women – Amrit Panigrahy

वो खुद थी

दरवाज़े, जिनकी चाबी उसी के पास ही थी,
कुछ एक मेरे लफ्ज़, जो वो ही थी समझती,
समझ जाती थी ज़ुबान खामोशियों की भी,
सांसे उसके लिए जैसे सरगम किसी गाने की।

एक दिन ऐसा आया, वो बोली में चली जाउंगी,
तुम्हारी कुछ आदते हैं जो मैं कभी सह ना पाउंगी,
क्या पता उसको के सबसे बड़ी आदत वो खुद थी,
मेरे दरवाज़े की चाबी,
मेरे अनसुलझे लफ्ज़,
मेरी सांसे,
और मैं….

वो खुद थी…….

हां, वो उसकी आदत थी ।। Yes, she was his habit

A Hindi poem, this one talks about the closeness and the “used to” kind of bond the lovers share, so much so that when the lady decides to leave citing few of the man’s habits that she can’t tolerate anymore, it turns out that the man considers her his biggest habit, as his key to happiness, as his unspoken words, even as his breath and he himself.

I have to admit that owing to time constraints and many ongoing projects, I am unable to give time to creative writing as much as I should. So, after a long time, here it is.

VERY IMPORTANT TO NOTE: Yes, you can share this work with proper attribution. But, please seek permission before using this work (not including the photo), partially or fully. YOU CAN NOT USE THE PHOTO. Believe me, asking is better than ending up in court or facing public shaming on social media. Thanks for understanding.

Women in India

“यत्र नार्यस्तु पूज्यन्ते रमन्ते तत्र देवताः ।
यत्रैतास्तु न पूज्यन्ते सर्वास्तत्राफलाः क्रियाः ॥”
– मनुस्मृति

“The divine are extremely happy where women are respected; where they are not, all actions are fruitless.” – Manusmriti

All the women who are reading this, I beg for your forgiveness. I hope this International Women’s Day brings about a change, not just in words, but in actions too.

It was on the morning of 17th December 2012, I trembled as I read the gory details of what was done to Nirbhaya the previous night. How could men do those things to a woman? Were they men, after all? And weren’t they born to women? And Aruna Shanbaug, ever heard of her? Before dying, she spent forty three years in a vegetative state in Bombay hospital. Her only fault was she was alone in the basement of the hospital where she used to work as a junior nurse.

In India, five women get raped every hour, seven get assaulted every ten minutes. From worshiping the feminine form as the source of creation to committing unfathomable crimes against her, we as a society have deteriorated a long way. From revered Goddesses to not even as equals and objects of pleasure, how did this fall happen? This calls for some soul-searching as a civilization.

In 9,000BC, some eleven thousand years ago, emerge the first evidences of humans doing agriculture for the first time in the Indian subcontinent. Till then, humans had been hunter-gatherers, leading a primarily nomadic lifestyle. They would seasonally move up and down the subcontinent in search of food. Agriculture was a serious affair, the fields needed to be tended to, and the crops needed to be watered. And in this transitory phase, just when they were starting to hone their skills in agriculture, the humans of the subcontinent faced a new challenge. How to be hunter-gatherers and farmers at the same time?

Because the women were not as strongly built as their male counterparts, given their existence by nature was for a different purpose, the answer was obvious. The women stayed back and started to tend to the agricultural fields, while the men ventured out, at first to hunt/gather, and later in history to explore and conquer. There was the foundation of our civilization as a matriarchal one. And it functioned with women at the center, everything else revolving around them. Given the large role women played at that time in procreation and keeping the household sorted, they began to be revered as Goddesses. Progressively, women took over all the intellectual jobs/vocations, those which weren’t physically as demanding and did not include much travelling, and allowed them to act as the foundation of a household.

The early invaders of this civilization did not have much success, not because of the lack of their military prowess, but because the foundation of this civilization, its smallest unit, the household remained intact, thanks to the above design. Over the period, they changed their tactics and went after the very foundation itself. When the women were attacked, the men didn’t have a choice but to protect them, and hence they kept them inside the houses. After a few generations, the act of protection became “traditions”, and then followed the ill-practices of purdah and sati. As time passed women lost their rightful place in our societies, a seat above rest of us all, earned by them for being creators themselves.

We as a civilization failed them, and continue to do so even today!

