Thoughts on Living Alone

Last year I moved to New Delhi for a few internships, and it was one of the best experiences of my life.

Sure, I’d been living away from home since I was 18. But living on campus had its perks. There was always food (free but not very tasty), and WiFi (the painfully slow kind). Living with my friends meant that I was never truly alone. And it didn’t hurt that home was just three hours away, not too far for desperate laundry runs.

Delhi was a little farther away from home, and without the safety net of a campus. And for the first time in my life, I was truly alone.

This is probably  the part where I should complain about the loneliness of being new to a city, and the isolation that urban spaces often create.

But living by myself gave me a glimpse of independence and self-sufficiency.

When you live with people, whether friends or family, you never really have time for yourself. All your waking hours are spent in interacting with the world around you, or consuming something, whether knowledge or entertainment. And for an emotionally repressed generation like ours, being left alone with our thoughts is downright unpleasant, like in this song.

But living alone has made me comfortable with myself in a way I’d never been before. If earlier time spent alone was time wasted, or just plain uncomfortable, it isn’t anymore. And I don’t feel the need to constantly occupy myself with a show, or social media, with conversations with people or a book. I can really breathe, and let myself be in a space I’ve created for myself. After a long time, I feel free. And it’s a beautiful feeling.

So I leave you with a question: What are your thoughts or experiences on living alone? Is hell other people, or  your own mind? And a hope that we can all find acceptance and comfort within ourselves.

Sexual Harassment in the Classroom

First published on Feminism in India.

When I was in 8^th grade, there was a new ‘joke’ spreading in my school. “Sone ka bhaav kya hai?” (What is the value of “sone”?) the boys would ask us girls, sniggering. The joke hinged on a crass pun, you see. Most of the girls would assume that ‘sona’ meant gold, and would respond accordingly. But ‘sona’ also meant sleeping. So what the guys were actually asking the girls was “What’s the price of sleeping with you?” or “What’s your rate?”

Classrooms are rarely free of ‘non-veg’ jokes and sexual innuendos. Cast your minds back to the good old school days, and your memories will be peppered with ridiculous songs (A and B sitting on a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G), words turned into cringe-worthy acronyms (IDIOT = ‘I Do Ishq Only Tumse’, a Hinglish version of ‘I love only you’), inappropriate and often offensive language (‘randi’ meaning prostitute and ‘gay’ among others) and uncomfortable physical contact.

WHILE MANY DISMISS THESE INSTANCES AS JUST PUBERTY, I CALL THEM THE BEGINNING OF NORMALIZED SEXUAL HARASSMENT.

There is a shared understanding of why this happens. That children are sitting ducks hit by the sudden wave of hormonal imbalance and biological change. They want to talk about sex, but no one else wants to talk about it. So the topic of sex becomes taboo, finding an outlet through humour and inappropriate touching. But while many dismiss these instances as a symptom of puberty, I call them the beginning of normalized sexual harassment.

Let me give you an example. When I was in 10^th grade, a boy in my class decided he liked me. Let us call him X. X would stare at me all day in class, making me self-conscious. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the disgust I felt when he tried to touch me. You would say there was nothing inappropriate about him touching my arm (which is all he did), but it was a bad touch, the kind that would bring a huge smile on his face, after which he would turn around and look at his friends, who nodded encouragingly. His hands would linger, and I would flinch, and pull away from him. But he would keep finding ways to touch me; during conversations, and while walking past me in the classroom, or in a crowded corridor.

AT NO POINT DID IT OCCUR TO ME THAT I COULD JUST SAY ‘NO’.

I wanted it to stop, but I did not dare to go tell the teachers or my parents, afraid that they would think I was a ‘bad girl’ who consorted with boys. Deeply troubled, I confided in my friends, who promptly began teasing me with him. “He’s doing that because he likes you!” they said. I was filled with disgust and shame. I was finding it difficult to focus on my studies, and I blamed myself for not being able to ignore the whole thing.

But at no point during this entire ordeal did it ever occur to me that I could just tell him to stop. That I could just say ‘No’. I finally got X to stop, by seeking help from his bulkier friend, Y. Y then proceeded to follow me around for a year, believing that I had ‘chosen’ him over X.

Looking back, this incident and my inability to handle it well seems ridiculous, trivial even. But it was all-consuming for a harrowed student preparing for her board exams. And if you think that these incidents are just harmless distractions, think again.

In 9th grade, a boy in my class had started molesting girls who had the misfortune of sitting on the bench in front of him, by groping their butt. No one said a word, except for one girl. Let us call her S. She got up from her seat in the middle of a lecture, and gave the boy a resounding slap. The teacher paused, called S to the table, spoke to her briefly, then did nothing. The next time S slapped him during a lecture, the teacher ignored the incident and continued teaching. In the course of that year, S slapped the boy five to six times. Of course responding to harassment with violence does not always end well. But back then S was my personal hero. Because she could do what I couldn’t. She could say ‘No’.

We don’t think of such instances when we talk about sexual harassment. It has been relegated to the domain of the public; the deserted streets, the high-spirited bars, the crowded trains. But we forget that sexual harassment and molestation can also take place indoors; within the boundaries of our own homes, and in classrooms.

