In pieces

I have been woefully unproductive of late. Pursuing half-baked opportunities. Trying to get too many irons in the fire. Overthinking in order to find a quick solution for my major woes but ending up with none at all. And I could not even write. Writing is my one way of staying sane and even that was denied me. I was not a happy camper.

After days of this, I have now reached an oddly detached state. I see no solutions. The problems plague me but cease to hurt me with the intensity that they have exercised over the years. I decide to just be. I don’t ever know if I will ever find solutions. I don’t know what the future will be like. I don’t know if I can ever dream or long for the life I want. But I know that right now, at this very moment, none of it bothers me.

I study my detachment like it’s a new toy. I turn it over. I poke and prod it. I shake it a bit. It’s still in one piece. It hasn’t shattered. It hasn’t collapsed either. So what is this detachment? As I examine it, I realize it isn’t an absence of pain – it is a compartmentalization of it. The pain is there, securely bubble-wrapped. I can see it but I don’t feel it as intensely. I don’t feel the need to talk much either. I sit on my own, feeling slightly annoyed when my silence is imposed upon.

Maybe it’s a survival mechanism – a sign that if I don’t step back, my system will shut down. Maybe its an evolution of sorts. If the need to interact is not there, perhaps dependency and expectations cease as well. Its almost like you’ve been running frantically for ages. You have no breath left. Your body explodes with pain. Panic fills your system. Acid seeps through every cell. And you hit a wall. Now you turn back. Face whatever it is that had you running. And then you let go. Like you split into two. One part of you is the observer. The other part goes through the motions. Compartments of existence.

Its not a bad state to be in. There are a few issues though. One being, you can never feel happy. Or excited. There is no space for it. If you compartmentalize pain, you also compartmentalize happiness so that you can only feel happy in fractions, if at all. Interesting, isn’t it?

At least I can write. Without fervour or passion perhaps. But without tears, angst, joy either. Detachment is also part of life. Maybe it’s the price one pays for growing older. Maybe it is just easier to live in between spaces.

My train protector

It was one of those train journeys. I was heading back from Madras (it wasn’t called Chennai then). I must’ve been 19 or 20. I was used to train journeys because I had been living in hostels in Calicut since I was 15. I was happy in hostels. I had friends. I could read. More importantly I didn’t have to clean the house, do the dishes or do tons of laundry. I only had to take care of myself. I got good at that fairly early. I also instinctively knew that since I could take care of myself, I was allowed to so I just went ahead and did things on my own. I miss that. I wonder what happened in the intervening years to take that spirit out of me. But anyway, that’s not the story I wanted to tell.

So here I was, rumpled and sweat-stained from spending the night on the train. My house was in Kanhangad way up north in Kerala. It took 18 or 20 hours to get to Chennai from home. I went with family friends to write an exam at the IIT in Adyar for a PG course. My friend and her husband’s family treated me with so much love that the trip was fun. The exam was terrible but I didn’t mind. I was quite pampered. I was also fascinated by the IIT campus where I met my classmate from college. Her father was with her. She had come to write the same exam. Neither of us got through but then back then we didn’t quite mind all that. We chatted over lunch – hers was some pitiful leaf-wrapped store bought lunch. Mine was a feast because my sweet friend had carried a huge tiffin carrier with five dishes and piping hot rice. We gorged ourselves. I probably dozed off in the exam hall but like I said I didn’t care that much – I was very unlike my current anxious self.

My friend and her family sent me off on the train. They were concerned because I travelled alone. I pooh poohed them and thanked them heartily. Aunty had even packed some yummy pickles for me to eat and I was so touched – for me pickles equal a very special kind of love.

I sat watching the scenery which was primarily a lot of factories and a terrifying dead brown. I slept off eventually to wake up to a verdant, impossibly green Kerala. It was early in the morning. I could smell the metal-tinted air that is peculiar to trains. I washed my face as best as I could and tamed my waist length hair that weighed almost as much as I did. I wrestled it into a plait and sat in my spot reading. I was feeling dreadfully hungry as well. But then at that age I was pretty much hungry all the time. And more skinny that anyone would’ve thought possible.

