Flight woes !!!!

“You want to know what it is like to be on a plane for 22 hours? Sit in a chair, squeeze your head as hard as you can, don’t stop, then take a paper bag and put it over your mouth and nose and breathe your own air over and over and over.”
– Lewis Black, comedian

I have nobody to blame except myself for my latest predicament.

It was simply ludicrous of me to have embarked on another plane trip before I had removed the dregs of my previous long-haul flight from my system.

Falling for the usual sales gimmick of low fares, I chose to travel with a lesser-known Asian carrier to Amsterdam. Of course, I had my travel blinkers on, which meant the airline’s discreet and fine-print disclaimer of ‘you might find yourself indulging more in transit than flying-time and your so-called straightforward journey will sprout as many legs as an octopus’ was conveniently ignored by itchy-feet me.

Ah poor me. Little did I know what ‘delightful’ surprises I was in for. For someone bitten by the travel bug for the last three years, I should be immune to the discomforts of travelling. But the rigmarole of flying, especially economy flying, never ceases to astound me.

I fully appreciate the rigorous and numerous customs and security checks undertaken in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. But one cannot deny the hardships and excessive procedures that ordinary travellers are subjected to.

I am always one of the lucky ones to get metal detectors to ‘ping’ every time I walk through them. Bingo! Full body frisking here I come. How do I convince the stony faced security guard that I have no concealed weapon in my waist-band but just extra flab I attempted to camouflage under my one-size-smaller jeans?

Just when you think you have just finished your five minutes of frisk fame, you realize your ‘lucky’ stars continue to shine. You get chosen for a random drug test and more frisking.

It gets further maddening to discover all your space-saving strategies and nights of careful packing can be undone in a minute and your stash of undergarments and cheap tourist trinkets are out for public display yet again.

I still have not been able to figure out if it was the destination I had chosen or the political and bureaucratic intricacies of the transit country that posed one hurdle after the other this time.

Normally I am used to breezing through international airports with the immunity provided by my Australian passport. One glance and usually I get away scot-free with minimal control checks. However, this time I certainly found things to be quite different.

The moment I disembarked for transit, my passport got whisked away for so-called stamping. No prior information was given by my flight agent regarding the local customs of this particular country nor were the airport officials helpful as to what was happening. I then found out from another Australian couple, who were also detained, that our itinerary now included another domestic trip to the capital city of the transit country. Surprise, surprise!

After futile attempts at conversation in English with the dolled-up airport authority allegedly responsible for customer service, both my new-found travel buddies and I gave up and sat there resigned, waiting for our passports to arrive.

Finally after a nail-biting wait, we were reunited with our passports and without any explanation shooed off to continue our transit.
Then we began the arduous journey of seeking further information only to be passed from one desk to another and from one supervisor to another.

Most signs were baffling given the predominant use of the local language and was often missing or incorrect because the airport was still in the throes of refurbishment. Very few people spoke English. Soon a crowd gathered for Amsterdam and the motley collection of sleep-deprived passengers were herded sheep-like between various transit lounges, staircases and flights. Finally we were relieved to learn that we were on our way to Amsterdam.

It is perhaps a regular saga that people experience in airports; but I was struck anew with the chaos associated with what should have been a simple transit and travel.

There was something freaky about being kept in the dark in this Asian country known more for its information censorship than its growing economic and political power.

Our long period of stay in Australia has us accustomed to a country whose culture and lifestyle reflects its liberal democratic traditions and values especially including highly regarded freedom of expression and information.

It was indeed a wake-up call to realise what one enjoys in Australia, especially us naturalised citizens. It is not just the security or living comforts that we are talking about here, but the littlest of things that one always takes for granted, especially access to information.

Home Alone.....

While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.

- Angela Schwindt

Eerily quiet, the house is.

(No, I am not converting to Yoda speak, but I should admit it works for me, at least for better emphasis.)

I bet the apparent lack of noise from our house for the last two weeks must be quite disconcerting to our neighbours. No, the kids have not yet flown the nest; empty nest syndrome is still a decade away for me.