First of all, women don’t need equal rights as men. Because, equal right would be equal in true sense if men too are capable doing things that women do, including managing a household, taking care of everyone’s needs and child birth. As a man myself, I am incapable. So, when feminists shout for equal rights, I cringe and rightly so!

Secondly, women were created better than men, and any objectification or anything considered demeaning in the household and outside needs to be dealt with sternly. The mindset that women as someone inferior needs to be shunned.

And lastly, just let her be. Stop ogling!

Remember, we can’t be the Vishwaguru if we keep ill-treating the source of creation itself.

Innocence — A small girl smiling for the camera on the hanging bridge across the Bhagirathi river, in Nautela, Uttarakhand.

In frame: A small girl smiling for the camera. Her smile could qualify for borderline grinning. I was busy taking photographs on the hanging bridge across the Bhagirathi river, in Nautela, Uttarakhand when I saw her and her tiny tot friends crossing. They were really fascinated by the camera in my hand.

ଘରବାହୁଡା

ସବୁ ସନ୍ଧ୍ୟାରେ ସଜବାଜ ହୁଏ ଗତକାଲିର ନିରାଶାକୁ ଭୁଲି,

ବାର ବର୍ଷ କାଳ ଅପେକ୍ଷାରେ ତୋର ହେଇଟି ଆସିବୁ ବୋଲି।

ମାଆ ମୋର କୁହେ, “ଝିଅ ଲୋ, ସେ ଆସିବନି ଆଉ ଫେରି”,

ହେଲେ ମୁଁ ଆସି ଠିଆ ହୁଏ ଦୁଆରେ ହେଲେ ଯେତେ ବି ଡେରି।

ଗାଁକୁ ଫେରନ୍ତି ସାଙ୍ଗ ସାଥି ହେଲେ ତୋର ସେତେ ସମୟ କାହିଁ,

ମନ୍ଦିର ତୋଳାରେ ବ୍ୟସ୍ତ ଅଛୁ ତୁ, ଆଉ କୋଉଠି ତୋ ଧ୍ୟାନ ନାହିଁ।

ତୋ ମୁକୁତା ହାର ଗଳାରେ ମୋର, ସିଏ ବି ଗଲାଣି ଥକି,

ସତେ ଯେମିତି ପଚାରେ ମୋତେ, “ସେ ଆଉ ଆସିବନି କି?”

ସବୁ ସନ୍ଧ୍ୟାରେ ଠିଆ ହୁଏ ବୋଲି ଗାଁ ଲୋକ କହିଲେଣି କେତେ କଥା,

କେହି ଡାକିଲାଣି ମୋତେ ଅଳସକନ୍ୟା ତ ଆଉ କିଏ ଡାକେ ଅଭିସାରିକା।

ବାର ବର୍ଷ ତଳେ ଯାଇଥିଲୁ ତୁ, କହିଲୁ ଫେରିବି କିଛି ଦିନରେ,
ମନ୍ଦିର ତୋଳା ତୋର ସରିନି ଆହୁରି, ଘରକୁ ଜଲଦି ଫେରେ।

Abhisarika — A sculpture of a lady waiting with half the door open, with a smile on her face. You can see this on the south side of Konark temple, in Odisha, India.

The Odia poem I wrote above is called “ଘରବାହୁଡା”, (pronounced as ghaw-raw-baa(as in baba)-hu(as in who)-da(as in dark), which means homecoming. A fiction based poem, the central character is a woman, who has been separated from his male consort or husband for twelve long years, because he is a sculptor by profession, and has been summoned by the King of the land, for construction of the Sun temple at Konark. She narrates how she dresses up every evening and stands near the door smiling, hoping against hope that he would come back, even though she had returned inside disappointed the previous evening. It has been twelve years and even her mom has now lost hope that he would ever return, but she stands and waits every evening, no matter how late. Even the pearl necklace that he had gifted her has become pale, as if tired of waiting for him and asking her whether he would ever return. Looking at her standing at the door every evening, people around her have starting thinking of her a dance girl, or a whore, in search of patrons. Then she goes on to urge him to come back home as soon as possible, regardless of the temple completion.

This sculpture, might be a figment of imagination of the sculptor, shows how his consort or wife might be waiting for him to return. By the time he must have finished this sculpture, he must have been away from home for twelve long years, or slightly more. Did you notice the smile on the figurine’s face? This was how the sculptor must have imagined to see her upon his return home, with a smile on her face.

