This seems to be the question doing the rounds in Kathmandu these days; a topic of conversation more popular than that of weather in England or cricket in India. It is a question unavoidable by girls in their mid-twenties. If it is not one’s parents, it is one’s aunts and uncles; if not them it is the married friends. It is a question that poses genuine concern to women of my age as it becomes a reason for sleepless nights and unfamiliar angst that is constantly punching us just below the belt.

Sure we have been lucky as many parents will point out. We are a generation of youth who did not have to survive by sucking on lemons in mosquito infested dormitories in Benares. We had the opportunity to go to America and England. We are a generation of youth who was not forced into arranged marriages as teenagers.

Would this be possible if we were born fifty years ago? Probably not.

So yes, things have changed, but how much?

Nepalese women in their mid-twenties like me have sure been lucky. We have been brought up like sons, as many parents like to point out. They have left no stone unturned when it comes to giving us the best possible education, within their means. I am sure women of my age can remember vividly the many instances when our mothers said to us, ‘My daughter is going to be a career woman. She will grow up to be self sufficient and will not have to rely on a man to live her life the way she wants to. ’

Yes, we sure have been lucky so far.

I know many girls of my age who have gone abroad to study and have returned to Nepal empowered with impressive degrees. They have returned home, driven by a desire to use their education that they were so fortunate to have in doing something productive; something that will allow them to give back to the community whilst leading stimulating and satisfying lives. These ambitions however very often are being thwarted or stalled when that ever so popular and unavoidable question hits them like an irritating, unexpected gust of wind.

So, when are you planning to get married?

These strong, able and intelligent young women suddenly find themselves sucked in to this manufactured cycle of meeting men picked by their parents which inevitably leads to manufactured consent as their strong will slowly erodes. Their days swamped by mundane meetings with unfamiliar men. Undeniably, there are a few parents who are liberal enough to give their daughters timelines or should I say deadlines – one year, two years and three years if they are lucky to get used to the idea of marriage. Some women know they have hit the jackpot when their parents even concede to the idea of meeting a man of their choice. But there is a catch of course. Certain boxes have to be ticked:

Acceptable caste – check

Acceptable family background – Check

Acceptable occupation – Check

Yes, things have surely changed.

We understand that our parents are conditioned by a society which relies on the traditional institution of marriage and thus no matter how ambitious they were bringing their daughters up and protecting them from the patriarchal shackles, sooner or later the sub conscious kicks in and the adherence to the demands of the society takes hold. Their once innocent approach driven by aspiration is weighed down by the urge to get their daughters married before the biological clock stops ticking. The threat of having an old spinster for a daughter becomes the material for hellish nightmares. But what they do not understand is an educated Nepalese woman does not necessarily hate the idea of marriage. She is after all still a product of the same society that shaped the psyche of her parents. She is just more used to making her own choices and is more used to the idea of free will. We can put the blame on education for that.

An unknown author once said, ‘Never let the hand you hold, hold you down. ‘ Our parents held our hands and promised us a life of unlimited possibilities and delivered on those promises for which we are very grateful but now that we are equipped with the will and the ability to plan our own lives we cannot let them hold us down. And this is not an anti-marriage rant because trust me, we are the marrying kind. We just want to be able to choose the right time and the right man.

The question now is will Pushpa Kamal Dahal once again don his combats and return to his pre peace agreement alter ego of Prachanda?

The resignation was inevitable after the President’s explicit patronage offered to COAS Katwal, a clear undermining of the Prime Minister’s position and authority.

Despite Dahal’s assurance about his commitment towards the peace process, does his decision today mark the beginning of renewed aggression?

Who is thicker? A supermodel or a stick of celery?

So what questions are you going to ask me?

The name of the thirty two million gods?

How many spoons of ghee in the rice pudding?

Whether the awning of Pashupati is gold or silver?

Did Prithvi Narayan Shah, in that story, eat rice or corn?

So what are you going to make me do?

The dance of Annapurna with me clanking the bells?

Or force me into hiding from sunlight four days every month?

And then bow my head to my fathers and grandfathers?

But they have all died and disappeared,

and I did try in time – so,

Will that be enough now?