India and Child Sexual Abuse

Unfortunately, India’s legal system is far from equipped to deal with the complexities of sexual harassment. Until five years ago there was no legislation to curb or even acknowledge the sexual abuse faced by minors in the country.

But a study conducted by Ministry of Women and Child Development in 2007 across 13 states showed that 53 percent of Indians between the ages of 5 and 18 reported facing some form of sexual abuse, out of which 53 percent of the cases were reported by males and 47 percent by females. The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (POCSO) law was finally passed in 2012, criminalizing child rape, harassment and exploitation for pornography. Now it is slowly garnering attention, with mainstream movies like ‘Kahaani 2‘ bringing the issue to the forefront.

UNTIL 5 YEARS AGO THERE WAS NO LEGISLATION TO CURB OR EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE.

But the discourse is still limited to minors being harassed by adults in positions of power and influence (such as relatives, family friends and teachers). A study in the schools of Goa in 2003 showed that 33 percent of students studying in 11^th grade said that they had been verbally abused by fellow-students in the past 12 months, while 18% reported physical abuse.

This kind of abuse has been normalized and often glorified in popular Bollywood movies, from the recent ‘street-harassment’ songs to the earlier ‘college-harassment’ ones. Songs like ‘Khud ko kya samajhti hai’ and ‘khambe jaisi khadi hai’ have normalized harassment of girls in colleges for being too rich, too smart or too fashionable.

The conversation around similar harassment in schools is negligible. There is a growing awareness about this in the US, where a survey showed that 48 percent of students faced some form of sexual harassment in the 2010-11 school year. But while US has acknowledged the importance of curbing abuse at a young age, India is still several steps behind.

Understanding Consent

The obvious step that India can take is to establish committees in educational institutions to address such grievances, like the ones made mandatory for work spaces. But this only serves as a band-aid to the problem, and a very poor one at that.

The first step towards addressing these issues is to acknowledge that these instances of sexual harassment do not appear out of the blue. They are symptoms of a much deeper problem – a lack of understanding of personal space and consent.

When our peers crack dirty sexual jokes in front of us because they think we are cool and one of them, we do not want to dispel this notion by expressing our discomfort. When someone stands a little too close for comfort while talking to us, we force ourselves to get used to it, because that is how they talk to everyone. These are minor negotiations that we start making in school, and continue making in our lifetime. We choose likability over comfort, because that is what we are taught to value.

This reflects back in our schools, where teachers themselves often fail to understand consent. In 7th grade, a boy sitting behind me in class would touch me at inappropriate places between the waist and shoulder (think sideboob). He did not understand why it was inappropriate for him to touch me there, when the boys did not mind it at all. In fact my annoyance seemed to encourage him further.

Fed up of his tactics, I walked up to the teacher one day and complained about him. But the teacher addressed the situation not by shouting at him or explaining what he was doing wrong, but by simply asking him to sit somewhere else. I went back to my seat feeling extremely dissatisfied. I knew this wouldn’t change anything. He would just torment another girl who might be too frightened to report him.

IN A CULTURE WHERE ALL SEXUAL CONTACT IS BAD SEXUAL CONTACT, TEACHERS DO NOT WANT TO BE THE ONES EXPLAINING SEX TO CHILDREN.

This is a pattern we see all through school, where issues of body and personal space are left unaddressed, and often ignored. This discourages students from sharing their concerns with the teachers, who themselves are unsure of how to deal with such incidents. In a culture where all sexual contact is bad sexual contact, they do not want to be the ones explaining sex to children.

The change we need will happen slowly, with seminars and workshops for teachers to sensitize them to the concepts of the body and consent. Maybe we can develop a set of guidelines that teachers could follow when such incidents occur, to ensure they are handled in a firm and sensitive manner.

Maybe we could have videos for students on consent and what is considered appropriate or inappropriate in the classroom, like the period video they show adolescent girls in school, but less annoying. A few non-profits are already working in this direction, by providing gender sensitization workshops for teachers. But looking at the state of educational institutions in our country, and their sheer number, we have a long way to go.

Towards a Better Future

Sexual harassment is only a small part of the abuse that can be faced by minors in schools today. I cannot even begin to enter the domain of the sexist, homophobic, racist and casteist jokes and slurs thrown around often. And with the rise of social media, the abuse becomes more creative and violent by the day. The continued acceptance of such humor shapes the way we look at others and ourselves. It creates divisions of us and them, and generates an atmosphere of intolerance.

If schools are our first step into modern society, then adolescence is the perfect time to cultivate ideas of inclusivity and acceptance. To build a more nuanced understanding of gender, sexuality and the body, and to weed out sexual violence from our vocabulary. If we are able to make our classrooms harassment-free, the deserted roads, the crowded trains and the entire internet would become much safer for us all.

A Musical Journey

As summer arrives to wreak havoc over the people of Mumbai, air-conditioned vehicles become the ideal choice of transportation. Move over, affordable and efficiently well-distributed network of local trains, buses and share autos. Metros, and cabs owned by large corporations are here to stay.

To be fair, taxis have always been an integral part of the city experience. But gone are the days of being baked alive in the kali-peelis (black and yellow taxis) of Mumbai. Now we sit in the luxury of air-conditioned cars, shared with strangers in a desperate attempt to save some money.