1200 architects and sculptors took twelve years to build the Sun temple at Konark and it was finished in 1256 AD. King Narasimha Deva III spent 40cr gold coins to build this architectural marvel, the cost also included that of land reclamation from the sea (you heard that right!), as it is believed that the temple was built in the sea. There are many legends and stories associated with Konark, which I am saving for some other time, with your permission of course!

In frame: A sculpture of a lady waiting with half the door open, with a smile on her face. You can see this on the south side of Konark temple, in Odisha, India. Konark temple is full of sculptures which showcase every human emotion, and not only erotica as is popularly believed. In the words of Ravindranath Tagore, “Here the language of stone surpasses the language of human.”

Crimson Love

I had fallen back, to witness the drama that was unfolding in the sky.

My guide called out my name from a distance….

It was only minutes ago that he was here,
Telling me stories from the yesteryear,
Tales of opulence, generosity, valor and love,
For an open heart it was like a treasure trove.

Of all the stories, one was of interest in particular,
A King, his Queen, and love that was spectacular,
A poetess and a singer, she could bring words to life,
Smitten by her, the King convinced her to be his wife.

They were living happily ever after, or so they thought,
A big army attacked the kingdom, and a battle fought,
The King was killed in battle, was what the messenger told,
The Queen drank poison, and her lifeless body went cold.

The medieval fort, a witness to her love story,
Her eternal love for him that took her to glory,
Walking on that pavilion even I felt as a part it,
Kind of gloomy that in the end they couldn’t unite.

I glanced beyond the ramparts, as I walked back…

Crimson sun set over the horizon,
Leaving behind a familiar emotion.

And as it went…

The hues that it painted and the winter sky it tore,
Colors of desire and pain, that touches one’s core.

More than a year has gone since…

Crimson, is the color that I remember of that evening,
Of longing, the want of belonging and a love undying.

Crimson Love, ‘t was!

Drama in the sky — Brilliant hues of the winter sky just after the sunset, as seen from Roopmati pavilion in Mandu

I had earlier written a Hindi poem on Roopmati and called it “Jauhar”. You can read it here.

Mandu, or Mandav was capital of erstwhile kingdom of Malwa. Mandu is dotted with love tales of Sultan Baz Bahadur of Malwa, and his queen consort Roopmati.

Kingdom of Malwa used to be a vassal of the Mughals, and had declared indepedence taking advantage of the instability that ensued just after Akbar had taken control.

Akbar then sent his foster brother Adham Khan and a large contingent of the Mughal army to subdue Malwa. Adham Khan, who had by then heard of Roopmati’s enchanting beauty, had resolved to defeat Malwa and take her as a prized possession of his harem.

Baz Bahadur faced Adham Khan and the Mughals in Sarangpur with a small contingent. Baz Bahadur’s contingent was no match for the mighty Mughals and he escaped after being defeated.

Adham Khan then marched on to Mandav. Thinking that Baz Bahadur was slained in the battle, Roopmati poisoned herself, as she could not have seen another man in her life. Such was her love.

In due time, Adham Khan was executed by Akbar. Baz Bahadur surrendered to Akbar and was in return made the mansabdar of Malwa.

And for Roopmati, her love and loyalty for Baz Bahadur still fascinates imagination of the new generation of tourists to Mandu.

In frame: Brilliant hues of the winter sky just after the sunset, as seen from Roopmati pavilion in Mandu, Madhya Pradesh, India. Roopmati pavilion was built by Sultan Baz Bahadur for Roopmati, so that she could Narmada darshan everyday (one of her pre-conditions to her marriage with him). Narmada flows at a distance, in the plains.

Me too!

The sun had hidden behind the highrises for quite sometime now, and it was starting to get dark. The slum by the side of the polluted lake was getting ready for Diwali, in its own way.

“Kali, give Debu something to eat.”, said Kartik, Kali’s father. “He guided me home from the theka again today”, he said in a slurry voice, before falling on the ground, missing the soiled mattress by some distance. Kali was Kartik’s only child. Kartik, a widower, was a rickshaw puller in the city by the day and an alcoholic at sunset. After the days work, he would go to the theka on the periphery of their slum and spend almost all of his day’s earnings on country liqour. Kali had already seen more than her fair share of life, so her father’s alcoholism was something Kali was least concerned about.