Have I appeased you and apologized enough?

For being away too long

Have I proved to you yet?

I really am from your land.

These fingers, they once unfurled like the wings of a free bird

Like a victorious wave that dived and soared to its nemesis, my tips

The rhythm of a harmonium would wait in line to be heard

As these fingers ignored the skeleton’s stricture, and its hiss.

These eyes, they once rolled to the heavens like a biased dice

Creating ripples in the hearts of those who were too silly to care

They took to stage as an enchantress determined to entice

And left before the applause to stare elsewhere.

These hands, they could once revere, in unison the lifeless deity,

Demanding good riddance for its act as the ingenious impostor.

Sometimes it was an anklet adorning a stubborn red artery,

Sometimes a mirror that caressed and fed the vanity of a prankster.

In retrospect the whole that is -  I -  seems to be possessed not pristine,

Forced to give up its flirtations for the greater good of the machine.

Things were different when I was small,
I cared for things,
I cared for Scouts and badges,
I cared so much that one day, the whole day,
in my pleated skirt and my feathered hat,
I asked people,
to use the Zebra Crossing.

With great expectations, I watched Delhi 6 recently. Before watching the film I did tell myself that even though the film disappoints, I can still rely on the AR Rahman experience. The song Masakali was ringing in my head like a suppressed memory that was dying to appear in front of my eyes. The first two lines of the song relentlessly played tricks with my mind until I could take it no longer and decided that I had to put the song in some sort of a context or make it part of the journey, your own reference to the movie’s somewhat weak plot.

I have to say that I love movies that take me on a journey or movies that weave characters and settings and songs into an intricate entity, without necessarily having a robust beginning, middle or an end. And Delhi 6 started off so well. The adorable grandmother, returning to her homeland to spend her last remaining days and the Homeland that only injects a new life to her age old prejudices and superstitions. The sparring brothers who have a wall that stands between their houses, their lives and their happiness. The perceived local idiot who hides his sensibilities behind a facade of blind faith and belief. The two small kids who go up to the local untouchable/institutionalized prostitute and ask her to turn them into men (one of the most hilarious scenes of the movie) The young woman who sees Indian Idol as her escape from her impending arranged marriage that stems from her structured middle class life and of course the alienated NRI who is searching for his identity in his forgotten homeland.

All the characters make a lasting impression but its the innumerable themes that you try to juggle that causes the movie to falter. You try to showcase the religious and communal tensions, the break down of family, identity crisis, alienation, arranged marriages, the caste system, the struggle of good against evil, prejudice, superstition, alienation against the impressive backdrop of Ramayana. It is a moving attempt but it left me with the sense of emptiness as the climax of the movie sprung on me like an uninvited guest and before I knew it the movie ended.

All I have left to cherish now are snippets of wonderful scenes and now that I think of the movie I feel it would have worked much better as a television series similar to Malgudi Days, perhaps, where you could really manipulate the colorful setting of Delhi 6 and do justice to each of your characters and each of your scenes.

I commend you on your attempt but the next time you make a movie, be fair to your audience and give them the opportunity to really salvage your characters and the chapters in their lives.

Here in London, its all about weight watchers and cup a soup diets where one’s life is consumed by counting points and calory intakes. The day to day office life is spiced up by ‘weigh-offs’ and talking about ingenious ways to fool your own body and your mind into thinking that you are full even though your soul is probably starved. But, then who am I to comment for I have found myself at times intrigued by this whole ‘its not really a diet’ phenomenon.

But, what I can do is perhaps put things into perspective for all the women out there on a diet. As you are probably aware the perception of beauty is different in different parts of the world. And in a certain corner of the world girls are actually treated like pigs – poor sucklings who are fattened before the slaughter. In Mauritania, young girls are sent to ‘fat farms’ so that on their return they are more roundly and in some cases obese and thus more eligible for marriage. So while we are obsessed with starving ourselves and the self – inflicted permanent ‘lent’ is the talk of the town, some girls, who live in a part of the world that most of us have probably not even heard of, are being force fed like animals.

It is a strange world isn’t it?

Its been a while.