But I digress. This is not an article about the city’s changing landscape, or a horrible click-bait article about some stranger’s terrible experience in a cab (A girl took an Uber home. What happened next will blow your mind!). This is about a cab ride I had on an average day in the city. Although I did take an Uber home. And the experience was pretty amazing. Maybe I should rethink the title of this post…

So I was taking an Uber home. I had called up a friend while I waited for the driver to find my location. The car arrived on time, a feat in the smaller winding lanes of Mumbai with inaccurate location mapping. Confused at this punctuality, I cut the call, promising my friend that I’d call her back in a few minutes. The driver enthusiastically rolled down his window to greet me with a flourish. “Hello madam! Kaisi hai aap (How are you)?” I paused for a second, surprised by this rare display of affection by a stranger. He was a funny looking man with a funny smile. I wondered for a second whether he was nice or creepy. (Yes, this is a thought that crosses my mind at least ten times a day. If this is something you have to worry about too, meet me in the comments section and we’ll discuss our sorrows in detail. )

Now cab rides taken alone can lead to a range of experiences. The most horrific ones are well documented on the internet But usually they involve sitting in an uncomfortable silence and staring into your phone, while every small sound gets amplified in the tiny space. Sometimes the radio is on, and that puts you at ease. You can now shift your position in the cab without worrying about the farting sound that these seats often emit. Phew. You can enjoy the music of course, or be amused by the driver’s taste.

This driver seemed like a nice guy, and in a great mood. He immediately began chatting about the last fare he dropped before picking me up. I responded with the cursory replies of ‘oh!’ and ‘acha’ as I settled in my seat. I figured that once the car wound its way to the main road, and the driver had exhausted all topics of conversation, I could call my friend back.

But this guy wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon. Somehow he reached the topic of Bollywood, and asked me if I knew any songs. “Haanji (Yes)”, I answered. Any Mumbaikar worth their salt could proudly spout at least a few hits, even if they sounded like badly recited poems. “Do you know any Kishore Kumar songs?” he asked hopefully. “Of course!” I replied, a little offended by his question. I might look down upon the recent drivel that they’re passing off as songs, but I simply cannot unlearn the songs of my childhood. And Kishore Kumar was my childhood, sort of.

Suddenly, as if on cue, he began singing, “O mere dil ke chain…” His 70’s playback singer voice resonated in the tiny cab. After that, he kept singing song after song, informing me of the song’s name, its composer and lyricist, the film it played in, and the actors who lip-synced the song. For a while I kept glancing at my phone, but I was soon swept away in this wave of musical nostalgia. “Aap bhi kuch gaayiye… (Why don’t you sing something?)” he nodded encouragingly into the rear-view mirror.

Why not. “O mere sona re sona re sona re…” I began. He turned back, surprised. “Aap to chupi rustom nikali! Aapne bataya nahi aapko gaana aata hai. (You didn’t tell me you used to sing!)” “Haa..” I mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. I hadn’t sung this freely in a really long time. “Ruk kyu gayi? Gayiye… (Keep singing)” he said, and I did.

He started telling me more about his life. He was a singer on the side, singing at karaokes and recording songs. “I sing with many young people just like you. You shouldn’t give up on your talent.” he told me. “Keep it alive just for yourself.” I nodded my head, touched by his heartfelt advice. The moment passed. “Let’s sing a duet now!” he said. I nodded again, gleefully.

And so we sang till we reached our destination – my house. We both were a little sad when the journey ended. I didn’t say anything, of course, but I was still working within the realms of general appropriateness. This man had shed his inhibitions a long time ago. “Thoda dur nahi reh sakti thi aap (Couldn’t you live farther away)?” he asked, as the cab screeched to a halt. I laughed apologetically.

“Maybe we could sing together in a studio sometime” he said. “Yes…” I replied, feeling a sudden stiffness in my spine. I began gathering my bag and stepping out of the cab. “Don’t worry,” he said, sensing my unease. “I won’t call you or text you. You have my phone number na. Use apne phone ke kisi kone me save karke rakh dijiye. Kabhi man kiya to call kar dena. (Save it in some corner of your phone. Call me if you ever feel like singing again.)” I laughed again. “Sure.”

That day I went home humming a little tune under my breath. In fact my next few days were filled with music, more than they had ever been. I had come in contact with the purest love for music, and it touched my soul for a little while. But like the songs I was humming, the magic slowly faded, and my days returned to normal. I never did call the guy. But he remains in my mind, a happy soul with a musical heart, the funny looking man with the funny smile.

I’m a Prisoner of Kaajal, and I Love It!

My tormentor has many names; eye pencil, eye liner, eye color. Sometimes it looks like a pen so you can’t call it eye pencil, and the advertisements call it kaajal, but it’s apparently not kaajal. But let’s not delve into the confusing world of eye makeup more than we have to. For the sake of my sanity, and yours, let’s just call all of it kaajal. Because I’m a prisoner of that (mostly) black curve we draw under our eyes, and sometimes over our eyes, to make them pop, whatever that means.

