Of course I had to put this post up. It’s pujo season. Technically, the end of pujo season. But whatever, right? Tradition calls for new clothes, visiting the pandals (marquees that house the – usually clay – effigies of Goddess Durga and her kids. And her enemy dude. And their unusual pets) and midnight biriyani. This year, I did neither of that.
My parents and my cousin came over to visit, and well let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. It mad me reflect a LOT on what being Bengali truly means. Like a lot, a lot.
For starters, Bengali women are bitchy as hell. In case you’re wondering what the actual badooshes, hello what is yours truly doing here? Yep, bitching. Bengali woman, bitching. Put two and two together, can you.
The men are sissies. They shy away from successful women, and prefer to birdwatch instead of going out and maybe getting hold of the bird.
There’s no middle ground, we all have OCDs of some or the other sort.
Then there are these loud conversations. If my parents are talking about faulty drainpipes in Tanzania, chances are people in the yellow house three blocks away have heard it all and are totally predicting what the next day debate will be about. And it’s not even as interesting as the presidential debate.
Here comes the worst part.
We look good, okay? We have eyeballs like boiled eggs that make you go awww. But when you lead us on, and leave our butts cranky, well bad news brother because Mamata Banerjee will personally get involved. I’m kidding.
In other news, I’m depressed again, which is why I haven’t posted anything in a long time. What I did these four days was just wear a crapton of makeup and take selfies for Instagram, instead. False advertising right there. I lead a sad, vegetable life and you don’t want to be my friend, trust me.
Okay, now. Enough of rambling. Happy Dusshera everyone. Please send me good vibes.