അമ്മമാരുടെ ശ്രദ്ധയ്ക്ക് (Attention, all mothers)

ഇന്നലെ വിഷു ആയിരുന്നല്ലോ. പതിവു പോലെ തന്നെ ഞങ്ങള്‍ കുടുംബാംഗങ്ങള്‍ എല്ലാം ഒത്തു കൂടി. ആഘോഷം ഒന്നുമില്ല. ചുമ്മാ ചടഞ്ഞു കൂട്ടം കൂടിയിരുന്നു വര്‍ത്തമാനം പറയലും, എന്തെങ്കിലും ചവച്ചോണ്ട് ടിവി കാണലും ആണ് പണി. പിന്നെ ഈ ഇക്രി-പീക്രി പിള്ളാര്‍ക്ക് തിന്നാന്‍ എന്തെങ്കിലും ഉണ്ടാക്കി കൊടുക്കും. അത്ര തന്നെ. അങ്ങനെ ഒരു അലസതയുടെ സുഖത്തില്‍ ഇരിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ടിവിയിലെ സിനിമയില്‍ ..... ബോയ്ഫ്രെണ്ട്സിന്റെ കൂടെ എവിടെയോ പോകുന്ന സ്ത്രീ കഥാപാത്രങ്ങള്‍. ഉടനെ ഒരു കുടുംബാഗം അവരുടെ എട്ടു വയസ്സുള്ള മകളോട്, ‘ഈ പെണ്ണുങ്ങള്‍ക്ക്‌ വീട്ടില്‍ ചോദിക്കാനും പറയാനും ആരും ഇല്ലായിരിക്കും. അതല്ലേ ഇങ്ങനെ ഇറങ്ങി നടക്കുന്നത്? നീ ഇങ്ങനെ ഒന്നും പോവല്ലേ.’. എനിക്ക് ചിരി വന്നു. കുറച്ചു ദേഷ്യവും. പക്ഷെ പറയാന്‍ ഞാന്‍ ആളല്ല. എന്നെ എന്റെ അമ്മ വളര്‍ത്തി താന്തോന്നി ആക്കി എന്നുള്ള അഭിപ്രായമുള്ളിടത് വാ തുറന്നിട്ട്‌ കാര്യമില്ല. ഇതിനു മുമ്പ് ആ കുഞ്ഞൊരു വാച്ച് കെട്ടിയപ്പോള്‍ അവര്‍ മകളോട് ഇംഗ്ലീഷില്‍ പറഞ്ഞത്‌ ഇപ്പോഴും ഓര്‍മയുണ്ട്, ‘Boys wear watches, girls wear bangles’. ഇത് അവള്‍ക്കു മൂന്നോ നാലോ വയസ്സുള്ളപ്പോള്‍ ആയിരുന്നു. അത് കൊണ്ട് തന്നെ അവരുടെ ഈ നിലപാട് കാലം കഴിയും തോറും ശക്തി ആര്‍ജിക്കും എന്നുള്ളത് ഞാന്‍ നേരത്തെ വിചാരിച്ചതാണ്. അവള്‍ക്കു menarche ആവാറായി. അതിന്റെ ആധി നല്ലോണ്ണം കാണുമായിരിക്കും. എന്തായാലും കുറച്ചു കഴിഞ്ഞു ഞാന്‍ അടുക്കളയില്‍ എന്തോ ഉണ്ടാക്കികൊണ്ട് നില്‍കുമ്പോള്‍ ഈ പിള്ളാര്‍ എല്ലാം കിടന്നു കൂവുന്നത് കേട്ടു. ഉടനെ ആ കുഞ്ഞിനോട് അവളുടെ അമ്മ, ‘നീ ഇങ്ങനെ കിടന്നു വിളിക്കരുത്. നീ ഒരു പെണ്‍കുട്ടി ആണ്’. ഉടനെ കുടുംബത്തിലെ ബാക്കി സ്ത്രീകള്‍ അവരോടു, ‘അയ്യോ.. അങ്ങനെ പറയല്ലേ. നീ എല്ലാവരോടും മിണ്ടാതിരിക്കാന്‍ പറ.’. ഉടനെ അവര്‍ ബാക്കിയുള്ളവരോട്,’അവളത് മനസ്സിലാക്കണം.’. 