Now I’ve never been one to high dive into the pool of makeup products and trends (as is evident from my earlier mini-rant). I was the girl who would be happy with dipping her toe into the water and calling it a  day. I’m talking about black kaajal and lip balms. And of course, flavored lip balms for those days when I felt a bit adventurous. I kept it simple, because I was fortunate enough to consider myself fairly pretty. And I was too lazy to make an effort.

Then I went to stay on a campus, and things changed considerably. When you live with people your age 24/7, you lose all sense of shame and decency. And because they see you at your most hideous (think uncombed hair, unshaven legs and armpits, bra-less and possibly covered in food crumbs), you lose all motivation to look good. But somewhere down the line, applying kaajal became as routine as brushing my teeth. Because those were the two things I would do before rushing for an early morning class.

But I didn’t realize how dependent I had become on this tiny little stick, until tragedy struck. A few months ago, I underwent Lasik surgery, to correct my eyesight. And just like I had to abstain from technology for a few days after the surgery, I had to abstain from wearing kaajal for a month.

Yes, a month. And although it seemed like a small price to pay, that month was, for lack of a better word, disastrous. My confidence decided to jump off a cliff, leaving me alone with self-image and body issues that I never knew I had. I would look at myself in the mirror with critical eyes; my eyes were too baggy, my face was too dull. I would actively avoid stepping out of the house, because I didn’t feel good about myself. And if I did, I would keep asking my sister or friends if I looked ‘bad’.

I know all this sounds superficial, but this insecurity stemmed from an idea that I wasn’t good enough as I was. That I needed something extra to me make me look even presentable. That anything more than the little black line was too much, and implied that I was trying too hard.

Now I’ve become bolder, and my collection has widened to colorful eye pencils and lipsticks; lots and lots of lipsticks. I’ve received flak for wearing them, because I’m not supposed to be a “girly girl” who likes dressing up. Because it’s my intellect that makes me interesting, and my IQ drops every time I color my eyes and lips. Because I’m giving in to consumerism, and beauty ideals propagated by patriarchy.

But it doesn’t matter. Because now when I look in the mirror and apply that black curve, I do it for me. And sometimes when I don’t apply anything, I still look beautiful to me.

Image courtesy: makeup by bornfromsilence

Of Sexists and Feminazis

Bear with me. It’s a question that popped into my head during one of those times when you sit quietly and let your brain run wild. It’s a question that will probably lead to a lot of hateful messages and trolling. But I’m gonna put it out there anyways.

We accept sexism on a daily basis. Accept it as someone’s religion, faith, or personal belief. We make excuses for it. That’s just what they have been exposed to, we say. That’s their reality. Well, isn’t being a ‘feminazi’ the same? It’s the belief that women are superior; a belief based on their experiences and their exposure. It’s sexism towards men. So why don’t we make excuses for feminazis?

Then it dawned on me. Sexism is only acceptable as long as it favors men. Once it starts working against them, it’s equated to Nazism.

Bruised

I was a bruised little animal
Hiding in the shade
Of your love, till I was healed,
And then I walked away.

Was it wrong? Was I selfish?
WIll I burn in hell for this?
That would frighten me well
If I believed in the existence of hell.

So what if I hurt you?
Someone hurt me too.
That’s just the way it goes;
The cycle of love and heartbreak.

Your wounds will heal
With someone else’s love
And then you’ll leave them
Too, all alone.

Aren’t we just animals here
Inside our civilized coats?
Looking for self-preservation.
There’s safety in being alone.

You say we had it all,
And I threw it away
But is ‘us’ what I wanted
In the first place?

Maybe yes, maybe no
Maybe I wanted it before.
But something has changed
Now I’m as jaded as they say.

And this is not our story, love.
The story is mine.
And happiness of the forever kind
Comes at a price.

The Opposite of Techno-Babble

The past couple of days I’ve been stuck at home, and it has been quite eventful.

Now when I say stuck at home, I don’t mean ‘too lazy to step out of the house’ or ‘not in a mood to socialize’ or even ‘don’t have any plans because people are busy with their lives’, because these happen way to often, and are nothing special to write about. I was in a ‘cannot step out of the house because the sunlight hurts my eyes’ scenario, and I spent an absurd amount of time thinking about vampires and their lives, but that’s a post for another time.

The reason I couldn’t step out was that I had just undergone the Lasik surgery. For those who don’t know what that is, it’s a corrective surgery for your eyes. Basically I can stop wearing spectacles and lenses. This might not seem like a big deal, but for a girl who hasn’t been able to see clearly with her naked eyes since second grade, and who was almost blind without visionary aid until a week ago, this surgery is like a piece of chocolate cake; well-deserved and worth the long wait.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not promoting the surgery here. Because when I was actually getting it, it felt like a procedure from hell, with poking, forcible bulging and some intense laser beaming into my open, wide-awake eyes. Okay, it’s not as scary as it sounds. But maybe it is.

The point is that for the next few days, I couldn’t exactly step into the light, which worked out well for me because sitting in darkened rooms with curtains drawn and eating chocolate ice-cream has always been the dream. The only downside was, I couldn’t use electronics. Which meant that the ice-cream binge couldn’t be accompanied by a Rom-Com of my choice, or better yet, a few episodes of Supernatural.

