Of men and goddesses.

"So wait, you're a feminist?. Does that mean you hate men?"

I've been asked that question by multifarious groups of people - old, young, men, women, Canadian, Indian - and each time it's asked the same way. Raised eyebrow, scornful amusement, accusing laugh. I usually answer with my most ravishing smile, in an unusually soft voice. Equality, human rights, patriarchy - words I dispatch like soldiers to disabuse the enquirers of their misconceptions.

This afternoon, outside Bandra station, I was hit in the back by an auto rickshaw. "But the station is always brimmingteemingpacked!" you say, "It must've have been an accident!" It was noon. The station was deserted - or as deserted as a train station in Bombay can get. As I was paying off my rickshaw - deep breath while I battle the urge to unleash obscenities - another sped towards my partially turned back, and drove past me in such a way that the side bars hit me forcefully. As I jerked foward, I saw him winking at me. While the driver of my rickshaw insulted the female family members of the culprit, I insulted the mighty Bombay sun by freezing.

When I called my mother a couple of minutes later, I ended the conversation saying, "Ma, I can't take this much longer. Bombay is making me hate men."

(There's no need to get worried; it's nothing two Panadol Actifast couldn't cure).

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And now for more Pujo pictures from Saptami! (yesterday)

Isn't my mother pretty?



Shield your eyes!



See? Apparently that yellow was too bright for my mother.



And finally, the reason behind the revelry - the loveliest ladies of us all. The protima at Ramakrishna Mission.