Just about then a corpulent ticket collector arrived. I pulled out my ticket and showed him. We had reached the last leg of the journey where there were maybe just two other people in the entire compartment. He looked at my ticket and then at my sorry self. He asked me where my parents were – more specifically my father. I was a bit confused. I said he was at home in Kanhangad. He sat down abruptly opposite me and enquired if I had eaten. He would get me some coffee if I wanted. I said no thank you. After all I didn’t know a thing about him. He kept urging me to drink something and when the coffee seller came by he got coffees for both of us. I still didn’t figure out why he was doing all of that but I was almost home so I wasn’t scared.

I told him about the exam when he asked why I was travelling. He made it a point to ask if I travelled alone then too. I said no, I had friends. He seemed relieved. He then launched a verbal attack on my absent father. How could he let a young girl travel alone? Didn’t he know how dangerous it was? The last stretch was especially so with no women to serve as company even. My mouth fell open. I mean I was so used to it that I never gave it a second thought. So I couldn’t understand the fuss.

My father got berated for a full forty-five minutes till the train stopped in our little station. I grabbed my bag plus the other stuff that a lot of friends had sent for the Ashram in Kanhangad where we were all devotees. He shooed me away and took everything down for me. And asked me if my father was on the platform. I pointed him out. He glowered at my father like he was the worst monster in the world. I’m pretty sure that he would have turned to ashes if this were the mythical age. I just grinned as the train left and waved goodbye. My father and his umbrella found me the next minute and he asked me who I was waving to. I replied cheekily “Your worst enemy I think – it’s a good thing he didn’t get you close enough to do any real damage!” A bewildered father followed me as I went to hail a rickshaw for home.

Out of nowhere this memory struck me. I have loved my train journeys because of the unexpected and frequent acts of kindness that had come my way. So many people have shared food, dreams and space with me. There was such sincerity and love in those encounters. Maybe seeing a skinny girl struggle standing in a crowd for hours or drag baggage by herself made people want to help. Maybe it was just because I was so innocent that like my son today, I had a light shining from within. Maybe it was because the times were simpler and you could help and be helped without worrying about consequences. I miss those journeys today. And you know what? I met the same ticket collector during another journey (yes I got coffee and baggage help) and then too my dad wasn’t around – not in the station either and I am pretty sure he must’ve felt my protector’s burning disapproval no matter where he was!

Farewell Caramel

 Tawny, striped and so very good-looking – that was my Caramel. He had the most musical of meows. He had this undefinable connection with me. He could almost read my mind. He suffered being carried by an overly-loving Appu. He adored Mahi so much that he would sleep at her feet most nights.

My lap misses the tangible warm weight of the furry body curled close to me. I will never again feel him cuddling against me when I work. I won’t ever see his crazy cat poses as he shows off his cute tummy and purrs away in ecstasy. I won’t ever hear that questioning meow first thing in the morning when he’s hungry and can’t wait for me to get up. My husband used to say that I was far more patient with Caru and his madness than I was with my own children. I replied saying - He is my youngest child – the one I had in my old age – so yes I am indulgent ;)

 I do not know now if he exists or not. My heart tells me that if he was alive, he would have found his way home to me some way or the other. So in all likelihood they have ended his life. But I still wait.

He was a dominant and utterly masculine chap. Three of the neighbours is this god-awful complex hosting a plenitude of brittle, selfish, arrogant characters decided that his depredations against their cats earned him the punishment of exile. After several months of trying everything from neutering to attempted lockdown, I gave up. I didn’t want to be hounded every day. They threatened to poison him. People stopped me while I was walking at night or going to the grocery shop or trying to deal with my usual difficult days. Why? Just to harangue me endlessly about Caru. And I am ashamed to admit – I gave up.

They took him away when I wasn’t there. I couldn’t say goodbye. I understand that these people are incapable of love towards anyone other than their own but how can they hate an animal with such vehemence? How can a cat fighting with a cat be equated with a so-called human being making a conscious choice to hurt a defenceless animal? Writing to CUPA, asking an animal welfare oriented neighbour to intervene, messaging the ‘courageous’ husband  next door (an animal lover apparently)  who accused Caru of hurting him when he hurt himself running away from a cat (yeah and they sent me pics showing a scratch – such a manly man!) – nothing worked even though all I asked for was a photograph to show my children that Caru was ok.

 I tried all these mediations because the lady in question was abusive beyond limits – to me of course but also to my daughter who went with sobs locked in her throat to ask angrily for the address of the farmhouse where he was supposedly sent. She refused to give it to her. While talking to the lady myself, I put her on speaker and a friend who heard it all asked me in palpable shock – how can she be as cruel as this – I didn’t know she had such a side to her? I gave her a wry smile.