But that wasn’t the only thing I couldn’t do. No electronics meant no using my phone or laptop, which meant no writing (ergo no blogging), texting, scrolling through meaningless crap on Facebook or Twitter, watching pointless videos on YouTube, watching  TV shows or movies, playing games, listening to music or talking to people on the phone. Well I could’ve called people from my landline, but I would have to look their number up on my phone, so that was out of question.

You might’ve realized that this list includes every single thing that we do in our leisure (and work) hours, unless we’re into manual labor or knitting. And I learned this the hard way; sneaking the little beeping box into my room and trying desperately to play some music or at least make a phone call, while the screen just shone brightly into my eyes like the sun.

The next few days were spent as far away from my phone as possible (which wasn’t very far since I’m a weak, weak person). But it gave me enough time to finish chores that I hadn’t found the time for in the last 3 months. I cleaned out cupboards, re-arranged drawers, decorated my room, and cooked a couple of meals! (For people who don’t know me, I’m untidy, unorganized, and can’t cook to save my life) I’m as surprised as you are.

This made me wonder how productive we would be without technology. As we complain of bars set too high and time running out, does technology give us a push up the ladder or hold us down? Well I gave it some thought, and then I stopped, because I could see the sun again, and my phone was back into my life.

Naturally, I no longer have time to ponder over such questions. But I do have the time, and technology, to write about them.

My Bi Friend Forever

It can be a life-changing moment; when your best friend of 12 years comes out to you as bisexual. This is a friend you’ve had sleepovers with since you were a child, cuddling together in the same blanket before adulthood made cuddling gross. A friend who insisted on eating maggi from a single plate; and whose pathetic attempts at cooking food left you eating tasteless, lumpy and uncooked biryani. A friend you’ve shared every little secret with. A friend you even shared crushes with! (We were big on sharing back then). A friend who you almost lost contact with a couple of times after school, but who clawed her way back into your life like a resilient little cat.

So the moment that this friend tells you that she’s ‘officially’ attracted to both men and women can be life-changing.

But it wasn’t. And my response of “Weren’t you already bisexual?” was perhaps surprising, and a little anticlimactic. “Yes, but its official now!” she had answered, rolling her eyes. But after hearing stories of her dalliances with both genders for almost a year, and cringing at the detailed descriptions (there is no such thing as too much information, she keeps telling me), this news was not news.

It’s been almost two years now since my best friend first embraced the ‘bi’ label. Fortunately, she’s surrounded by people who sooner or later were accepting of all her labels; whether the bisexual one, or the poly amorous one. Of course she comes across people who’re incredulous, or who say or write hurtful things under the guise of ‘trying to understand’ and ‘creative freedom’. But Sammy has always been a tough one, and I sometimes find myself getting more offended by people’s insensitivity than her (for good reasons, I assure you).

“What was it like?” she asked me the other day, “When I told you I was bi? You didn’t exactly respond.”

“Didn’t I?!” I paused for moment.”It didn’t change anything”

She gave me a relieved little smile.”Good. Because your response matters.”

So we joke about being in a relationship, because after 12 years, it sure feels like one. We’re big on sharing again; clothes, make up, even food. (She offered to share her boyfriend as well, but I had to draw the line somewhere!) We make plans to live together, travel together, sing together, write together. We’re inseparable, which can sometimes irk people, but we love annoying people, so it works in our favor.(Some may say that’s unhealthy, but what do they know?)

Maybe this is not what I expected when I started talking to the new girl in my school. But this is much better! We’re not conventional, and we don’t ever intend to be.

So this is a shout out to everyone who has that loved one who’s different from you, and makes life choices that you might never completely understand. Support them through every decision they make. Because those decisions are hard. And your response matters.

PS: For those of you who’re not exactly sure about what bisexuality is, or need a coming-out anthem, here’s a video you must watch at all costs.

The Adult Life: Part II

To be or not to be an adult… That’s the dilemma we all face.

One I pondered over last year, when I had a taste of adult life during the summer. You can read my earlier post here. Thankfully, I had one last year of college life left, and I made the best of it.

Now college life is over, and adult life has officially begun. And it’s every bit as scary and tiring as I thought it would be.

I know what they say. Stepping into adult life has its perks; the overwhelming sense of hope and confidence intermingled with a nervous energy to do things and go places. The youthful and creative ideas that give us an edge over the others. The quick rise up the ladder of success. And there’s the independence which comes from earning and spending one’s own money. That’s what they say.

But adult life isn’t all that rosy. It’s a quiet sadness over losing your friends from college, who slowly fade away as you dive headfirst into your new life. It’s the lack of energy required to make new ones. It’s the exhaustion after a long day at work, which makes you want to spend the remaining hours by yourself, reading a book or listening to some music. Sometimes it’s the restlessness from not having much work to do, leaving you feeling unsatisfied and unproductive.

It’s the weekends spent in quiet isolation. The hours spent staring into a laptop screen. The pending chores you haven’t had time to do. The people you try to make plans with. It’s the expectation of a good work-life-social life-sleep balance. It’s the lack of one.

So I spend my days as a confused, and quite overwhelmed adult, not sure of what I’m doing wrong. And I see others around me, people my age, struggling through something similar.