അപ്പോള്‍ ഞാനൊന്നും പറഞ്ഞില്ല. പക്ഷെ ഈ അമ്മയോട് എനിക്ക് കുറച്ചു ചോദിക്കാനുണ്ട്. ഇങ്ങനത്തെ അമ്മമാരോട്. അതു ഞാനങ്ങു ഇംഗ്ലീഷില്‍ എഴുതുകയാണ്, മലയാളികള്‍ അല്ലാത്ത അമ്മമാര്‍ വായിക്കാന്‍ കൂടി വേണ്ടി. 

Dear mothers,

When we, your girls were born, did you look at our tiny genitalia and cry? On the other hand, were you happy that a small piece of life was suckling on your bosom? When did it become rules and more rules about how to be and what to do? If you really love us, please read forth what I have to say.

We are human beings first. And you know what differentiates human beings from animals? That we have a sense of self. It is that self that you seek to destroy every time you say NO, just because you are afraid the big bad wolf of a world will get us for asserting it. Yes, you are right. It can get us. We do not guarantee that we will emerge from life unscathed and unhurt. We will be defeated in battles, we will fall down, get up and start walking again. The same as your sons. Don’t we deserve that? Maybe, we do not, in your view. Maybe we should make fewer mistakes, walk your shoes, whine about life the same as you, regret the choices that were made for you and die as nobody, the same as you.

I know it is not your fault. Your mother taught you the same, to hold your breath for approval, to keep your womb sacred to carry the seeds of the one who owns it, forego your agency and forbid yourself every sense of individuality. Even your agony and ecstasy are linked with your man and how the society approves the requisite criteria for them. Hence your anxiety from the day we start our menstrual cycle. 

Nevertheless, how does it help if you are so keen on keeping us safe that you forget to equip us for the future? You do want us to work, earn, go places and have a good life, I suppose. How can we possibly do that if, every time we laugh out loud you tell us to cover our mouths, every time we get screaming mad you stomp down our tantrums, every time we have an opinion you teach us that it is not valued? Do you think these are desirable qualities in the present day society? Are we not to shake the hands of a male colleague or get ahead in our careers? To do that, we need to speak out. We need to communicate. And you tell us not to. You suppress our basic communication and expression modes that we feel like the odd ones out if at all we are the only females to engage in a discussion at a public place. We sit through classes thinking that doubts are not welcome because our mothers do not approve of our inquisitive minds and if you did not approve, then we must be in the wrong to have them. We carry that attitude forth to all aspects of our lives, forcing silence on selves, thinking it is what we ought to do.

I am not asking you to be a Feminist. However, I know this; you are responsible for us, but you do not own us. As mothers it is your duty to do good by your children, not do what you think is good for them. Honestly, if you ask me the truth, I have to say that only the mothers who have deprived themselves of joy will continue to deprive the joy of their children. A person on a self actualizing path knows better than to keep adherence to the social norms, because they are just that… normative.You have been bound so long in that straitjacket that the society has put on your mind, that you are now comfortable in it. Patriarchy is more or less an extended version of the Stockholm Syndrome. 

