Nats and the politics of passion

Illustration/Uday Mohite

It was 4 am ish, I heard activity, outside my neighbour Natasha's aka Nats' front door - keys were jangling, cuss words were flying.

Obviously in the late night-to-early morning cusp, keys weren't fitting into keyholes, and her frustration was growing, so I offered, "Uhm Nats… need some help?"

"Bruh… I'm good… yeah good…. real good thanks… I don't ever need help," she said at first defiantly, then less defiantly as her key-to-lock manoeuvres were not working.

"You're uhm… ‘wasted', I can see Natasha."

"Stop right there Mr Judgmental Uncle… I'm not ‘wasted'… why do you ‘oldies' always assume that we're hammered. Such willful vilification based on a stereotype," exclaimed the 18-year-old firebrand.

"Apologies… sorry… I take it back… you're not ‘bombed'".

"Don't you use that word, dude… not now… not ever!" she yelled.

"Man, with Ukraine in the shape it's in... do not aimlessly say, ‘bombed' ok. That word is out of bounds till the Russians pull out!"

It was then that I noticed Nats' face - Millenium-hood demanded that she could not reveal true feelings, outward steel at all costs, but this morning, masks were off, her
Braveheart-inspired make-up was severely damaged, her eyes were a mix of ochre and crimson, on a palette of emotion, this was a mix of anguish and anger.

I sensed she may need a hug, but as I reached forward, she recoiled.

"Dude, I'm not a hugger, got it?"

"So what's bothering you?"

"Listen, I'm bleeding for Ukraine… one guy specifically!"

Nats sat down on my proverbial couch.

"We grew up together in Hoshiarpur, full brainy dude, not like us sidey drop-outs, Charandeep Singh Saini, my chaddi buddy, dude's fam couldn't afford the US… wants to be a spinal surgeon, bruh, and we lack medical colleges in Punjab."

And then Nats broke down. "He got himself a scholarship, to Ukraine, to study medicine… I feel helpless man, Saini is stuck, hiding in a Kharkiv metro station, there's bombing all around him, he's broke, terrified, he's lost his passport, down to his last bit of money, he was denied entry into the first train bound for the border."

Nats fell silent, then continued.

"It's surreal man, he's on our college WhatsApp group, we're all on tenterhooks, he messages whenever he gets network, or between explosions."

And then in the blink of an eye, my feisty neighbour went from worrywart to Wonder Woman, as I felt an invisible cape envelop her slender shoulders.

"Rahul bruh, I wanna parachute into Ukraine and Rambo-like get my friend out… I wanna put on a helmet, and bazooka my way in, bruh, I've been feeling for awhile I'd like to a make a difference - get off my armchair, and arm myself, exchange all the Margarita cocktails for molotovs… I'm done hanging about uselessly… I want to storm into Karnataka and tell those dudes that if women wanna wear hijab, that's their choice, you don't get to dictate. They will wear a hijab, with as much freedom as they do a hat, a hip hop cap, a helmet - if I want to wear a handkerchief on my head or a headress… that's my choice, that's their choice. The incredible chauvinism of bigoted men deciding what they feel, ‘damsels in distress' need.

If no hijabs, then no dupattas, ghunghats... no turbans in Punjab!"

"Uhm… this is a complex issue… sure you've thought it through?" I tried to rationalise.

"Bruh… you know the politics... I'm at stage one trying to muster up the passion… trying to make a point… get my gang of girls to move past their obsession with makeup and making out… there's shit-loads more to think about!"

Nats took a deep breath before she let fly her final missile.

"Bruh… wanna send out a message to all my dudes - GOAT...guys… GOAT!"

"Huh... GOAT… that spells ‘Greatest Of All Time' - what's that got to do with all this?"

"No man… GOAT stands for ‘Get Off Your Asses Teens!'", Nats concluded.

Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.com