Confessions of an independent city woman...

I look into the mirror; lo what do I see?
A beautiful and powerful woman staring back at me.

Coffee brewing, the aroma wafts into nothingness. The washing machine churns a heap of clothes in warm water and soap. A limp sky blue kurta awaits its destiny to crispness. Suddenly the bathroom door opens and a moderately built figure steps out of translucent smoke, like an apsara stepping out of the celestial heavens. A baby pink towel wrung around her head entwines her black hair. A drop or two of water rests like dew on her forehead. She pours herself a cuppa and rushes into the bedroom.

The machine beeps to tell her it has faithfully done its duty once again. She has replaced her white wrap around towel with a loose vest and shorts. A jig with the iron box and she is into her gear. Hair tied into a loose knot, smack some gloss, contour the eyes and she is ready to face another day.

It's not easy being an independent city woman. Juggling the personal and the professional is a touch harder than juggling coloured balls at the circus.

You may have been independent as a child but a foretaste of adult hood can lead to indigestion if you have to taste it in copious amounts. Talking of taste, food issues are an issue alright. Let’s face it, biryaanis and pizzas will never satiate you like home made dal and rice. If you have to ruminate on the former every single day it's a pain; and it’s a 'big' pain. Junk food leads to concave bellies- jelly bellies and when you are twenty three and female it's a big no no.

Anyway, you somehow drag yourself to work. A long busy day (with lunch in the royal canteen, one would rather fast) and we're back home. Bai's, in my opinion, derive sadistic pleasure in seeing their employers (especially if she is female) in distress. A mountain of vessels in the kitchen sink and the bed sheets and pillow covers dusty enough to attract wild life. In moments like these our fairy godmothers have an uncanny knack of falling ill or making someone else in the family fall ill. All said and done, you can't complain because itna paisa mein itnaich milinga! 

You manage to do the vessels. Now at least you have a glass to quench your thirst with. Open the lid of the washing machine and the fragrance that your nose is privileged to enjoy is in explicable. Drying clothes using hangers at ten in the night and devoid of a grain in your stomach is an impossible task. You promise yourself that you would religiously dry them appropriately once you're married and a home maker. Negotiating with the guilt pangs on not being one yet, you dry them on the floor and switch on the fan. Regulator on full speed (guilt Nazi on the prowl again reminding you of the huge electricity bill that's going to show up at month end). After the war has been waged, you're too tired for an elaborate dinner. A bag of chips ('big' pain again) finds its way into your more than willing stomach.

You make an effort to splash some water onto your face and in no time you've hit the bed ("Dad, I really wanted to, but my hands are too tired to brush my teeth"). A string of thoughts ensue (I should have taken my one rupee from that rickshaw driver and I’ll teach that woman in the train a lesson tomorrow for sure).Snore. Dreams. Rejuvenation to face yet another challenging, nevertheless eventful day.