Neither have I auctioned the kids on e-Bay…..erm, not yet. Well, school holidays do seem to bring all kinds of weird behaviour in parents and in some, as our Geelong mother would agree, a rather warped sense of humour.

Well, coming back to the post, the kids have gone to Melbourne to spend the school holidays with their cousins. Very simple it sounds…..but not so simple was the aftermath of our decision.

Two weeks ago

Like all other Kryptonian mothers out there, I too was resigned to spending most of my time juggling plenty of balls in the air and whingeing the rest of the time, about being exhausted.

To say mornings in our house were chaotic would be an understatement – everyday without exception, the house looked like being hit by a tornado. I should say my husband and I started each morning with a miracle; getting the kids ready for school without having a stroke in the midst of all the shouting matches was indeed something to be silently grateful for.

Something or the other constantly grew roots on our couch – if it weren’t for our technology addicted kids in front of the LCD screen, it was half-eaten food crumbs, wrappers, dirty plates, drink cups or socks. The house usually in varying states of disarray left me constantly exhausted, fractious and often staggered by the amount of work, two brats under ten can generate every single day of the week.

Above the inordinate amount of cleaning, washing and chauffeuring I had to do, it was the noise that usually drove me nuts. Not a day passed without the kids having a squabble over something or a fight for the TV remote, throw Dad into the fighting pit for his daily dose of news; it can get seriously ugly at home.

Dinner time, bed time, well to be honest every other time was a noisy affair at our house. The house did have noise insulation but unfortunately it was simplex in nature – only parents’ voices were filtered and never got through to the kids.

School Holidays

So naturally when my husband came up with this brilliant idea of offloading the sources of the noise for a couple of weeks to his brother’s, I greeted it with great enthusiasm. We drew up a list of what we were going to do during our two weeks of quiet and peace and I have to admit the list kept growing longer and longer by the impending hour of the kids’ departure. Very soon, the kids were dropped off at their cousins and we came home to a haven of tranquillity.

A day or two passed, everything was still in its place as day one – no bedclothes out of place, no dirty plates in sight, no overflowing laundry baskets, no vacuuming either. And above all no noise; by now we should have been simply overjoyed and ecstatic at the life of leisure and normalcy we had without the kids. But in reality, did we??

Very soon our sanctuary of peace and quiet was becoming too stifling for us, the monotony of the days was getting to us without the kids to break it or infuse the old sense of excitement into our lives. And thanks to the profusion of carbon tax in the media, the TV remote lay unclaimed. The house still remained clean but hopelessly empty, as if its very soul had gone into hiding.

We got to do the things we wanted – we fitted in dinners, drinks, movies, entertaining friends and even a weekend trip to Adelaide, but somehow there was not the imagined exuberance in it, but just the motions of completing a list that we had drawn up. As there was no pressing need to be at home at the said time, there were longer days at work. We hardly cooked, there were more and more takeaways or eating outside –no timelines, no routines to guide us and above all we both had this sense of free-falling or should I say failing? We even started missing the incessant noise and chatter that served as a backdrop to every single activity we did as a family.

Any modicum of work life balance that we seemed to have flew out of the window the minute the kids quit the scene. It was quite a revelation when we came to realise the routines and family rituals that we had put in place helped us parents more than the kids. Funnily enough without the kids to structure our time and life, things were increasingly chaotic than before. Suddenly we found ourselves adrift in the ocean of our lives without the kids to steer our course.

Two weeks seemed to stretch to an eternity and we were all ready to call it quits to our newfound bohemian style of living. We not only had selective amnesia about life pre-kids, but also it looked like we simply had lost the capacity to enjoy leisure and life guilt-free without the children in tow. The break that we had much anticipated for now seemed more like a sentence to us and we could not wait for them to come home soon.

Isn’t it ironical we spend the first 25 years of our life being moulded by our parents and then the next 25 by our children? I do not know if other parents are in the same boat as us, but it looks like we find our identity as parents more gratifying than any other identity we might take.