എനിക്ക് ആ അമ്മയോട് ചോദിക്കാന്‍ ഒരു ചോദ്യമുണ്ട്.... എന്റെ കുഞ്ഞ് അവിടെ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു. അവന്‍ വളര്‍ന്നു വരുന്നു. അവന്റെ മുമ്പില്‍ വെച്ച് അവന്റെ കൂട്ടുകാരിയെ തരം താഴ്ത്തുമ്പോള്‍ എന്ത് പാഠമാണ് അവനെ പഠിപ്പിക്കുന്നത്‌? സ്ത്രീ ദേവിയാണ് എന്നോ? അതോ അവനും വളര്‍ന്നു കഴിഞ്ഞു അവളെ അങ്ങനെ ഒക്കെ പറയാമെന്നോ? സ്വന്തം മക്കളെ എച്ചിലില്‍ കൂടി വലിച്ചിഴക്കുന്ന അമ്മമാരേ, ഓരോ ബലാത്സംഗത്തിനും, ഓരോ ഗാസ് പൊട്ടിയുള്ള മരണത്തിനും നിങ്ങളാണ് കുറ്റക്കാര്‍. നിങ്ങളാണ് കൊലപാതകികള്‍. ഞങ്ങള്‍ പെണ്‍മക്കളെ ഊമകളും, ആണ്‍മക്കളെ ഞരമ്പ്‌രോഗികളും ആക്കുന്നത് നിങ്ങളാണ്. ഞങ്ങളോട് ഈ ചതി വേണ്ടായിരുന്നു. Our vaginas bleed crimson with your treason.

And women... be loud. 

God's Pimps.

Disclaimer: This is a rant. It is not my fault if you read it and get offended. But if you do, you know perfectly why.

It is festival season here. Or so, I suppose. There is no other logical explanation to what I have been witnessing the past couple of weeks, with every wild mushroom of a temple having its own pongala and ear deafening speakers at every turn of the locality, not to mention the door-to-door fund collection. I am not a tolerant person when it comes to religious nonsense. As far as I am concerned, people can pray, have their faith and indulge in all their rituals as long as they don’t cause noise pollution and irritation. But the past few days, that is precisely what has been happening. Starting from the local lower caste temple, which was taken up by the Saffron brigade so as to ‘bring all the Hindus together’, to the big temples which have even larger number of devotees willing to die at their god’s feet, they are in constant competition with each other to outdo the potential of miracles the deities could perform.

Let me start by recounting the day which annoyed me enough to write about it. I hate traffic jams. So sitting in an auto at an intersection, listening to some devotional song being blasted at high volume was the starting point. People seem to have this inane notion that only film songs are noisy. Somehow devotional songs escape the noise radar no matter how destabilizing it could be. There is a reason people don’t like loud noises, why babies wake up screaming at sudden sounds and why Govt has set specific time and decibel limitations on the loud speakers; acoustic trauma.  It did not help that the local boys/men/semi goons would stand across the street at every bend, stopping each and every vehicle asking them for financial contribution. Never bother that the passengers don’t want to give money, which we know, mostly goes into the box labeling ‘midnight debaucheries’. They behave as though it is their god given right (pun intended) and since we are all god’s children and the streets are in god’s name, to run amok on them. Never mind that no god lay the roads, no god asked them to collect money forcefully. So, instead of respecting the Constitution of India, public infrastructure and others’ rights, the temple horde decided to worship their god. One must conclude that god rewards disrespect, inconsideration and aggression. 

I also assumed, rather ignorantly on hindsight, that festivities conclude when people go to sleep. Little did I know that devotion is a 24x7 occupation, as I passed a very long and tedious religious procession, with horses, elephants, small children with drooping eyelids holding thaalapoli and the paraphernalia and lots of bright theyyangal and kaavadi. The time was one o’clock at night. They had noise, drunken devotees waving the cars along, neglecting the very fact that there is congestion because they are spread all over the road. 