Kali was married off at fourteen to Shambhu, a man twice her age. Shambhu was a migrant construction worker in the city. After the initial trauma of getting married at such a young age, her life was slowly turning for the better. She gave birth to Roshan, a son, when she was sixteen, a healthy child but for a medical condition which turned him blind at night. Two years back on the day of the Diwali, Kali was decorating their shanty with earthen diyas, when one of their neighbours came running and broke the news of Sambhu’s death in a road accident. Sambhu had gone to work on Diwali for the double bonus. Six months pregnant with her second child then, Kali was broken. She had no choice but to come and live with her father. Kartik was living alone after his wife had passed away, immediately after marrying Kali off. It was at her father’s place that Kali gave birth to her daughter, Chandini.

Kartik had taken to drinking after his wife died and was not in a position to take care of the recently widowed Kali and her children. So, Kali started working as a domestic help in nearby highrise,s to put food on her children’s plate and to give them an education.

Today was the day of Diwali, again. Debu, a middle-aged man, had started accompanying Kartik only about a month back. It was a bond of friendship made over alcohol, and would evaporate as does alcohol when left in open, or as it does in the hangover the next morning. When in his senses, Kartik wouldn’t strike a friendship with a man like Debu, a lecherous man. There were rumours about Debu having sexually assaulted many women. People said he wouldn’t even leave young girls alone. And Kali could sense that Debu had been eyeing her since the day he first accompanied Kartik.

Roshan was playing outside with other kids from the slum, he would return when the daylight is about to fade. Chandini was sleeping on the makeshift hammock made from one of Kali’s torn sarees, hanging from the celing. Kartik had passed out on the floor with an open mouth, after he returned that evening, his saliva starting to fall on the ground. Kartik won’t wake up before morning now. Debu, not as drunk as Kartik, sat there on the floor, staring at Kali’s back as she was getting him food. And Kali could feel Debu staring at her from behind.

As she put the plate down, Debu pushed the plate away and grabbed hold of Kali’s hand and pulled her towards him. Kali tried to resist but eventually fell on him. Before she could give out a cry for help, Debu was on top of her and had his left hand on her mouth, muffling whatever sound she could muster. With his right hand, Debu pulled Kali’s saree up until he bared her lower half. Kali was trying her best to push him away with both her hands, but Debu succeeded in forcing himself between her legs and started to unzip his pants. The stench was unbearable for Kali, the smell of country liqour mixed with that of Debu’s sweat, and the fact that he hadn’t taken bath probably in days, and his shirt hadn’t been washed in at least a month. Kali almost passed out.

Trying to get out of Debu’s evil clutch, Kali tried one last time and threw her arms up, trying to get hold of something with which she could hit him. Her hands moved frantically on the floor as Debu was unzipping his pants. Her right hand fell on a brick, which Roshan had brought from somewhere as he wanted her to make a doll’s house for him. While biting her teeth, with one swing of her right hand she picked up the brick and brought it on the back of Debu’s head with all the energy that was left. The motion of her right hand stopped with a muffled thud, and Debu’s grunts sounded more like a wounded swine, before his body turned cold and flaccid. A stream of thick warm blood from the back of Debu’s head started falling on Kali’s face. She wiped the blood with her left hand as her vision got blurry. Kali laid there for few minutes with Debu on top of her. All she could hear was bursting of crackers from outside. She couldn’t hear Debu’s breath even after trying to focus.

She pushed Debu’s body away and got up. She couldn’t see properly because of Debu’s blood in her eyes. All she could see were shapes and lights when they were bright enough. She stumbled her way out of the shanty to wash blood off her eyes. As soon as she stepped outside, she could hear Roshan. He was pointing at the bright fireworks on the other side of the lake.

“Maa, see fireworks! But I can’t see any colors.”, he said.

“Me too, beta!”, Kali replied, as she walked towards the bucket of water kept outside their shanty.

This short story is my attempt to give voice to #metoo stories, incidents of sexual harassment from that section of the society which does not have a respectable living condition, let alone an internet connection.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

In frame: Fireworks on the bank of Hussain Sagar in Hyderabad, Telangana, India.