Maybe this is a phase; a period of transition. Maybe this is what adult life is really like. But for now, life is a bitch.

Writing About Writing

So I’ve started a Blogging U course for some regular doses of inspiration, and to force myself to write more often. Now I know writing is something that should flow naturally, but after a hectic workday, where all you do is write, it’s quite difficult to come home and do more of the same. But the woes of adult life are meant for another post at another time.

Today’s cue is to write about why I write. I have already written an article a few years ago on how I began writing in the first place, and you can find it here. This one is more of a ‘what I feel about writing’ post. Happy reading!

I write because I like to spell out my thoughts; to arrange them into patterns and give them meaning beyond the tangled web of my mind.

I like how words and sentences appear on a blank space; long and short, simple and complex, created using simple curves and strokes. How a simple word or phrase can make you see images that have nothing, yet everything to do with the image in front of our eyes.

Writing is like drawing, our words having much more meaning that what first appears to the eye.

Writing is like composing music; our words rising and falling rhythmically, stringing sounds together to form a melody.

Writing is like cooking; we either just know what words to bring together to create that favorite age old recipe, or we experiment with new words, new flavors, new textures, and create something completely different. Either way, it’s not the ingredients that matter, but how they’re brought together.

For me, writing is escape and reconciliation, pensive and emotional, tiring and rejuvenating, simple and complex.

I write because I have to. I write because I can.

A Lament

They say life is filled with good and bad moments. That the bad moments exist so we could cherish the good. We shake our cynical heads at these clichéd sentences.

It’s true, but it’s so obvious! Why say it?

Maybe it’s for days like these, that one needs to be reminded of statements like ‘bad things happen for a reason’. A day when it’s alright to use clichés, and reassure ourselves with lies. A day when being cynical is not enough to keep you sane.

It’s a day of mourning.

To be honest, I was never very close to her. She was not one of those women who spend their time doting over their children, or grandchildren. No. She was making something of herself. And she became many things; actress and author are the only two I’m aware of. But I know she became many things. She was always doing something.

She was not domestic, the way you would expect grandmothers to be. She was extroverted, and passionate, and ambitious. She was the grandmother I had, but never really knew. She was the grandmother I would have liked to know.

Sometimes I think I’m like her. Or that if I knew her, I’d like to be her. She was flouting norms, when flouting norms was not the norm. She was bold, brave and brazen. But most importantly , she was independent. She was free.

I never understood this as a kid. I understand it now.

Surely, this is unhelpful. This description that does not describe. It’s difficult to describe someone you barely knew. But love doesn’t come from knowing. Love comes from being. You love someone simply because they exist. You love her because she is your grandmother, and you are her granddaughter. And there’s no changing that.

The last few years she hadn’t been as free. You could see her mind and spirit, as fiery as ever, trapped inside a decaying body. I’d like to think she found a way out. I’d like to think she’s finally free again.

Maybe that’s naïve. Maybe it’s optimistic. But today both naïveté and optimism are acceptable. After all, it’s a day of mourning.

The Storyteller

She had loved them as a child, listening to them with unblinking rapturous eyes, and a mind that painted pictures of every word she heard. Tales ordinary and extraordinary. Stories of hunters and monsters, heroes and villains, devas and rakshasas. They lingered in her mind long after they had been told, flashes of colourful images and strings of words woven together into stories. More stories. Different stories. Her stories. She longed to let these stories out, to send them back into the universe from which they had emerged. A universe of lights and sounds, smells and tastes, a universe of narratives.

But the stories remained stuck in her mind, like jewels embedded deep into the walls of the caves, unwilling to be separated from their rocky cushion. To smash the walls apart and pull these stories out, to heat them and beat them and shape them until they shone and sparkled with her creative zest would be nothing short of a violent act. Violence to her mind. Violence to her soul.

So the stories remained in the recesses of her mind, glowing like tiny stars in a blue sky. There they ripened, infused with the flavours of her life, until they were ready to be gently plucked off. No burning. No violence.

And when the time was right, the stories came pouring out. Stories of hunters and monsters, heroes and villains, devas and rakshasas. New stories. Her stories. She spun them into gold, and spread them far and wide.

He listened to the storyteller with unblinking rapturous eyes, and a mind that painted pictures of every word she said.

Home Bittersweet Home

After four years of living in a campus far away from home, of traveling between Mumbai and Pune, and of packing, unpacking and repacking my entire life over and over, I’m finally back home. And these four walls that I’ve been living in for two months a year finally feel like home.

Home is good. It gives you a sense of belonging. Of identity. It gives you roots so that you can spread your arms and try to reach the sky without a fear of flying away, or falling down.

Some people don’t need a home. Their search begins outside; other cities, other countries. They go to the mountains and the sea, looking for happiness and self-discovery. Then there are those who don’t have to look elsewhere. They go into their shells like turtles, and a little bit of soul-searching later, have all the answers they need. They are so in touch with themselves that they hardly need nature or the universe to tell them what they wanted all along. I like to think that such people are much evolved, and not so rare. Clearly, I’m not one of those people.