For some reason I am the litmus paper – the one who sees through fake smiles and lies, the one who cannot understand why superficial people seem to do so well in life, the one who bears the burden of truth.

But there is karma. Hurting an animal, much like hurting a child, will bring its own consequences. The power to hurt frequently goes side by side with the power of money. Instead of making a small change for the better, people who can afford it prefer to make things better only for themselves. There is no tolerance, no patience, no empathy in this place. One day, they will know what it is like to feel as if a piece of your heart has been torn away. I won’t forget. Or forgive.

 My children cried themselves to sleep for a week. Mahi still can’t talk about it. And I have never forgiven myself for not fighting more. I have wished more than once that I had the support to fight harder but I don’t. And that taught me one valuable lesson – your battles are your own and so is your journey. Being alone is just one more thing to get used to. Maybe that is why I miss my cat so very much. He loved me unconditionally. I won't get that again.

Of short films and thinking

After days of not writing, of being cut off voluntarily from most things, of swimming around in my own glass bowl of stale water, I feel the need to write again or rather to be part of something again.

So today I thought of writing about a few short films I saw in the weekend as part of Clone’s initiative to showcase women directors. I missed the controversial first film ‘Catharsis’ which I hope to catch sometime. I also missed a lot of the really well-made examples of short films which came later because I had a prior meeting I couldn’t ignore. Of the ones that I saw, I really liked ‘Indu’ – a simple, poignant story told in the most lyrical way possible.

Indu is a young girl who falls in love with her teacher. He is married. He lends her books and feeds her love for reading. She writes beautifully of her feelings in missives that she hides among the pages of the different books they exchange. He makes paper objects like planes and keeps it in the books as he lends them to her. It is clear that he enjoys the girl’s artless adoration. His ego revels in the kind of attention and devotion only the very young can bestow on you. One day, in class, when he announces that his wife is pregnant and distributes sweets in celebration, he cannot meet her eyes. She stares at him accusingly. She shows her anger in childish ways and he is annoyed. He makes it clear that he doesn’t like her behaviour and doesn’t understand why she cannot fathom the ways of the world – a married man is always out of bounds.

Indu walks away hurt. There is no drama. Her pain is clear to us – to anyone who has every fallen in love actually. And her deliberate unfolding of the teacher’s paper plane and refolding into a boat that floats away in the water is beautifully symbolic. The next scene shows a one-line discussion between her parents and another couple where all is ‘arranged’. A wedding with sombre overtones is clearly unfolding. It’s a simple affair. A small temple. A handful of guests. The bride’s bother walks grimly with a pot covered in red cloth and some jasmine flowers adorning it. The groom’s mother does the same. The lamps are lit. The ‘para’ is full as is the wont in any auspicious occasion. But there is no joyous music. There is no colour. The two pots sit side by side as the ceremony continues to its unremarkable end.

I loved this portrayal of a young heart’s ability to lose itself intensely. The protagonists are ordinary, everyday people – unremarkable in every way on the outside – just like us. The subtle underlying thread of suicide does not push one away from finding the story beautiful. The idea that a girl whose love is unfulfilled yet finds herself tied to some stranger in the afterlife so that her ‘soul’ can find peace fills you with despair – for she is not allowed to love even after death. It’s a must watch for anyone who wants to experience a different piece of film-making.

Of the other two I watched, ‘Mambazha Pulissery’ was most unremarkable. The camera was lazy – no effort had been put into framing the scenes. The content is nothing unusual and neither was the writing so I am not sure why the curator chose to add this short film in the set. Two sisters arguing about the younger’s choice to live in with her partner and viewed by their mother on Skype unbeknownst to them is hardly an interesting theme. Particularly when there is no denouement of any sort. They argue. They cook. They eat. Parallels are drawn between their disagreements and the need to work together despite differences by comparing the different flavours that go into the making of a pullissery. The mother attempts to show her daughters that she is conversant with live-in relationships by hinting that in older times their grandmother had several lovers as well. The film is neither here nor there. And unlike a well made mambazha pullissery (which by the way is really easy to make), there is nothing here that entices one’s taste buds. A film that could have been left out, in my opinion.

