Passions were running high that Friday night. A 19-year-old flirted flagrantly with a young cashier at the supermarket. Outside, meaningful stares and intentional encounters of chance abounded. I could literally smell it in the air - the heady scent of lust, longing and pheromones. I was almost afraid that the tall, rakishly handsome man who'd been trying to catch my eye, would smother me with uninvited kisses on the sidewalk. So, I hurried home as fast as I could - away from the web of vice that my hot red lipstick appeared to have spun. Why did I have to wear red that evening? Pink, brown, purple, black. Anything but unabashed, come-hither red.
Ink-stained Fingers.
The creative writing journal of a journalist, traveller & to-be novelist
Winter
Every year, I feel the bite of winter anew.
The clouds of mist and the changing view,
the morning frost and the silvery greys
breathe whispers of short but melancholy days.
The melting snow and the bare-boned trees
Line the yards, the parks, and entire cities.
Autumn's last leaves offer a final escape
From winter's monochromatic landscape.
And when nothing of colour remains,
Moondust will leave behind its wintry stains.
A life spent in hiding
I have lived
A life spent in hiding
From people
From shadows
From all the myriad things
That strike fear into my timid heart
But I do so love this cave
This cocoon that I've built for myself
Where it's dark and lonely
But ever so peaceful.
And like a tortoise,
I carry my cocoon wherever I go
It keeps me safe
It keeps me calm
When I can't say the same of the world.
It has been my life's mission
To put into words
The things that don't have a name
Like this feeling
That maybe I haven't lived enough
But there is no 'Enough' when it comes to Life.
There is only Death.
My Happiest Memory
I have spent 32 years on this planet. Yet, whenever I close my eyes and think of a time when I was the happiest, the answer is always the same. When I was 8, I used to go the local swimming pool with my dad and elder sister. Dad would give me swimming lessons while my sister swam laps all by herself. She was already an expert. I was in no hurry, often content to just float on the water and gaze up at the sky. Being in the cool water in hot summers – it was so rejuvenating. And since we always visited in the evening, the sun would inevitably set when we drove back home.
My sister was usually nice enough to let me take the front seat. I’d roll the window down (I could be trusted not to do silly things like stick my arm out) and rest my head on the windowsill, feeling the breeze sift through my hair. I’d watch the lines on the road whiz by and the gorgeous colours in the evening sky. And I’d dream. I’d dream of one day writing a novel, becoming famous, and doing great things.
Every evening when we drove back from the swimming pool, I was convinced that I was destined for greatness. Life and its possibilities seemed limitless as I sat beside my dad and watched the world go by in all its twilit glory. The sensation of what a beautiful thing it was to be alive filled me till I felt breathless with joy. And I experienced all of this in silence and with a smile on my lips. When we went home, I’d tell my mum and no one else.
Some kind of alchemy
I sing for you, my growing toddler
And sometimes, your eyes seem as enthralled
as that 4 month old who used to lie back
unable to do much else
yet, content (most times)
to gaze at mama's silly antics.
And I know it's you, still
and it was you, then
but somehow, every version of you lives on
independently.
Your growth is some kind of alchemy
A transformation not quite linear
And every day, I have the gift of a new you
With the bittersweet knowledge of past yous
Because every you, my darling
Has been more perfect than the bluest sky and the sweetest apple
Every you has been a reminder
That there is nothing mundane about humanity
And everything magical about growth.
Culture: The root cause of social evils in India
While scrolling through my Facebook timeline today, I came across some outrage regarding a Bombay High Court ruling that pressing a minor’s breasts was not a sexual offence if there was no disrobing involved (article link: https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/mumbai/sexual-assault-under-pocso-needs-direct-skin-to-skin-contact-bombay-hc/articleshow/80435122.cms).
As disgust, fear, and disbelief knotted inside me, I felt for an instance transported back to my days as a an adolescent and then a young woman in Mumbai, India. The newspapers were inevitably riddled with stories of rape and molestation involving minors, babies, animals, the elderly…there seemed to be no lines left uncrossed by the perverted sections of society. What’s worse, I lived that reality every day of my life – groping incidents, men following, staring, name calling on the streets, the railway station, the bridges, the bars, outside the airport in the wee hours…they were the norm rather than the exception.