I’m a person who doesn’t know what type of person she is. When I come across posts where people are categorized into two types, I get supremely confused because I sometimes fit in both, sometimes in neither. Sometimes I need a little inspiration from the world to tell me what’s in my heart. Sometimes, I just need to close my eyes and ask myself a question, and I already know the answer. Sometimes, I can travel or soul search all I want, and still not be able to resolve the conflicts that seem to flail around in my mind. What I do know, however, is that I need a home right now.

And so I’m glad I’m back. Back in these four walls that I can finally make my own. Back in Mumbai, a place where I’ve lived all my life, and yet know nothing about.

And as I move here, I leave somethings behind; people, places and memories that will always remain a part of me. And as I begin my romance with Mumbai again, the word home becomes more meaningful with every passing day.

From Tongue Twisters to Mind Twisters

Feminism. Femininity. Feminine. Feminist. Feminazi.

These words keep ringing in my head. Over and over like the constant ringing of bells at a temple. String them together and try repeating them over and over, and they sound like the tongue twisters we used to struggle with as kids.
She sells sea shells on the sea shore.
Feminism. Femininity. Feminine. Feminist. Feminazi.

What do these words even mean? I ask myself. Do they really mean different things? Are they the same? Do they mean anything good? Is their meaning ever not negative?

Why should they be negative?  I ask myself. Why should my identity, my existence, be doused in such poor a light? To be cast into a mould named ‘feminine’, and be labelled as weak and submissive, unintelligent and incapable, words I would never use to describe myself. To be cast into the other mould named ‘feminist’, and be labelled angry, bitchy, man-hater, lesbian, words that still fail to do justice to everything that I stand for.

On and on it goes, the donning of one label after another, until the boundaries begin to blur, and all that remains is an umbrella of nothing and everything. Of delicate strength and furious weakness. A label of contradictions that engulfs you and me, and holds everything we stand for.

Feminism. Femininity. Feminine. Feminist. Feminazi.

I repeat the words in my head again. Stringing them together to blur the lines between them. Waiting for a new identity. Hoping for a new existence.

An Ode to FLAME

Starlit Nights,

Sun-kissed days,

Poignant moments

In the summer glaze.

 

Lazing around

In the gentle breeze,

On grassy knolls

Under restful trees.

 

Secrets whispered

Over cards and coffee

Over birthday celebrations

Over pajama parties

 

Secret glances

And loaded smiles,

Stolen Kisses

Under the moonlight

 

Nights of music,

Nights of love,

Laughing faces bathed in

The fire’s orange glow.

 

Sleepless nights

Of work and exhaustion,

Of delirious laughter

And dreams of vacation.

 

The vacation is here,

We’re standing at the turn,

At the start of a new dream,

At the end of an old one.

 

On Chocolat

Have you ever come across a book that you really liked, and you kept reading it over and over till it resonated with every cell in your body and became a part of your very existence; an extension of your self?

If yes, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. If no, you should be reading more!

For me, Chocolat is that book. It is not just a story that I read. I see, smell, taste and experience it. If books could be our soulmates, Chocolat would be mine. If I thought calling something my ‘bae’ was cool, Chocolat would very much be my bae. If I was an evil wizard (a female Voldemort, maybe… Voldemorte?), my copy of Chocolat would be a horcrux, because it does essentially carry my soul. But I’m digressing.

As I’m sure I have established by now, Chocolat is  one of my favourite books. Why? Because it’s a book about chocolate. It is literally called chocolate!

Now I know what you’re thinking. I have just taken you from soulmate to chocolate; not quite the climax you were expecting. But it gets better, I promise.

Chocolat does not just have a flirtatious encounter with chocolate. It has a committed relationship with it. The entire book describes different kinds of chocolate, how chocolate is made, and how our preferences in chocolate depend upon the kind of people we are. As a reader, you don’t just read about chocolate, you see it looming in front of your eyes, ready to be devoured and you smell its strong scent emanating from the book.

But the chocolate doesn’t just stand for chocolate. It stands for indulgence and individuality, for passion and proclivity. It stands for happiness. It stands for Vianne Rocher. Nothing describes this better than a quote from the book, a slogan that is used in an attempt to drive chocolate, and Vianne, out of the little French village of Lansquenet-sous-Tannes: Church, not Chocolate.

This brings us to Francis Reynaud, the priest of the above mentioned Church, who has a vendetta against chocolate. Here Church doesn’t stand for religion as much as it stands for impositions of morality and socially appropriate behavior. Vianne is an abomination because she does not go to Church on Sunday morning, because is an unmarried mother, and because she just arrives in the village one day and opens a chocolaterie.

Through the story we slowly begin to see the unhappiness that lurks beneath the perfection devotion of the people of Lansquenet. Sorrow at losing a beloved pet, fear of being beaten up by a husband and regret at being estranged from a grandson. Slowly, the chocolaterie becomes a space whether these feelings can be expressed; a substitute for the Church confessional. Here, the unacceptable is accepted, the unmentionable is mentioned, and deepest desires as shared over a cup of chocolate.

Meanwhile, the fight between church and chocolate, which is essentially the fight between Vianne and Reynaud becomes more and more personal. They both battle their own demons, their own fears and desires. Reynaud does this through God. Vianne has her own magic, a remnant of her mother’s legacy. This magic is never truly explained, but is felt throughout the book, a mixture of hope, intuition and fate.