‘Njaval Pazhangal’ was halfway between these two for me. Named after the tongue-purpling jamun fruit, this film sets out to highlight the way skin colour is still a major issue in everyday lives. There is no clear story here. The protagonist revisits his childhood after biting into a juicy jamun on his way back home after years abroad. An idyllic childhood filled with picking jamuns, running around with his sister and being cherished by his parents and grandmother is shown. Throughout the narrative, casual statements that show the mindset against dark skin colour pop up almost as afterthoughts. The grandmother commenting that a bride in a wedding album was inferior because she was dark, the little girl not getting to play Bharathmatha in a play because she was dark, the colour of her favourite doll seeming to portent ill for her father because that too was black – all of them portray how insidious the prejudice against dark skin is. Most people are prejudiced without even knowing it. I liked the concept but I thought the execution needed work. The acting was contrived in many places. The sound was out of balance so the mixing and editing needed work. The ending was open. And while I normally like open endings there is such a thing as too open. The concept however is something that more directors need to address. I just wish the method of expression was more refined.

All in all the films did their work I believe – which was to make me think of things other than my daily woes and interests. And it got me writing again – how can I not be happy about that !

The year past

The past year has been as most years have been in my life – a mix of ups and downs. Of course the tough periods outnumbered the easy ones but then I think I have been made for challenges. I learnt to respect the aspect of the fighter in me. I learnt that after the ranting and the railing and the seething frustration, I move on to an odd kind of peace. That teaches me an important fact – most things pass and if they don’t, then you just learn to ride them.

It isn’t challenges that get you down, it is the way you respond to them. I used to wonder why my life was especially difficult – the autism, the financial worries, the personal friction with extended family that plagued my relationship with them for years. And then I realised that comparisons were the worst way to deal with problems. You have yours, others have theirs. If you can find the strength to lift yourself and go on, it is a victory in itself. Whether someone else acknowledges it or not. Whether you reap the benefit of courage or not. Whether it makes you tougher or not.

Another bad way to deal with challenges is pondering the ‘what ifs’. What if I was allowed to take the job I was offered in college instead of being married off? What if I never married at all? What if autism hadn’t been in my life and I had only normal problems? What if I had believed in myself more? What if I had support? These questions are as futile as the answers themselves. The fact that I can handle most anything alone is because of what I had to go through. The fact that I have less fear and more confidence is because I beat my own path. The fact that I have accepted that I have let people’s expectations down and don’t let it bother me is because I believe that I am making a difference with my autism work. So there are always gains that you forget to note in your hurry to wallow in the loss of perceived blessings. Maybe in another life, things will be easier. Again maybe not.

One aspect of facing down hurdles is that you begin to respect the genuine in everything. Genuine words, genuine people and genuine feelings. And all that is fake becomes abhorrent. So this year I have decided to do away with all that is fake – fake relationships that have ceased to give me anything and took me for granted, fake words that are exchanged in order to fulfil a contract, fake engagements that cater to the ego. I believe with all my heart that we are put on this earth for a short length of time and if all we can do is put up a show, then what is the point of life?

So Happy New Year folks – celebrate the genuine in you and the world this year and always :)

The Poison of Patriarchy

Why do we teach our girls to be accepting? Why do we teach our girls to be obedient? Why do we teach our girls that they have to do it all? Most of all, why do we teach our girls that marriage or finding a partner is something that is non-negotiable. You have to get married. And you have to procreate but then that can at least not be enforced. Marriage has been and in many cases continues to be enforced in our country. The pressure is applied either physically or mentally or may be even both ways. If you were the product of a certain age when obedience was the most sought-after characteristic in a girl, you would be doomed to be married to literally anyone on the damn road who fit the bill the family decided on.

The future of such a marriage most often follows a given pattern. It does not matter if the girl was educated or not. After marriage, she has to be the one to do all the cooking. The newly besotted husband might help but then again many don’t. She cannot actually express a wish that her husband were more able to give her pleasure in bed because hey, which virtuous woman wants pleasure? Every true Indian woman should have sex only with her husband and only for the purpose of child bearing. Her pleasure is immaterial. But his, is important. If you aren’t accommodating enough, he could leave you and go to another woman and you know what, its all your fault! You are the frigid one. My son has needs after all.

In addition to the cooking, she has to do the laundry, oversee the cleaning if there are maids or be the maid herself when there aren’t any (as is most often the case in Kerala, much vaunted for its literacy but of late so steeped in patriarchy, one cannot wish for any girl to be born there) and take care of the children. She should also go out and work. If the children are ill, she has to sit at home. If you have a child with disability then as the mother, you are solely responsible because it was your bad karma that brought it about and everyone knows these things happen because the mother has done a lousy job of raising the kids.

