Women's day for others

"Go, Go," said my doctor, urging me to ignore an infection in favour of a wine-tasting event I was scheduled to attend.

Even on days when we meet on the middle ground and not in her clinic, we form a mutual admiration society of sorts "" I, because I believe that I have finally stumbled upon a woman of science who shares the same liberal impulses usually associated with people of the arts, journos, mixed-married-types, bohemians and the like. She, I suppose, because of the liberalism associated with my professional life.

"So, you are still going for your wines-and-dines?" she asked, scarcely registering the fever (or so I thought) before urging me to pop (many) pills but still "go". "Today is Women's Day, they'll treat you even better," she pointed out.

I didn't. And chose to spend many hours instead, sitting back and enjoying reports on other people's Women's Day: a daily had three top (naturally women) honchos as guest editors, someone else was holding a panel discussion (with free drinks) on whether the glass ceiling exists, there was a corporate office distributing brownies and bangles (!) to all its female employees, there were hoardes of (group) SMSs congratulating "one of the strongest women I know..." and there were many lunches and parties where successful, well-turned out women turned up "" minus their men. So I suppose for most women "" who knew or cared about it"" March 8 was special.

At the Noida branch of a multinational bank, on the other hand, a 26-year-old professional, a woman, sat oblivious to such celebrations.

"This is the time to invest in SIPs," she called say, "the market will fall further." No, this wasn't a cold call. And soon the real reason for it tumbled out too. "Please, o' please let us go shopping, or to a movie, or anything," she whimpered, "but I can't bear to be alone."

Priya is a friend's friend, not really mine, but that didn't matter. She was looking for some support after being dumped "" not by the man she'd been dating for four years (who by all accounts seemed too wimpish for any confrontation) but by the beau's papaji and mummyji and little brother. What's more, almost at the altar too. "The entire community knows about it now," Priya said with a sense of acute shame.

The families had just celebrated the engagement, of what would have been one of those growing "love-arranged" matches, as they say in GenX parlance. The in-laws-to-be had seemed happy enough especially since "banking and teaching are regarded as respectable professions for women" but then had broken off the match saying the horoscopes didn't match.

"The girl's kundli is rising, she'll dominate our son," the father-in-law had confessed, "So sorryji." Priya was inconsolable. "I shouldn't have told them my annual package," she sobbed at the not inconsiderable sum. And when I told her not to blame herself, she only did some more: "Or, it could have been because the party we threw was not lavish enough..."

In that case, I told her, isn't it better that she got to know the family before the wedding. "I know... I know... what you are saying is right," she sobbed, "but can't you find a pandit who will convince them that the kundlis do match?" That was March 8, 2007.

I told her I would, encouraged her towards some retail therapy and hoped that she wouldn't try and call up the betrothed for the 137th, unanswered time. I don't know whether she did; she'll may be let me know in her own time; or perhaps not. But the next time I meet the doc, I am going to tell her, "No doctor, they don't always treat you well." We don't even treat ourselves that well.