I feel a cultural alienation. Perhaps because of Kerala’s high developmental indices, which makes one hope that the people question such religious bullying. Perhaps because no one I know closely would be among those crowds of recklessness and primal idiocy that began before the age of wisdom. Indeed, a majority of my loved ones are believers, the kind which go to temples, visit lots of astrologers and who contribute financially when the temple people come knocking, but not one of them would engage in what I have seen the past couple of weeks. But, I feel a cultural alienation, mostly, because this is not culture, neither tradition nor piety. This is about the vulgar and debased intrusion of money, inseminating the sheep with hybrid seeds of mob psych, contributing to the cause of marketing of the particular temple. It seems hollow that the great citizens of our nation, who hate any political procession, groan at having to wait in traffic jams, shout about the destruction of public property and smirk at the causes of different protests, would comply with this ‘culture’ so eagerly and so wantonly. The typical person who is a part of such a culture exudes no individuality and furnishes the mind with worthless obedience to those who espouse the deceptive cause of unifying Hindus and bringing glory.

I am pretty sure that the number and intensity of these festivals and loudspeakers and what not will increase in the coming future. There is nothing I can do except hold them in contempt, feel ashamed at my fellow social beings and hope that the number decreases as more and more people understand the vanity of this neo-liberal incarnation of their gods and the only ones who benefit are the ascetic wolves in cotton mundu.

Women's Day 2012 rant. Why am not a Humanist.

There have always been questions about why Feminists are not Humanists and why we do not want better lives for everyone, man, woman and child, regardless of gender. The question why we tend to characterize everything according to gender and find a woman centric bias everywhere rather than considering it as a human centric issue.

Humanism can best be defined as ‘a democratic and ethical life stance, which affirms that human beings have the right and responsibility to give meaning and shape to their own lives. It stands for the building of a more humane society through an ethic based on human and other natural values in the spirit of reason and free inquiry through human capabilities. It is not theistic, and it does not accept supernatural views of reality.’

I would like to point out some things at this instance.

1. Democracy, ethics, rationalism and the definitions of right and wrong in modern society have evolved through patriarchal mechanisms. When you think of justice, you think masculine. When you think of logic and rationalism, you don’t see a woman, you think of a man deep in thought. Debates, arguments and discussions are so structured as to make sure dominance plays a major factor, not equality of merit.
2. Humanism is not an umbrella word for ‘Feminist+LGBT supporter+concerned with class disparity’. In that case, whom are you fighting for? Everyone has his or her reasons and their excuses.  It is a blind spot. Where do you stand when it comes to transgender marginalization and prostitution? Or incest? What are your philosophies on that? Being a Humanist, you need to process these thoughts at a cortex level using the UN Human Rights as a benchmark and not along the post-conventional moral paradigm as postulated by the Humanistic philosophy.
3. Consider the universal set with many parameters interacting with each other. Each of these, while producing their own final expressions, makes sure of one thing. Woman comes after man. White, black, brown, rich, poor, upper caste, lower caste, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, whatever be. The woman withstands the worst of every cruelty heaped on her community. By empowering a woman, you empower the whole community.
4.  Humanism in itself is extremely imperialistic. We are asked to follow a Western world view which does not acknowledge the human diversity, to analyse in a cost-benefit manner and to use a just world hypothesis to introduce a paternalistic hierarchy with whom the West sees as less fortunate.
5. Feminism brings people together. In every region, religion and culture, the sectionalities interact and give a nuanced view of what the least privileged woman is going through. When we get that woman out of the trench, it means that we have successfully tackled every single issue in that community.

So, in effect, we are asked to follow essentially the same norms, rules and regulations evolved over millennia, which form this seamless patriarchal fabric with the only exception that we now deliberately use the masculine rigidity of our ‘free inquiry’. Ironic!

And this is why, I am not a Humanist. I am a Feminist. I am a Feminist first, second and last.

Time Machine

He squirmed, frowning at extinct
racoons; Spiff no longer allured
his grey, as the sun set in dimmer
red, earth no more to be saved.

Suburbs subsumed by corridors
of urban anthromes, snowmen
melted into ebbing rivers, sleds
of fantasy mid way in emptiness.

No mars colonies, floating cities,
disintegrated future in zero gravity
boots; last snowflakes seek shelter
from tired hordes of trampling feet.

‘Drat! The Time Machine is broken.’
Muttered Calvin as Hobbes slowly
ruminated, ‘Science goes big Boink
when Bang scatters humanity.’