Yes, when the two weeks are up, I will resume my role as a juggling parent and even resort to the cardinal sin of whingeing….. but then we all know I would not have it any other way, right???

Not brown, just a tan !!!!

“Derrick, I’m going to get a tan this summer; I’m going to get dark. Oh, not so dark you can’t get a job, but dark enough!!!

- Derrick Cameron

I was still in mid-air, 30000 feet above ground, when Prince Williams and his lovely bride had their nuptials a few months ago. I usually shy away from watching any telecast to do with any Royalty; their ceremonies fraught with superfluous protocols and excessive formalities are not my usual cup of tea, but I make exceptions for weddings. Guess it is the little girl in me still hankering for soppy and gooey “Happily Ever After” fairy tale endings.

Anyway after hearing rave reviews of Pippa Middleton’s shapely derriere and complexion that even eclipsed Bin Laden’s death mask, I had no excuse but to catch up with the videos. I have to say I was a tad disappointed over the “bottom”, but then bootylicious is no longer the buzz word I hear. Duh, even Microsoft Word does not recognise it.

First, let me throw in my disclaimers before I continue. I have nothing against Pippa, God bless her, she has a charmingly impish face and so refreshing that it is no wonder that she has stolen the show. But my rant is all about the tanned skin.

There I was expecting a pale English Rose with just the perfect milky white complexion and I get instead a skin that I wake up to every morning. Since my days as a teen (which lately seems centuries ago), I have spent a fortune on all kinds of skin-lightening products and here is someone who probably had done the opposite and had the world wowed with her acquired complexion. What is it with people and their obsession to possess a skin colour that is foreign to them?

During my short stint in Europe a couple of years ago, I had observed some of my European friends, who in their attempts to get ready for their summers, had gone overboard on the tanning beds. They had actually ended up with quite some noticeable damage to their skin. But I guess that did not faze them the least and they still probably continue to line up for their periodic solarium visits once summer hits their towns.

To my dismay, however, melanin has been my best buddy at all times of the year, irrespective of sunshine or rain, summer or winter. Possessing a skin colour that constantly reminds one of some kind of coffee beverage, there are days when I have longed for more “cream in my coffee”. Summer usually finds me in protective layers of clothing or hiding indoors as I freak about turning a few shades darker. It has taken me years to get comfortable in my own skin although I have to confess I still indulge in the occasional buying of the odd fairness cream that is guaranteed to work a miracle.

Raised in a culture where fairer skin and lighter complexion were held in high esteem, I usually find it difficult to comprehend a society where women would long for the reverse. Most cultures around the world seem to express a penchant for fair female skin, whereas the modern Western world has attributed attractiveness and socio-economic status directly to tanning…..and I am definitely not talking about tanning beds and sunless tan sprays here, but the jet setting crowd that can afford the natural tanning fromwarm summer days in some picturesque resort.

It is indeed an irony that tanned skin can get you into elite circles in certain societies and elsewhere be still looked down upon. Well, it is definitely not my intention to raise the topic about melanin induced prejudices in this light-hearted banter, but yet it is something that cannot be completely swept under the carpet when we string “skin” and “colour” in the same sentence.There are still undercurrents of stigma associated with darker skin tones in almost every society and yet we allow the world to get away with such double standards when it comes to skin colour!!!!

However, despite my whinge, I have to say some of us would be more than willing to relinquish the label of “dusky damsels” to our western counterparts. Don’t you agree with me as well??

Going Home - Part 2

"My home is not a place, it is people."
- Lois McMaster Bujold

The taxi worms its way through the crowds at the airport and slowly enters the traffic. It is almost midnight and yet the roads are crowded – ah what a wonderful change it is to see a city that never sleeps. There is a palpable aura in the streets – something that I cannot place my finger on. Here and there, I spot speeding vehicles filled with young men and kids whooping with joy, their screams peppered with the noise of fireworks…….the aerial display robbing the sleep from the eyes of my kids and leaving them mesmerised in a trance like state.