So Chocolat isn’t really about chocolate. It is about love, and fear of loss, desire and self-restraint. It is about the magic of happiness.

And that’s what makes the story so beautiful. The complex themes that it covers, but the simplicity of the message it gives. ‘Be happy’, Vianne Rocher tells me. ‘Be happy no matter the cost.’

Goodbye

Fleeting glances, forced smiles

Fervent handshakes with heavy hearts

Sweet nothings whispered in the moonlight

Now it’s time to say goodbye.

 

Goodbye to the past. Hello to the future.

A brand new world awaits you.

Time to leave the ghosts of the past behind

With empty promises, soon to be broken.

 

The world that you so carefully built

Brick by the metaphoric brick,

Will soon be just a distant memory,

With no place in your future.

 

So it’s time to clench your fists

And it’s time to say goodbye

As the bells ring for the last time

Celebrating your bitter-sweet victory.

 

Bid farewell to the people,

Bid adieu to the walls,

And goodbye to the person

That you once were.

 

You were hurt and broken

When you first arrived.

You had said goodbye then,

Now it’s time to say it again.

 

Goodbyes are never easy.

This one’s especially hard.

You Are Not A “Male” Feminist. You Are A Feminist.

Couldn’t have put this in better words myself!

bicyclewithoutafish

“Men who want to be feminists need not be given a space in feminism. They need to take the space they have in society and make it feminist”.

-Kelley Temple

For some reason, this year began with a number of my male friends accusing my writing of being “alienating” and “scary”. I was told (by a man), that I’ve got feminism all wrong, and apparently, male bashing is a hobby of mine. I found myself holding back on my immediate expletive-laced response, instead convincing them that feminism is for everyone. That I don’t hate men. That of course, not all men are misogynists.

It did get me thinking about this post. I realized that yes, my writing is confrontational. It is angry. It is hostile. I also realized that I really don’t care.

I don’t care that men feel alienated. I don’t care that they think I hate men…

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A Journey Down Memory Lane

We all have great memories of our grandparents; happy, cheerful memories of them buying us gifts, cooking our favourite food, and pampering us. I have these rosy memories of my grandmother, and much more. I saw her at her best, but I also saw her at her worst, and it changed the way I saw the world.

Let me start from the beginning. The oldest memory that I have of my grandma is of sitting in the kitchen of my old house in Mumbai, helping her make puran. Aai, as we called her, made the most delicious puran polis in the world. And being the spoilt little kid that I was, I would demand that she make them from scratch every time she came home for a visit.

Since she came to our house all the way from Kolhapur, my mother would get vexed at my childish, possibly thoughtless demands. She would offer to make the sweet dish herself. “No!” I would declare. “Your puran poli doesn’t taste as good as hers.” And so we would sit in the kitchen, grandmother and granddaughter, bound together in the moment by our love for puran poli.

I remember that one summer vacation spent entirely at my grandparents’ house. I was learning to swim, and was expected to lose weight by the time my mother dropped in for a visit. Needless to say, she was quite unpleasantly surprised to see that I had actually gained weight because of the amount of food I was being fed.

But that’s the kind of person Aai was. The kind that got up at dawn every single day to offer prayers to her gods. The kind who lavishly converted a cupboard into a shrine in her tiny 1 BHK flat. The kind who loved making food and feeding people. Who poured too much ghee on chapatis, and refused to let you eat them any other way. Who hid packets of biscuits from her husband in a different dabba every day, to make sure he didn’t eat too many.

The kind whom as she grew older, could no longer lift heavy objects due to her hip-replacement surgery. The kind who developed cancer at the age of 76 and died.

But the image that is most imprinted on my mind, is our last meeting. I had gone home for Diwali, when I was casually told that Aai was sick; a mere health issue, nothing important. And she had been admitted into a hospital in Mumbai. Mum insisted that I go visit her. I was reluctant, my distaste for hospitals overpowering my enthusiasm to meet my grandma after two whole years.

Finally, I agreed. On reaching the hospital, I was informed that she was admitted to the ICU, and could only have one visitor at a time. Surprised at the seriousness of her illness, I made my way to her room. I found her lying on the bed, bed-ridden and barely conscious. She graced my presence with a grunt of recognition, before insisting that I go downstairs and send my mother to her. Asha. Asha kuthe aahe? Asha la pathav. Rasping. Wheezing. Coughing. It was the only thing she would say, over and over again. In a monotonous voice. Barely breathing. Barely alive.

Those were the last words she would ever say to me.

So this is an ode to my grandmother, born as someone else, and reborn at her wedding as Suman Kaulgud. A woman of immeasurable strength and patience. And it is an ode to every person who has been embraced by death. Who has been loved and cherished during her lifetime, and terribly missed later.

Goodbyes can be hard, especially if they are of a permanent nature. But the way we deal with these farewells is what defines us. Do we dwell on the tragic memories? Sinking into the pain and grief that they bring? Do we run away from them? Tucking them safely into the recesses of our minds, only to be hit with waves of despair when they find their way to the surface? Or do we accept the memories for what they are, packets of joyful grief and happy sadness? And let them wash over us, till that person is no longer dead, but is a part of us. Alive. Breathing. To be found in a journey down memory lane.