about superwomen, extraordinary and feisty women winning awards at glitzy award nights for being business tycoons or sizzling item numbers. Aam aurat like us, never celebrate women’s day. We’re too ordinary to be celebrated or appreciated by others. And thank god, I am no superwoman, nor do I aspire to. I am happy being ordinary, very normal and often ignored,” she fakes a smile, realising pretty well how all her efforts to be 'super' have blown up in its face.

And, then comes the unbearable lull, and Pammy’s husband, looking for some breathing space, switches on the television, where a news anchor briefs about how the bold and the beautiful of Bangalore celebrated the women’s day. “Let’s salute the spirit of women on the 100th year of women’s day celebration across the globe.”