For a moment, I wonder if the city is celebrating the return of the prodigal daughter (erm, in case you are wondering, c’est moi)……and then it dawns on me, India has just won the Cricket World Cup and hence the festivities and the partying. I have been away too long to partake in such jubilations but still couldn’t help smiling at the exuberance displayed …… it was hard to stay unaffected by the national pride exhibited on the streets.

So much has changed during my absence and yet so much hasn’t – I am still hanging onto my dear life in the rollercoaster ride of a taxi while it weaves in and out of the traffic maze. Gone are my own reckless driving days on the back of a two-wheeler albeit a 50cc motorbike; today even within the confines of a car, I cannot stop sweating at the negligent driving and the sheer volume and speed of the oncoming traffic.

For someone who experiences heavy doses of “reverse cultural shock” every time I fly back to India, I usually find the first few days unbearable…..or rather my body “protesteth” a lot; however the saga of my repatriation continues despite the whiny protests of my senses. Since I decided to stay overseas and make my home elsewhere for my kids I believe I have sometimes successfully alienated myself with my choices and have lost the rights to object to the disparity I find between the two worlds I occupy. Regrettably, a few of us are living our lives in transit, as mere spectators, no longer having the luxury of belonging to…….neither to the country that defined us nor to the country that we have adopted.

It is with such conflicting thoughts I enter my childhood home – a place still abounding with my memorabilia, fondly cherished and treasured by my parents. Nothing has changed much within the house in the last four years or perhaps ever since I moved out of that house over a decade ago – time is frozen here. However I could not say the same of my parents – sadly I discover that time and separation has etched a different story on their visages. But our visit, especially that of the kids have brought a huge difference in their otherwise routine life, fraught with loneliness and solitude. I can visibly see that I have added a few more years to my mother’s life, especially when her ailing heart had almost decided to give up on her a few weeks ago prior to our visit. Very soon the house is filled with raucous and joyful shouts of the kids, voices of visiting friends and relatives, phone calls and mobile ringtones……the days pass too quickly in the warmth and safe confines of my family’s love and attention.

Before long it will be time to leave and with a heavy heart, we would bid each other painful farewells. My parents’ agonising wait for another homecoming trip will commence. As for me I will return to a world, where I will be forced to put on the mantle of the adult and deal with reality that is not always kind to me. It would be a long wait before I can become a child again in my parents’ house. To my dismay, I am very much painfully aware of the fragility of our lives and I realise someday my home will be bereft of the people who care for me and my own family. I would lose the focal point of going home then…….but till then these trips will always be a ritual of my life.

Going home - part 1

“There’s nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.”

-Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

As the ground rushed forward to meet the landing plane, the last 24 hours flashed past me in a jumble of blurry pictures; last-minute packing, a harried drive from Horsham to Melbourne Airport, two international flights, cramped quarters in the economy class, whiny kids, mind-numbing transit angst........was I glad that the travel was nearing its end !!!

I sigh in glorious relief to find the use of my legs again.

Air-travel is one of my pet peeves – nothing like the monotony of a long international flight with the added torture of airline food to put me in a bad mood....even the Singapore slings (the ritzy cocktail specials served by Singapore Airlines) that I had taken a fancy to during this trip did little to cheer me up or lighten the dull pallor of travel weariness that hung around me like a shroud.

Hastily I cut short my daydreams of teleporting for my next travel and drag my wearied bones through the spartan but atleast clean building that resembles more a bus depot than a major international airport. The family has just landed in the south of India, where we will be spending the next three weeks visiting family and friends after almost four years since our last trip to India.

As the family and I quickly run through immigration with our Australian passports, I refuse to meet the eyes of the domestic passport holders standing in the long and slow-moving queues. Something akin to betrayal slightly eats at me and I feel like a persona non grata entering the country. This is a feeling that I am unable to shirk off lately - is it just me or does every expatriate feel the same way when they hit their home stretch with a different passport?