Divine

My mother has tiny fingers,

restless, carefree; delightfully

alive, kindle everything good

and warm with a fairy charm.

Subtle vagaries in subliminal

illumination, as her soldiers

march; screams of ticklish

surprises sprinkled with love.

Melting into the hug sublime,

flashes of the Sistine fresco;

her finger of human divinity

sparks the life in my being.

Suicide Note

See or may be unseen, conjure

of thread split from the seams,

no threat to the greater fabric,

spun finite a length not longer;

I take comfort in death, knowing

tomorrow the dawn breaks yet

again, sorrow glibly smoothing the

wrinkles of joy; love lingers, a

ripple of coherence in throes of

chaos: touches, words and looks,

mirrored in multitude;

you live on, embrace the wilting

breath, vibrating from me to the

throngs of new cosmic dendrites.

I take comfort in death; the world

still harmonious in its harmonics.

On... Neo-pop-culture and the Indian woman.

I want to discuss the omnipresent ‘F -word’ that pervades our pop culture nowadays. No, am not talking about Fuck. But Feminism/Feminist. That’s right. That is the new F-word. It has been co-opted by the conservative and consumerist media, along with it, churning out a new series of pop and cultural icons that exude confidence in their Gucci pumps and Prada clutches (They used to be called shoes and purses not long back.). The new generation identifies with the ‘rebellion’ of these icons to an extent that the core feministic values are covertly sabotaged by the market determined subtext. In the Indian context, this is made worse because of the juxtaposition of dynamic thought and stagnant culture. 

Let us take one of the universal Indian pop icons first- Aishwarya Rai. She is paraded around as the perfect everything. The epitome of the new Indian ideal. Whether you hate her because she is just a beautiful face whose familial roles reinforce the old patriarchal stereotypes or you love her, we cannot neglect the effect she has on the media. She is no different than the submissive, indoctrinated characters on Indian TV. Yet she has a market value and a ‘good girl’ certificate more valuable than most other actresses because of her ability to stoop to win, like the perfect woman. There was this moment when a friend told me once that Aishwarya Rai proves that a small town girl could do anything. The next sentence should have been ‘because she is fair, because is conventionally beautiful, because she conforms.’ This is the same sentence that I once heard the Malayalee soft porn actress Shakeela say. That a girl can do anything if she wants it. There is no crowd to cheer her on except late at night or in a darkened theatre.

This brings to another actress on the other end of the spectrum, Sunny Leone. A lot has been said about her. The orthodox section going wrinkled nose while the neo-liberal progressives happy about someone who sells sex and flaunts her sexuality finding space in mainstream Indian media. We cannot forget the fact that current world porn industry is essentially anti-woman. We cannot also forget the fact that Sunny Leone is not in any way doing anything original. She is just using her body to make money.  However she might define it, it is patriarchy at work. She is catering to her customers, who are mostly heterosexual males in a patriarchal society and whose ideals are formed and manipulated by the market forces. Like most of the porn stars, she has glistening legs, no hair anywhere. How is this in any way progressive? She wears what makes her look good, more desirable to her customers and fans. She is a commodity with fundamentally no talent. There is a huge difference between using sexuality to make a point and making a point to justify what is essentially everything feminism and woman empowerment stands against- objectification. Such subversive tactics of the market should not be considered as a triumph. Sunny Leone, Rakhi Sawant (Why is it that Rakhi Sawant is derided while Sunny Leone is venerated? Because she looks and acts ‘Western’ and refined while Rakhi is blatantly offensive and distastefully Indian.)  et al are doing nothing but make a retrogression in whatever empowerment has happened till now.