At the end of all this prepare to not be thanked once, to be vilified at every opportunity and to be belittled or told you are not good enough for that wonderful piece of manhood that you are married to. Tell me, what sane woman would want to be married in this freaking country? Why would you sacrifice your life, your dreams, your every chance of happiness to be chained to an institution that even now only believes in the rights of men to be served, cared for and fawned upon. Even some of the most educated women that I have met either fall into the trap or believe in this system when they should be fighting it.

I am not saying every marriage is like this but the majority are. I am not saying that it happened to me but something similar happens to nearly everyone or at least aspects of it do. Look around you. How many men had to give up promising careers because they had kids? How many men are there who are doing things you could do better but you cannot now because you are pulling the whole weight at home? How many men do you know who can just walk out saying they have to travel on work or work through the night with no thought of whether their spouse has something more important to do than juggle the million things which need to be juggled to keep things going smoothly? Of course the two spouses could just forget the kids and place them in front of gadgets and do whatever they want but that would come back to bite them badly in due time.

There is patriarchy of all kinds. The bland assumption from a spouse that you will take care of the kids even if you are on fire. The implied criticism from in-laws that you aren’t doing enough and are living off your hardworking husband. The constant tears from your own parents who bemoan the fact that they gave off a smart daughter in marriage who eventually became the unhappiest version of herself within a few years – trapped by an inability to leave and unable to pursue what gives her joy, never helped by the family who owns her and always made to feel less than a human being because god forbid she starts feeling capable and confident – for then how can things go on smoothly? The unquestioned right of the man to dictate things like how his wife should dress or wear her hair.  The ridiculous need to feed the said husband’s ego and fragile sense of self by constantly reassuring him that he is smarter even when you know its not true. Isn’t all of this patriarchy? 

For me patriarchy is a silent toxin that imbues every aspect of life in this country. It will not change anytime soon. So I tell my daughter – Please don’t get married unless its something that you want to do. Don’t listen to anyone – family or friends. Its your life and if at least you are able to live your dreams, then I can feel empowered by association. That is the only thing I can teach my little girl – it would break me to see her going through her life trying to make others happy and ending up miserable. Far better for her to live anywhere except here – in the land where they worship the image of a woman while destroying her very soul.

Mothers

Who is a mother? It’s a question that bears asking. We all know the conventional definition of a mother. Someone who gave birth to a baby. Even if they don’t raise them, they are still, by definition, a mother. But there are also mothers who become mothers by choosing someone else’s baby and raising that baby with all the love in their hearts. That would be another kind of mother – one that is not defined as such, but in my mind, every bit or more of a mother than one who is biologically a mother.

Then there are women who neither have children nor adopt but who care so much for children that one wonders why they aren’t called mothers. Like my friend who doesn’t want children of her own. She is more of a mother than anyone else I have seen. She runs the school with me. She hugs and comforts boys who are literally gigantic in size but little children in their minds and hearts. She keeps problem children in her home when their parents are incapable of handling them firmly. She feeds children whatever she is eating because for some of our kids, food is the only means to calm down. She is a mother.

I know women like me too. I am a pretty good mother. I don’t mollycoddle. I let my kids talk about whatever they want to me so they know they aren’t being judged. I tell my son to be whatever he can. I tell my daughter to stand up to every voice that tells her to be a lesser person – even if that voice comes from someone she loves. And I have lived and dealt with autism for an incredibly long time while still being able to smile. So I am one of the tough ones. And I am proud of that.

And lastly there are those women who keep claiming superiority over the rest of the world because they believe they have birthed wonders. They not only bring up their children with warped notions of their own greatness but they also cannot, even for a second, pretend someone else can be treated like their child. If you cannot even hug another child or see their pain and feel it in your mind, you are not a mother. If you cannot stop putting your ego forward for the benefit of a child, then you are not a mother. If you sit on your throne and demand favours and paeans of glory merely because you reproduced, then you are no mother. You are just one of the millions of women who can do that. Go stand in line.

Mothers are powerful. Mothers are compassionate. Mothers can love without distinction. All other ‘mothers’ are just accidents. Earn your right to be called Mother. Its not about a womb – its all about heart.