Curbing my longing to compare notes with other expats, I quietly reflect on what impels these migrants to come home – like migrating geese on a set course, most of us make trips to our originating countries every few years expending not just our saved up leave but our savings as well. Take an Indian toiling in the oil fields in Kuwait, an Iraqi kebab stall owner in Sweden, an Italian charity worker in Ghana, a Lebanese professor in Canada - one common bond that these various people most likely share is their affinity to visit their home countries once the word holiday crops up.

So what is that we, expatriates, yearn for and hope to achieve out of these trips? Do these homecoming trips provide us the satisfaction and pleasure that we expect and desire? Caught between two cultures, do any of us miss the luxury or the life in the adopted countries that we are used to while making these trips? The answers to these questions are not simple or straightforward – each one’s experience of their trip is a story in itself.

--- To be continued

This post will hold a special place in my heart as it is my first post as a column-writer in the local newspaper !!!!

Go back to your country !!!!

"Never take a person's dignity: it is worth everything to them, and nothing to you."

- Frank Barron

When I read the zodiac forecast for my week, it said a brilliant week awaited me and that this week was going to be the first few days of the rest of my lifetime. Of course it all looked very promising till the actual week unfolded. I found Monday blues aggravated by my role of a single parent with hubby away for three days on a work trip. It was soon followed by a meltdown at work mid-week. I even made a fashion statement wearing my jacket inside-out to the kids school. But the highlight of the week was when an irate customer at work took his wrath out on me and told me to go back to my country.

I conduct multicultural workshops at my workplace and had taken up the offer of our HR and had organised a lunch for the multicultural team at the nearby Thai restaurant. While waiting for the team to make an appearance, I see this customer walk in and pound at the buzzer in the reception. I hear him having heated exchanges and hassle the young girl at the reception. As she disappears inside to fetch her supervisor and I also step inside to meet one of my colleagues, I hear his words "go back to your country". His words halt me in my stride - the jolt I receive is something that I find quite indescribable. I turn and look at him - the shock and pain clearly evident on my face for all the world to see.

I have lived 14 years in this country, well respected by my peers and colleagues and yet such mindless profanity from a total stranger had the power to reduce me to a second rate citizen in just a few minutes. On recollection, there was no wrath in his words, just calculated coldness and eagerness for a confrontation. Do such people even for a second realise the lives that migrants lead - far away from the solace and comfort of their homes, their customs and culture, each one driven by inexplicable needs and reason, dominated solely by their innate instinct to survive, these people lead a life that is not the least enviable by anyone. Every single one of us are bereft of the loving support and comfort of our families and yet choose to make a living here, in order to provide a better life for our progenies; with years passing we become total strangers even to the land that begot us and some of us die still as strangers in a foreign land.......with the label of migrants still indelible on our foreheads. Even though this is a life most of us chose for ourselves, it is a fate that we do not wish upon even our worst enemy.......the hardships, the challenges, the barriers, the confusion especially the feeling of not belonging, of being rootless that the first generation of migrants undergo is something you have to endure to completely understand.

I am someone who is prone to very quick temper, can easily lose my cool even over assumed and imagined offenses. It was perhaps intolerance in its mildest form but yet I did not believe I deserved it. Here was someone who was easily pushing my buttons and I was not ready to take flak from a scruffy bloke I had not even met earlier in my life. But I believe somewhere along the line over the last couple of years, I must have matured a bit.....I took in my surroundings and found that there were few more customers there and besides I was still in uniform. I bit my tongue and walked back inside and sought help from a colleague who was quite shocked that such a thing would happen in his community.

My biggest fear was what would the man's reaction be when he sees the ten multicultural staff of my workplace come out for the said lunch appointment. I was not ready to let my team be exposed to such indignity and callousness. For the first time, I understood what it means to be treated as an inferior in a foreign country, what it means to be different. Perhaps every other migrant or even my own kids had felt it before, but this was truly my wake-up call to take another look at the world outside me.