Nine parts of One

Goddess Durga during Durga Puja of 2017 at Hyderabad Bengali Samiti, Hyderabad, Telangana

So big and black a void it was, you could lose everything,
Even the most significant, would seem like nothing.

Into the emptiness of the universe she was summoned,
To lay a strong foundation, we know today as the creation.

The universe that you know as it is today,
She created it in a past far far away.

She then resided in the sun and in the stars,
Emanating light that could wipe out scars.

To marry Shiva, She would be born to a mighty King,
As austerity, from the world She would be abstaining.

As the daughter of the mountain She would be born again,
She would be so fair, not just superficially as others feign.

Married to Shiva again, the half moon would adorn Her head,
Mother to a child, armies of the Gods who eventually led.

Summoned to defeat the dark forces when everything else would fail,
She came as the deadly dark night without leaving behind a trail.

One last demon was left before goodness prevailed,
The demon of disguise who She finally had killed.

She is the saviour, since the days of the time immemorial,
Even by Gods she has been invoked to help good to prevail.

This poem is my tribute to the nine forms of Adi Parashakti or, as we know her today, Shakti, worshipped during the nine days of Navaratri. The nine forms of Shakti who are worshipped during Navaratri, are: 1. Shailaputri, 2. Brahmacharini, 3. Chandraghanta, 4. Kushmanda, 5. Skandamata, 6. Katyayani, 7. Kaalratri, 8. Mahagauri, 9. Siddhidatri. Together they are also called Navadurga. The image of Shakti worshipped during the Navaratri/Durga Puja is actually that of Katyayani. To read more about the Navadurga please here.

In frame: Goddess Durga during Durga Puja 2017 at Hyderabad Bengali Samiti, Hyderabad, Telangana.

Love story 1 – Act I: Of bad tea, and good coffee!

He made his cup of morning tea, and sat down to work on his blog. “I make awesome tea”, he thought after taking the first sip, taking pride in his tea making capabilities. He wasn’t yet done basking in his pride, he heard her voice, like every time.

And like every time, this time too her voice said, “You make horrible tea!” Lest she knew, that whenever she was around, all his attention was focused on her, and not on the tea, that he was making. And he would eventually end up spoiling the tea, every single time.

But, he had his moment of glory. It was a long two months wait for him, since she had changed her job and moved cities. When she was with him, she was a part of everything he did, every plan he made, knowingly or unknowingly. Though he had been preparing for her move, it was still painful. And after two months, he paid her a visit.

“You make good coffee!”, she said as she sipped from her cup. “Why the tea you made was atrocious every single time, when I came down to your place”. He had taken special care not to screw up the coffee this time. Giving it all the attention, even her share of his attention. And received an appreciation for it, from her, one person he valued the most. They just sat there, sipping coffee, the coffee he made. He was going back, with promises of returning soon.

That was a year back! One long year. It is strange how things normalise or seem so, over one year. Memories are in black and white they say. The only colour he could remember was that of the stain of her red lipstick on the cup.

And, only if he had known that he was seeing her for the last time, he would have screwed up the coffee too.

**END OF PART I**

Wondering what happened to her? All in good time, my friends! You got to wait for the next part, right?

Let’s call it “A tough call!”…..

/Disclaimer: A work of fiction. Any resemblance to any character living or dead is purely “coincidental”./

In frame: Moonmoon Sharma, a good friend and a talented model.

Could you repeat that, Mr Capa?

“If your pictures are not good enough, you are not close enough.” – Robert Capa

Well, that’s what Robert Capa said. But, who was Mr Capa?

Robert Capa was the “greatest combat and adventure photographer” in history. If you are not in the photography business or have got nothing to do with cameras, you would probably not know him. An accidental photographer like many of us, he becamse a legend because of the way he dealt with his profession – dedication and commitment.

The said quote was in the context of war photography. Robert Capa lived and died during an age when there were no fancy photographic equipment. And in that age, more often than not, one had to walk in to the thick of action to get that appealing frame. We are talking about bombs going off all around, bullets whizzing past ears. That thick of an action! And it was this “getting close” part which helped Capa in capturing some of the most dramatic photographs of the wars that he covered.

How is the quote relevant for me in this age, when we have all the fancy equipment we can think of: super-zoom telephoto lenses, the best sensors, and what not? How is it relevant for me when I have not seen a live combat in my entire life? Combat as in when people are trying to kill each other! And most importantly, how is it relevant in my life? Read on for the revelation!