Over time, I found ways to minimize such incidents. The patriotism I used to feel as a child was slowly taken over by a deep sense of mistrust and fear. I felt no kinship with a large chunk of my countrymen. And I wasn’t the only woman who felt that way. In 2013, I travelled to London and Paris on my own. There was a moment or two when I did not feel a 100% safe. But other than that, I felt like I was in paradise. I could walk alone in the night and not feel like there was a threat in the air. I didn’t feel the need to jump at shadows, look over my shoulder or hold my handbag close to my chest. Most people barely noticed me and there was no place frequented only by men (which is the case with many shady corners in India after dark).
I was depressed when I returned home. I knew now that the reality I lived was not the reality women had to face all over the world. Perhaps there were places where it was worse. That did not justify the state of affairs in my own country. I didn’t want to hear “it’s not as bad as the Arab countries.” I didn’t want to hear “no country is perfect”. And I most definitely did not want to hear that women had to be careful. Why? Weren’t we a civilized society where women no longer needed anyone’s “protection”? For the sake of my own sanity, I stopped reading the newspapers. I stopped getting into debates I couldn’t win. I stopped reacting to comments by sexist trolls on countless online forums. I simply began to plan my escape.
There was a time when not a single day went by when I didn’t feel smothered by the indignities that women in India have to suffer. And what is their reward for somehow surviving all the abuse and the general denial (from both men and women) and the apathy of the courts? Their reward is a lifetime of servitude under the guise of marriage.
We Indians love to crow about the fact that we take care of our elderly, unlike the “west”. Well, how many married couples do you know who live with the wife’s parents? I don’t know of a single one. It is a part of the esteemed “Indian culture” for women to move into their husband’s parents’ home after marriage. And then they must serve not only their husbands but also their in-laws and at times, even brothers in law. So if you want to avoid spending your old age alone, you better give birth to a son. Alas, nature does not work that way. And it can happen that you keep producing daughter after daughter. And daughters must be married off, the expenses of which you must bear. And daughters cannot take care of you when you are old and unwell. Little wonder then that India has one of the highest female foeticide incidents in the world.
Anyone who doesn’t realize how closely culture and social evils are linked needs to have a reality check. My rant could go on and on but I know there will be those who will find ways to justify and twist every single point I make. One thing is for sure – change is slow and hard. And I don’t see it happening as long as we keep conforming to a societal model where a woman’s parents are somehow less important, where being older somehow entitles you to blind respect and obedience (case in point: after marriage, many women cannot even lift a finger without the approval of their mothers in law), where the suppression of women is openly portrayed in mass media and turned into entertainment, and where a Baghban will touch countless emotional chords but one post like this will fire up all the so-called “proud Indians” to speak up against this anti-national, west-worshipping spawn of the English devil.
Of course, I no longer feel these emotions on a daily basis. But now and then, I still fear for the little girls in India. I hope they wake up to a different reality tomorrow.
Pain and poetry
No photos of autumn this time
Post-Shower Bliss
Rainy days
Not a native speaker
I don't want a tribe.
Heimat
In German, the word 'heimat' is something akin to 'homeland'. Don't go mistaking it for nationalism - its origins and implications go much deeper than that. It's the place where you feel at home, the feeling of warmth and belonging that you carry in your heart wherever you go. Heimat could be even a person or a memory or just a fragrance that triggers a flood of sensations. But usually, when people are asked, 'what is your heimatland' - they will answer that it is the place where they were born and/or grew up in, which is normally their motherland or country of origin. Me - I've never felt satisfied with that answer.
India is not my heimat - at least not in the way that others seem to resonate with their birth countries. You see, I didn't have a lot of friends growing up. Nor was my family overtly religious or culture-conscious. My fondest memories are of going for walks in the garden with my mom and reading endlessly in the verandah on sunny afternoons. So, for me, heimat is nature. Heimat is a sunny afternoon, quiet and swollen with the fragrance of flowers. Heimat is all those countries and places and people that I read about, dreamt of, and imagined that, were perhaps living fuller lives than me.
I was never very chatty with strangers. In fact, I think, over time, I lost track of what I could possibly say to my classmates. I endured school, even if I was good at acing my subjects. College was slightly better. Working life brought with it a sense of weariness as my rose-tinted glasses were forcibly taken away. Growing up as a girl in India wasn't a bed of roses. At home, there was equality, freedom, love, and spirituality. Outside, there was noise, pollution, crowds, molestation, religious fanaticism, patriarchy, stench and squalor.
I travelled as much as I could, to escape as often as was possible. I sat alone at cafes and wrote poetry. I watched dazzling sunsets and tried to romanticise all my experiences, however little they were. But I only feel at home now that I am away from India. It is a feeling that is hard to explain to most, irrespective of whether the listener is a fellow countryman or a foreigner. But yes, my mother's voice is heimat. And now, also the embrace of my husband. Heimat is also the silly hope that someday all of humanity will rise above pettiness and self-destruction.