Let us discuss another widely removed, essentially Malayalee pop icon, Ranjini Haridas. I have courted fire because I have said in progressive circles that I don’t like her. She is individualistic. I agree and I do like her courage to be blatantly frank about herself. But to promote a woman who dropped her weight to skeletal thin along the show, creating a negative body image to the younger viewers and who once more, endorses everything unreal and nothing original, gives an extremely distorted view about the feminine. Femininity does not lie in coquetry. Empowerment does not lie in being oneself just because one had the means to. Wonder how many Ranjinis can afford to emerge from the quintessential middle class setting without being laughed at. Such ‘ individualistic empowerment’ is the monopoly of the privileged class.   

Feminism has always been utilized by the patriarchal setting as a scapegoat for furthering its goals. But till now, it has been a covert process. Now, with girls doing Slutwalk and telling everyone to call them sluts and not feminists because ‘Feminist is an ugly word’ or pretending that fun- feminism and iFeminism; feminism perpetuated and mass sponsored by the markets as through consumerism (Yes, I made that up.) ;are more individualistic and hence right than the collective spirit that actually constitutes feminism, there is no need now for the society to be covert. Consider this. Buying anything pink is girlish. So what? I like pink. It accentuates and reaffirms my femininity, which I have the right to express in the neo-social setting. I am a feminist. Look, the market has lovely pink accessories for my pink dress. I might as well buy them because it is my choice and I am defying the stereotype feminists who don’t wear pink. Really? The market tells you what feminists wear and don’t wear. How is that in any way empowering? 

I don’t mind the ignorance because it is hard to discern this sort of definitive subjugation in today’s setting with so many corrosive factors at work simultaneously. But trying to project all these women as the essential ideals of modern Indian pop/cultural icons is somewhat disheartening. The question is not whether our girls should have the choice to buy a doctor Barbie or a Katrina Barbie or a lawyer Barbie. It is whether or not they should buy or be a Barbie at all. 

As long as we don’t recognize that question, feminism will remain the F-word, a stylish expletive.  

   

Testicular

Three pairs, vast differences vasa deferentia,
buzz Hindolam, pheromones between legs.

Pan fry one, shallots, garlic, garam masala et al
swirling in aromatic pungency of muskiness as
pepper screams; lewd, spiced the heat climbs.

Marinate in yogurt, the next, zesty tang brews
redundant the stoic, virile garb; fire grilling the
chars of ghosts, flakes of tough skin repugnant.

Sauce for last, blended sweetness, sparkles of
manly flagellates, boiling chemotaxis; ambrosial
savoriness adrift in bland, attenuated insipidity.

Servings, delicious finger lickings past, perplexity
remains; no penile answer to a vaginal question,
what does a real man taste like?

Feel

Havoc, hand of a chassis piquantly

stilting my heart, enamoured in the

armour; trapped in restless Amor.

Torch, spasms envelope my truant

breath, clouded softly in shrouds of

ashes; arctic nerves ember to red.

Pain, slivers in agonizing harmony

crack my ribs, trumpeting silence

seethes, draws crimson of victory.

I feel.

At odds

Many years back, my parents presented me with a copy of the adventures of Vikramaditya. Not the abridged version, but the complete collection. I couldn’t quite understand the seductive nature of the stories, but something stood out – an image later occurring in The Arabian Nights. Supernatural beings which congregated around death, especially females. It was a strong image, something which remains in my heart after all these years because I got curious about them more than all the beautiful princesses and sex in those stories. There was something quite compelling and appealing about death, which drew me nearer into its allurement. It wasn’t until I saw the movie ‘American Beauty’ that I realised that I was in fact, infatuated with the idea of death. I was enthralled with the possibilities of it and what I perceived to be the finale of consciousness, rather than an end. It was oblivion. I wanted to know what it felt like. 

