Which is worse?

Spent some time looking up some of the #YesAllWomen posts today and this is the result of that. Didn't quite turn out to be the passionate feminist rant it could have very well been but whoever said passion needs to be angry?

This is a silent response to all judgement - of attire and ambition, company kept and sought, decisions taken and paths chosen.

Incidentally, also my first shot at mixing prose and free verse in the same piece. :)

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She sat, her mind as eerily blank as the page in front of her, the cursor blinking tantalizingly on the screen. It invited her to write, to express, to speak of memory buried beneath years of experience, knowledge hidden under layers of pretence. It asked her to tell a story, to share the moment with millions around the world, to be a part of a movement. It won’t change the world, some said. And it doesn’t make the nightmare go away. And she knew. She wasn’t out to change the world, nor did she expect the lights to turn on and chase away the monsters under her bed. But she did know that as fingers hit the keys, words appeared on her screen and the blinking cursor slowly moved to the right, she would be a part of something larger than herself. She could hold hands with women around the world, even if only metaphorically, and squeeze hard for comfort and strength. She could be sure it wasn’t just her, it wasn’t her fault.

She knew it all. And yet, the cursor kept blinking and the page stayed spotlessly white, flecked only by the dust on her laptop screen. She looked down at herself, lounging in bed in her brother’s t-shirt, oversized, comfortable and covering all except a sliver of her shorts and the voices floated back into her head. Who was she to complain about inequality when she could dress like that? How, when she was studying what she wanted and wasn’t forced into marriage in her early twenties, could she complain of discrimination? What need did she have to throw a fit, to fight a battle that wasn’t even hers? She sighed.

She blinked at the screen. The cursor blinked back. And then the words bubbled forth.

'Which is worse?

The fear of being groped on a crowded bus on a hot summer day

Or of being groped at dinner in a five star hotel?

Which is worse?

The paranoia of a spiked drink while you step away to the ladies’ room

Or of insect repellent mixed in milk while you put the kids to bed?

Which is worse?

Not knowing the man you see on the mandap of your wedding

Or waking up next to a stranger with no memory of yesterday?

Which is worse?

The glass ceiling at that corporate job and the unattainable board room

Or the barriers of poverty and “tradition” that cause high school dropouts?

Which is worse?

Being molested when you were wearing a mini skirt and halter

Or when your sari blouse has sleeves till your elbows?

Which is worse?

Abuse now or then, by him or him?

Disrespect on this continent or that?

The body doesn’t recognize

Continent

Class

Clothing.

The woman hurts.

End.'

Amongst the dust and cobwebs lies a history

A piece inspired by idle poking through old cupboard at my grandmother's place. Vacation writing :)

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The translucent bookworms slithered out from the frail yellowed pages, each seeming to echo an era gone by. She tentatively folded a corner in her hand, wondering if the page would crumble, leaving mere powder and the daft smell of Memory. Thanks be to God, there was a sharp crease, the self-assured sign of a page not ready to concede defeat to the pressures of Time. One after another, books were dusted off the shelves and pages were pried apart, some more unwilling than the others, as if the security of a long forgotten bookshelf and the anonymity of being one amongst dozens were too much to let go of. There, deep amongst the scores of books extolling religious words of wisdom lay a transparent envelope overflowing with an assortment of...invitations, were they? Perhaps letters preserving the air of Yesterday, a whiff of the past that wafts forth with the unfurling of the brittle page.

The letters were ordered, as were the postcards; the former the characteristic blue of Inland letters and the latter the peachy cream that spelt the erstwhile postcard. Every once in a while, there lay a white envelope bearing a foreign stamp, looking regal in comparison to its local counterparts. It bore a stamp from the UK and spoke of duty-free shops at Paris airport. "I hope the television comes to India soon," the author had written. "It seems like something Indians would enjoy." It came from a time when a pound was thirteen rupees, when monthly salaries were in double digits overseas but a fortune when converted.

Most of the letters asked about the family, the newborn baby and her cheeriness with a dash of the usual family gossip. Who was visiting who? Who was getting married? Who was expecting a baby? It was all there, scrawled into the last few lines of every weekly letter, just before the casual 'yours affly' preceding the signature. 