A Plan For My Old Age
There was a time when the average lifespan for human beings was not more than 60 years. In some ways, it was a blessing. One did not have to reckon with 30-40 years of old age, often compounded by poor health, dwindling finances, and inevitable dependence on one's offspring. Of course, life is like a drug, and we can never have enough of it. On the positive side, post-retirement life is an opportunity to sit back and relax, unimpeded by the stress of a 9-to-5 job, child rearing, and the indefatigable ambitions of youth.
There are inspiring stories (and I personally know many) of senior citizens travelling the world, giving back to society, and living to the fullest until the very end. But equally, there is the problem of elderly people unable to pay mounting medical bills, being hoodwinked by children who sometimes strip them of their houses, and conversely, throttling their offspring and children in law with their own desires, unending demands, and need for control.
Take a look at the number of Indians contending with the problem of joint families, an unpalatable concept for many women (and men, though they rarely seem to voice it) used to independence, free will, and the joys of living on one's own terms. After all, how can one be expected to make a living, tend to one's children, find time for recreation, and also manage to look after elderly parents with psychological and/or physical ailments? Life is not meant to be so punishing. And so, here's what I plan for my old age.
1. I will not live with my children or force them to live with me once they get married. In fact, I might have a problem if they wanted to do so. I value my lifestyle and in my sunset years, I imagine that I'd want a quiet life with much contemplation. Why would I want to put up with their busy schedules and babysit their children even when I didn't have the energy? I would love, however, to get to know my son/daughter-in-law as a friend, be there for my children always, and live close by, so I could spend time with my grandchildren occasionally.
2. I would try my best to be as fit and healthy as possible. This of course must begin now, with regular exercise and a nutritious diet that will keep diseases at bay when old age weakens my immunity. I will ensure I have health insurance, walk regularly, get sunlight daily, and solve crosswords and learn new skills to avoid mental degeneration. I will try my best to keep up with technology, although I promise not to intrude into the lives of those who matter to me. If it happens that despite my best efforts I need constant care and attention, I would be more than willing to live in a nursing home, which brings me to my next point.
3. I will save enough for my sunset years. I will make sure I am dependent on no one, and have enough equity and investments to see me through my post-retirement life. I want to be able to finance my stay in a nursing home if required. I would also want to travel, and not be a burden on my children as far as possible.
4. I promise never to have a superiority complex because of my age alone. Everyone grows old - what's the achievement in that? Everyone deserves to be respected and heard - young and old. And in fact, each decade ushers in changes that requires us to evolve. Hanging on to the past and expecting the new generation to adhere to outdated customs - what satisfaction would that bring me?
5. If in spite of everything, I end up living under the same roof as my child, I would never try to assert myself as the head of the house or interfere in their decisions. I would give them the privacy they needed, and expect the same for myself. Young children can be noisy, and if that bothered me, I'd go for a walk in the park instead of asking them to stop enjoying their lives.
Tell me, what, in any of the points mentioned above is unethical, immoral, or evil-natured? Yet, I don't see anyone reflecting such opinions in today's India - be it the parents who seem to find illogical pleasure in poking their noses into their children's marriages, or the sons who fervently condemn 'western ideals' of living alone. Here is some food for thought - life is short, and love can exist even with some space. In fact, relationships flourish when there is room to breathe. What do you think?
India: Is It Really Unity in Diversity?
I am critical of my country because I know it well. I am not anti-national, nor am I nationalistic. On an intellectual level, I don't believe in divisive concepts like countries, religions, or sub-communities. But on a practical level, I know such demarcation is necessary for the smooth functioning of society, and the administration of territories. What irks me is how emotional we get about these things. The place you were born, the religion you were born into, the sex you were granted - ALL of these are matters of chance. They do not make you. They only give you a framework to operate in.
India is actually a shining example of oneness over differences, with its numerous languages, customs, and states. So when I see the subtle imposition of North Indian ideals on the whole of the country, I can't help but be appalled. Whether you look at movies in popular culture or the agenda pursued by the current government, it seems that they would want all of us to become "Sanskaari" sari/dhoti-clad, temple-going, joint family-respecting, women-subjugating Hindu nationalists. But why?