Capa’s quote in the context of photography:

On a scale of one to telephoto lenses, how lazy are you? That’s a weird scale, isn’t it? Not when we are discussing photography.

First, let’s all agree that photography is all about interactions with subjects. Alright? The goodness of the photograph is directly proportional to how well the photographer has interacted with the subjects. If the broad genre is people, then it becomes interaction with people, and if the broad genre is wildlife and/or nature, then it becomes interaction with the nature (insects, trees, birds and animals included). Simply put, the photographer needs to get involved with her/his subjects. And one cannot get involved with the subjects without getting closer, can (s)he?

For me, capturing people was always difficult. I was shy by nature. I was not comfortable talking to strangers. For this reason, most of the times I came across as arrogant. When I say capturing people, I do not mean staying in my comfort zone, taking out that telephoto lens and start capturing people from far off. And then, out of those thousands of photos chose one that is reasonably good and call it “candid”. Well, nothing wrong in that! Nothing wrong other than the fact that I would be bull-shitting, if I say “I capture people”. So, to challenge myself, I took up making portraits.

The photographs where the subjects look right at the viewer, I find these photographs as most intriguing. I feel these are the photographs which connect with the viewer instantly. And to capture those, the subject must be aware, and one needs to abandon all the inhibitions and ask for permission from a total stranger. That is the thrill part!

And that is the level of involvement (“getting close” in Capa’s words) one needs, irrespective of the genre of photography. All or nothing, I tell you!

With time, as I develop my skills of making a portrait, I am also developing my people skills. Now, I do not mind approaching a total stranger and ask for permission to make a portrait. If it is a “yes”, you can see the result in the portrait above. And if is a “no”, I take it in the stride and keep working on my smile.

While making portraits, how do I know how close is close enough? Well, definitely not so annoyingly close that I am encroaching my subject’s personal space. But close enough to capture the right emotions.

Below is yours truly in action, while making the portrait above. That close is close enough, I think.

I have never been caught in action, except for this one time, all thanks to my good friend Amit Kumar Singh.

Capa’s quote in the context of life:

I am going to tweak that original quote slightly.

“If your life is not interesting enough, then you are not living it from close enough.”

Well, you are alive, aren’t you? And what part of “being alive” do you find not interesting?

More about Robert Capa:

Capa lived and died in an age when there were no fancy photography equipment, in an age when photographers had to “make” photographs. Yes, he died at a young age of 40 back in 1954, when he stepped on a landmine while covering the French Indochina war. He had a love story too! He was engaged to Gerda Taro, another combat photographer, who was killed in the Spanish civil war in 1937. Capa contributed primarily to Life magazine. He clicked some of his most famous photos when he accompanied Allied troops during D-day invasion, in World War II. He was the co-founder of Magnum Photos. For all his association with war and death, here is his second most famous quote:

“I hope to stay unemployed as a war photographer till the end of my life.” – Robert Capa

In frame: A flower seller in Gudimalkapur flower market, Hyderabad, Telangana, India. I initiated the talk by asking if I could take pictures of the marigold flowers she was selling, and she agreed. After the photographing the marigolds, I asked if I could make her portrait, and she agreed but said it is going to cost me. So, we bargained and settled for a “nominal” amount. So much for people skills.

Also, I have used a 3-step Brenizer technique here, for the first time. These are three photographs from top to bottom merged in to one.

My tribute to the womankind!

My first post on my own domain!

And what better way to start it than paying a tribute to the womankind – the creators, beautifiers and managers of life around us.

The featured photograph is a collage of the whole series I did on the occasion of “International Women’s Day”. The feature was named “Her point of view”, and the idea was to capture eyes of women, signifying their point of view, which I believe is ignored by many of us.

“Her point of view” series was an amazing experience. This idea came to me in February and I approached complete strangers, colleagues and friends with this idea and saw a fair bit of rejections too. The rejections were mainly by strangers, owing primarily to their scepticism that resulted from a stranger with a camera approaching them for a portrait shot.

There were some rescheduling too – and this project being for women, the least I could have done was manage my time according to the availability of my amazing models.

On the other hand, this project helped me in gaining valuable insight in to woman psychology. I will not be wrong if I claim that I understand women better today, than I did a few month’s ago.

Special thanks to the girls!