There was something oozing security from the words 'safe news' on the top corner of every letter. All is well, it said. Everything is okay. I am just checking on you - a brother writing in to his baby sister.

And then came the invitations. A wedding in 1963, the celebration of an upcoming child in 1968, the wedding of that child in 1990, another child born in between and the invitation to his sacred threadceremony. It was all there, preserving the story of not just one individual but the whole family in those white enveloped with the corners dyed a holy orange-red, lines from the scriptures and various Gods accompanying the names being celebrated.

These envelopes heralded the change of Ms to Mrs, of Mrs to Ma, of Gouri to Gouri BSc. There was growth here, new beginnings and fresh starts with new and renewed families. These envelopes here? Yellowed with age and squirreled away at the back of a forgotten cupboard? These here are eyewitnesses of a lineage.

Pengalin Tirumana Vayasu 21.

A little over a year ago, I wrote a breathless, restless piece about the adrenaline rush that comes from turning 20. Today, here is a less inspired, more rehearsed follow up on what it feels like to turn 21. The words are not flowing half as smoothly and the piece isn’t half as formed in my head but what the hell. Here goes nothing.

Taking a stock of this last year seemed like a good place to start.

Relationships cemented? Atleast half a dozen.

Relationships lost? I can think of a couple.

Adventures had and memories gathered? From Khaltse, Ladakh to Berkeley, California

Hearts broken? One for sure. Maybe more or I kid myself.

Hearts mended? Getting there.

Three hundred and sixty five days came and went by, some agonizingly slow and others flying by before I could say ‘twenty’. Before I knew it, I was at the threshold of another huge set of exams, at the other side of which lay the welcoming expanse of three months without the people or the place of the haloed portals of my college. But that also meant I was a couple of days away from my birthday, the big twenty-one, when it all becomes legal and as the autos on the streets of Chennai remind me – the age for girls to get married. Mind you, the autos don’t tell you it is advisable to or even that you should but rather, as a statement of fact ‘the age for marriage (for girls) is 21.’ No questions entertained and no negotiation.

Before everyone rushes at me in dismay/horror/excitement/variant thereof, let me clarify. I am not getting married anytime soon, thankyouverymuch. Nope, miles to go before I sleep and all that. But somehow, those autos on the streets of the city hit home that morning of my birthday. Between panicking for a Microeconomics exam and nightmares of a professor who threatens to fail us all, I could see the yellow and black tuk-tuks plying the streets, propagating their words of wisdom to those who cared to listen and many who didn’t.

Twenty one stood for all things adult. Through my childhood, that was that holy age when no one could stop you from doing anything – you could vote and drink, be the conscientious citizen and the happy-go-lucky vamp. You could finish your undergraduation and then study, or work, or travel, or laze or do just about anything. And you would be too grown up for anyone to ask you anything. And one fine morning, here I was. Twenty one.

As I sit in rural Karnataka typing all this, I tell myself I shouldn’t lie. Sure, of late I have thought about the bigger picture and the road ahead and the various other meta constructs meant to scare the young brain out of its wits but I have also thought of cheap food and dancing. Questions of ‘what after graduation?’ are followed closely by ‘where are the best momos in town?’ ‘Where do I want to be five years from now?’ and ‘what colour should my room be and what posters should I print?’ go hand in hand.

This birthday, I was lucky. I was lucky enough to have more people who care more than I ever seemed to realise. And I was lucky to have a miracle of a friend put it all together. As an email came in every hour from the US and Germany, Hyderabad and Ahmedabad, I teared up and cried at relationships built and nurtured and the people who come and more importantly, stay. I was one lucky thing. And whatever else twenty one will teach me this year, I got an early reminder of one thing – there are a few things in this world that a beanbag, the best of friends and brilliant food won’t solve.

#throwback: 20-nothing

Yes, not surprisingly I have been miserable on the consistency front on this blog. Somehow that last post became too much of a favourite and I was terrified to top it off with something mediocre, boring, inconsequential. Basically, it resulted in my latest four month hiatus and usual excuses for my absence. Been the Achilles' heel to my writing as long as I can remember. Ah well. I am back now and isn't that what matters? :P

This piece is, in all honesty, a year old - almost to the day. I see a follow-up to this coming so thought it made sense to put up Chapter 1 first. Hopefully then it will drive me to put pen to paper (ahem, type on keyboard, that)? As of now, the next title is in my head with words of a vague introduction floating in space. Hopefully this post will push me to sit down and capture them? Somehow, I have a vivid image of chasing down words with a butterfly net... Anyway, I digress.