India is a free land; a democracy, that is veritably on the path to becoming a global superpower. What place do such petty politics have in a nation backed by rich spiritual history and a tradition of tolerance espoused by Mahatma Gandhi, purportedly the Father of the Nation (yes, he was not perfect, but his contribution to India and the world is unparalleled)? I used to believe that the current generation would embrace open-mindedness and egalitarianism. But I see the same conversations that have always polluted our thinking - caste, religion, blind following of traditions, and unfair expectations from women.
I was once an idealist but I don't really know where the country will go from here. Here's praying for a better, wiser future, with less communal fanaticism and more focus on crime and poverty reduction, afforestation and wildlife preservation, cleanliness, and regard for personal space and choices. No country in the world is perfect, but the Scandinavian countries have consistently topped happiness indexes. And you know what - the reasons include good social support, financial and job security, affinity for the outdoors, work-life balance, trust, gratitude, and community spirit. Nothing to do with grating nationalism or changing city names to reflect a twisted image of what certain groups believe a country should be.
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I just want to breathe.
We're all Cocktails.
To be young again
Sorry Sabyasachi, but the Sari is Not all it's Cracked up to Be
Sorry Sabyasachi, but the sari isn't the glorious symbol of fine Indian culture that you make it out to be. And if you think less of an Indian woman if she doesn't know how to drape one, you are as rotten as the archaic, unfair and oppressive system that imposes this garment upon married women even as married men are free to don any outfit of their choice.
As a teenager, I always viewed the sari with a mixture of disquiet and longing. Longing, because of course it's a beautiful garment, and disquiet because it seemed unnecessarily complicated to wear and even more difficult to manage. Now as a grown woman, I can confirm that my disquiet was quite justified.
Yes, I can drape a sari but it is still the most uncomfortable outfit I have ever worn. And given a choice, I would probably never wear it. But you know what, Mr. Sabyasachi, I don't have an option. Like many other Indian woman, I am expected, nae, compelled to drape this tedious outfit on every festival, wedding, social function and even when older relatives come home. It is as though my modesty and virtue are concealed somewhere within the folds of the sari's pleats. And if I were to commit the blasphemy of wearing a salwar kameez (let's not even get into western wear), I would somehow be bringing shame on myself and the entire family.
Today, for me, the sari has become a symbol of oppression and subjugation. I am a modern Indian woman, born and brought up in Mumbai. But now I notice how in so many pockets of the city and beyond, women wear nothing but a sari. If you think that's because they are in love with this traditional Indian garment, I weep for your foolishness and naivete. Try and observe the envy with which they see girls skipping around in jeans, skirts and dresses. For them, these garments are as distant and unreachable as the shores of a foreign country.
Even in villages, you will see men strutting around in trousers and shirts. But no, married women must have their heads covered by a sari pallu. What gives society or any individual the right to dictate what another adult should wear? Perhaps men like you, who put mere clothing on a pedestal, even as that very item of clothing becomes a compulsion - inextricable from the role of a 'cultured' Indian woman.
Let me put it very frankly - a sari is inconvenient and uncomfortable. Yes, it is graceful and alluring. But maybe you should try spending a day and night in a sari before making the kind of judgmental, unfair statement that you did. How women cook and sleep in a sari day in and day out is beyond me. Even if it's made of cotton, a sari is just too much fabric to handle in the sweltering Indian weather. In your high society, women don saris for an hour or two during a party, and then go back to their comfy westerns. Not all women have that privilege.
Words like 'heritage' and 'culture' don't sound good coming from a privileged man who never has to put up with the dark and repressive side of Indian culture. Even today, women are expected not to speak up, to not cosy up to their husbands in public, to be demure, religious, great cooks, housekeepers and care-givers. Any other talent is immaterial and inconsequential. Any inclination towards atheism or tomboyishness is to be nipped in the bud. Kyunki log kya kahenge?
Lastly, to learn how to wear or not to wear a sari, to do anything or not to do it, is a woman's choice. And we couldn't care less what you think of it. So please keep your entitled and insensitive comments to yourself.
P.S.: I notice in your apology that you wanted to "call out women who say the sari makes them look older". You know what? Many kinds of saris do make us look older. And being a woman, I hate it. In a typical middle-class Indian family, married women cannot don strappy blouses and show off their busts the way celebrities do. The kind of saris they drape and the way they have to drape them - it IS boring. And just because you owe your livelihood and your renown to saris, it doesn't let you walk away from this reality. My own mother dislikes wearing a sari. And no, she has never worn a western outfit in her life.
Why just saris, I'd say CULTURE is not all it's cracked up to be. Some things are best left behind. And old is NOT always gold.
Peace.
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