It was ironical that while this was happening, I was carrying flyers for the new migrant support group I am starting with a few overseas colleagues. Named "OASIS Wimmera" - it stands for Overseas Integration and Support, a not-for-profit group designed mainly to provide support for overseas people and help migrants to integrate easily into the community. What started as a mere seed of an idea has now blossomed into a fully grown support group with the blessings of the city council and the area's skilled migration initiative. This group was envisaged to provide the family support and sense of belonging that most migrants believe we lack by our decision to come overseas. Also with Oasis Wimmera, we want to blur the distinctions and barriers between the various multicultural communities as well and help us build strong connections within the community.

I have received such warmth and support from the women that I have met along my way in establishing this group and yet such a crude remark from a single person insignificant in every other way seemed to have left a bitter aftertaste....the repugnance of that incident still rankles at me, leaving behind a festering sore. Little did I realise when I threw my energy into starting a group for migrants and working towards making my dream a reality, I would also be fighting against such small mindedness and unbridled bigotry of people.

But yet, it has only made my resolve more stronger and I have pledged that I will not allow anyone to be exposed to such an incident again. I cannot single-handedly combat such pettiness but however can try to make a dent in these thick walls of ignorance and make such insensitive people see the richness and colour that the multicultural community brings into their monochrome world. I am now pushing to see the launch as successful as it can be and try sending a powerful message to the community that OASIS Wimmera will not only be a beacon for the Wimmera migrants but also be their buffer against such senseless attitude and acts.

But perhaps it is only in darkness, one tends to realise the gravity and importance of light......perhaps it takes one such act to make me realise and value the goodness and the support of the people around me, what I usually take for granted. News traveled fast and very soon I was showered with hugs and apologies by my colleagues. In fact one of the other customers, an old sweet man, who had witnessed the incident later remarked to our office staff that he was angry and very distressed to see an uncalled attack on such a lovely lady(......er, c'est moi, in case you are wondering :)) and had wanted to bash the other guy on my behalf. I have full faith that this community will stand behind us and help us weed out the few antagonists who are determined to make the lives of migrants miserable.

Now won't you raise your voice with me against such unreasonable and senseless behaviour?

PS: As the focus of my blog is shifting more and more to that of migrants, I am planning on inviting some guest-bloggers to write on this topic to provide some objective and unbiased views. So if you are a blogger, please feel free to write about this topic and email it to me to sujatha.umakanthan@gmail.com

Yummy Mummies ???

"I can't understand why a stick-insect thin woman is desirable, - except maybe she doesn't cost as much to feed, since she doesn't eat anything except grass."

-- Brian Marshall

A flashy title cropped up on Yahoo's gallery site and of course, given my natural curiosity, I quickly got sucked into the post. I clicked on "Hot Celebrity Mamas" to find some gorgeous women; the list showing only super-models and Hollywood actresses. However on looking at the pictures, the emotions that dominated me were surprisingly more of pity and revulsion. Let me explain the latter first. I look at Angelina Jolie and she is merely stick and bones in that picture - this used to a beauty that most women once envied for her captivating looks and luscious body; however today the image shows a body that is shrinking at an alarming rate. What's sad is that Yahoo entertainment still finds her a yummy mummy despite her skinny femur sticking out and making her a specimen more suitable for anatomy classes.

I look at the other pictures and find some really enviable bodies; however reading the captions below quickly strip the beauty of these pictures for me. These are mums that have gone back to the catwalk and their acting careers barely weeks after the babies were born. Of course with women juggling career and motherhood, most mothers return back to work with very little time to spare for their newborns. Being guilty of the same.....er, crime seems to be a bit too strong a word, let's say atypical behaviour......I am in no way criticising these women for returning back to work. However the vigorous exercise and dieting routines these women subject themselves to, within days of giving birth is most definitely something I object to.

I am peeved about two things here, first the standards of beauty are slipping greatly and are no longer what it used to be. And secondly women who are in a position to change the status quo of the fashion world still succumb to peer pressure and play along with its ludicrous demands.

No more luscious curves, just boring straight lines !!!!

I come from a culture where gaunt and scrawny looks were not something that appealed to the mass. I spent most of my teen years yearning to put on weight as "curvaceous" was the magic word back home. The western world of fashion and Hollywood were also once dominated by hourglass beauties......let us not forget the famous pin-up girls, who flaunted their curves for the world to see. However curvy and buxom figures are now figures of the past.