This is the piece - 20-nothing

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A babble of near incoherent voices hum behind me in a language I have come to recognize instantaneously. The words make sense, the tones are familiar and the voice is one I have grown accustomed to after many days of bitching, bonding and bawling. Laws and diagrams are floating over my head, being thrown from one BTech to another, in a hurried scuffle to beat Father Time looming in the distance. The fan above me is whirring rhythmically, in slow circles almost in a bored drone. What it must be like to be a fan, I wonder. Rather thankless job, I would imagine. The lights are at a rather inconvenient angle, forming slanted shadows over my shoulders, lurking just out of arms reach. The scene is mundane enough. Highlighters, pens, open notebooks, watches, keys and wires. I am surrounded by the life of a college student the night before an exam. A life I belong to, engage with, am engulfed by. Yet, right this minute, there is something is amiss. Something small, intangible, even ignorable. Yet, it exists.

My breathing is a just a little shallow. My heartbeat is just a little too fast. I am just covered with goose bumps. The rate of facebook notifications flowing in have just increased significantly. None of them are telling signs and no one would even notice. Yet, I know. I am engulfed by a wave of childish enthusiasm, juvenile excitement for what lies on the other side of the Cinderella hour.

A little red ‘1’ just popped up on my screen. An acquaintance from Singapore wishing me. My phone just vibrated. A friend apologizing for not being able to call. My parents sent me offline texts. One friend said he wanted to get me flowers and another mentioned my ‘orgasmic love’ for stationery. Suddenly, I feel like the two year old of almost two decades ago, staring at a carrot cake with icing in a strawberry summer dress, knife held jubilantly in hand and waiting for what lay on the other side of that slice.

I know. Two hours from now, I will not feel any older, any wiser or any prettier because of the day or the time. Two hours from now, calls may or may not flow in, from those who are supposedly meant to call. Two hours from now, I will be two hours closer to my last exam of the semester, something at the top of everyone’s mind, just as it should be. Yet, two hours from now, I would have crossed another boundary in my head, another milestone would lie behind me.

For the longest time, the oldest I could think of was 20. Grown-ups, adults, people who knew what they were doing, they all fell under the umbrella of 20-somethings. Blog posts and magazine articles that had lists of advice for them were brushed aside as being too far in the future to be paid attention to. Twenty-somethings were cousins in college, older siblings working, the people you aspired to be. She was the girl at the bus stand who looked like she could do as she pleased, phone in hand, ear phones plugged in, wearing a casual kurti with leggings. She looked confident, acted important and dressed appropriately. She was everything the awkward, gawky adolescent in me aspired to be.

Today, I am told I am at that threshold myself, a zebra-crossing with childhood behind me and adulthood on the other side. There is a solace in adolescence, a safety net in the teens, a carpet for soft landing that has suddenly been pulled out from under my feet.

Perhaps I am over-thinking this. Perhaps nothing will change after all and the zebra-crossing will be more of a ramp, a long drawn out process of gradual change. But right now, it is momentous. Seven years ago, a thirteen year old girl squealed at the prospect of joining the elite company of teenagers around the world, marking her official entry into the world of adolescence. Today, the girl is awaiting her exit from that company and the induction into the scary world of ‘young adults’. Yet, when I stare at the mirror, I see a seventeen year old staring back at me. Studying for boards, finding my grounding, shakily rising on my own feet. Nothing has changed. It couldn’t have.

As I get increasingly distracted, I promise myself I will come back to this. I will write about this till the words dry up, the brain clears up and I come to terms with what is happening. As of now, my shallow breathing and inexplicable excitement has a very simple explanation.  Beneath the sleep-deprived, aching, hostelite college student who is meant to figure out the answers to life and love lies a young girl; a girl enraptured by rainbows, cotton candy and warm hugs, craving for vathakuzhambu at home with Ma, wondering how she suddenly got all the way here. The girl in the mirror is scared. 20-nothing isn’t so far away after all. Shit.