Why is the fashion world so obsessed with the "thin-culture"? With every passing day, the models that throng the catwalks look more and more like ailing patients in the throes of some debilitating sickness. What I don't understand is that if you and I find this kind of beauty revolting along with the majority of the masses, why is this world still dictating 'thinness' as the code of beauty? Are men in the real world attracted to women who are nearly ironing-board flat and have non-existing derrières?

When occasionally, an actress fails to conform to the exacting standards of Hollywood and is comfortable in her skin as a curvaceous woman, she takes the flak from the media and the fashion world. But that doesn't faze Christiana Hendricks in the least, the "Mad Men" star still flaunts her curves and has earned the title of "buxom" beauty amongst the waifish looking stars. "Go girl" is what I say to her and hope more of them follow her lead.

I would be happy if such ridiculous body standards are limited to just the tinsel town, but no, I see everyday women and girls doing the same. Look around you and you will see today's teens and women, being led astray by these women of fashion and silver screen, thus falling victims to anorexia and other debilitating dieting disorders. The other day, hearing a comment from a ridiculously 'flat' woman about having to do an extra round of exercising at the gym as she indulged herself in eating a piece of cake, only makes me want to hit the roof. Lady, that extra piece of cake if deposited on your skeletal body would definitely bring you back to the land of living but on second thoughts, that delicious and decadent cake does not deserve you :( I am not by any chance beating up women who are naturally slender by way of their genes or metabolism just the ones who ridiculously starve or exercise, thus succumbing to uber-thiness.

Post-natal bodies, gorgeous but at what price??

Given the short-livedness of one's career in the fast changing world of fashion, I can see these new mums beating themselves in the name of fashion and following extreme diets and strenuous exercises in order to reclaim their star positions. Some of them have had C-sections and have still pushed their bodies doggedly to get back into shape in alarmingly short periods. Now what trend does this create? Just peer pressure on other new moms to get rid of their pregnancy fat and jump into the exercising and dieting bandwagons. I bet the "hot bod mama" trainers are in high demand given the reputation they have earned in pushing out gorgeous bodies back onto the catwalk within weeks of their deliveries.

But this is where one has to stop, take a deep breath and think. Is there any real need for these women to rush back to the limelight again? Are these women with pressing mortgages and monetary needs or having to feed extra mouths? Allright, let me cut them some slack and not question about their personal needs or what motivates them to such desperate measures to push their bodies?

However we are talking about supposedly smart and intelligent women who have managed to gain a worldwide reputation and established a successful name for themselves. Don't you think they would have some leeway in deciding to take some time-off after the child-births? Won't they be in a position to say "no" to the demands of the fashion world and take their time in allowing their post pregnancy bodies to regain its shape naturally with the aid of moderate diet and exercises? Instead they fall for the piper's tune and perhaps in doing so not only increase the peer pressure for other mothers but also push the fashion industry to carve such exacting demands from other models as well. "If Heidi Klum could do it, why not you??" would perhaps be the oft sang tune.

We have protective societies for every other abuse, how come there is nothing to stop or advise these narcissistic women that treat their bodies so cruelly? Now don't give me the lines "the body will tell you if you are overdoing it".......maybe these bodies are howling by now but there are no ears that listen to them. On the other hand I am not advocating to be couch potatoes like me, but everything in moderate is my motto.

I hope the women reading this will support me in what I am saying. All I ask is to be comfortable in your skin, in your body and not succumb to any kind of pressure. If you are doing something to improve your bodies, do it because you want to do it and not because the women around you are doing it. The difference is if you choose the latter, you will not be motivated enough to stick to it. Now that I have ranted some of my peeves, I wish to conclude this post with the following lines:

"Do not dictate standards to the world just because you are able to keep it unnaturally; secondly do not let the world dictate standards to you just because other people are doing it."

Thank you !!!

PS: Photos courtesy of Yahoo Entertainment and Sunday Morning Herald