To understand this psyche, you have to watch the world through my eyes, which since isn’t quite possible, might be illustrated as follows. Consider yourself seeing everything you think, every violent act you can think of. When I want to smash my brother’s head in, I don’t think, I see. Time stops and I see it. I see the blood running down his forehead, the walls coated with crimson. I see it, like in the movies, in a vivid microsecond. It is scary. When I travel by train, I see myself jumping into the deep waters below. I imagine myself drowning. When I cross the road, it is another chance that I would be closer to death. I have killed myself a thousand times in my head. But thoughts can get you only so far. I have tried to, in reality, but stopped myself in that last moment when reason struck. When I descend a flight of stairs, at times I get an image of me at the bottom with a broken neck. It is not something I do purposefully. It is something in me, which draws me deeper and deeper into the darkness, the more I allow myself to be tempted by it. Not long back, I climbed this cliff at a beach and stood at the edge and looked down. I was afraid to go near the edge. Not because I might fall, but because I might jump. I could feel the tension in my body as I tried to act normal and take photos. Every day, at least once I think how I COULD die. 

That is where the paradox happens. I am not unhappy. I am not a melancholy person. I am a person who loves life, who loves to smile and laugh a lot and who is said to radiate a warm positivity. There is nothing ‘wrong’ with me. It took me a lot of time to learn that. All my life I had been trying to fit into an image, an image for every person, which would give me some form of acceptance till I evolved into this equilibrium where I know myself. I accept that I am emotionally unstable and unpredictable, I accept I am much more sensitive than most people, I accept that I have what they call ‘over expressiveness’ because I am animated. So naturally most people cannot see the duality that exists in me. But, most people don’t matter. Some do. What happens when you hurt those some people over and over again, just because they love you? A sort of guilt is generated, which consumes you. Unfortunately for those loved ones, I am over that guilt. Because I also accept that I am a bit to the dark side. I cannot write happy poetry. It was a struggle for me to find my voice, but I am there and it is dark and melancholy and intense. I accept me. But my mother could never accept that I love death. Or anything dark. My best friend still gets concerned and gives a tiny caution if she feels I have forayed too much into the forbidden emotional realm. There is a constant blanket of love which gets restless when I talk of grey and black. 

I would never say they shouldn’t feel what they feel. I cannot help that. But I cannot help my behaviour either. It is time they realise that I am not going to kill myself just because I want to. It is my character. When I say, ‘hey, I feel like killing myself.’ I mean it, but I am not going to do it. It is only a sign of that duality within me. It is my way of communicating with me. A way of coping with the contradictions in me. When I think it out loud, I am putting the thought into clear terms and giving it a touch of lightness. The thought goes away with the wind. Yes, sometimes there is a small battle in me. I still seek help from my loved ones and put them on alert if I feel I might need a reminder. I still get tempted to do a lot of horrific things to myself. I need to at times keep my impulses in check when I know I am tempted by the obvious opportunity to embrace death. But that battle has evidently, always been won by the will to live. Not to exist, but live. That is what I wish my loved ones could see.   

You might be wondering why I wrote this post. It is a way of reaching out to those who might see it and need it. Just to let that person know that s/he is not a weirdo for loving death or the ‘dark stuff’ for no apparent reason. You could, like me, be just born that way. It is not a disease, just a tiny part of who you are. For me, as Peter Pan says, ignorant of what death would be, "To die will be an awfully big adventure". That excitement is what charms me.

Confinement

I got a knot in my breast,
accidental subterfuge of
a lazy stretch, across the
afternoon, calmly bleak.

Doubt the site of malady,
my ribs? Certainly not the
lump of flesh, a virgin to
travesties of mortal aches?

Below my intrigued fingers,
depths of mammary kernel,
a fibre throbs, sobs against
her pushy sisters, confined
in her definition.

I got a knot in my breast.

In case you get raped...

Molestation of women and rape have always been parts of modern India. We are told what to do, how to behave, when and where to work so that our ‘modesty’ may not be violated. Be as that may, when it comes to rape victims or harassment victims, there is no set of rules one can follow to avoid character assassination. So all my sisters out there who are thinking about taking the villain to court, or who are still limping or crawling to the nearest help after the ordeal, it might do you good to remember these points.

1) If the first question is, ‘what were you doing there?’, please remember to reply that you were at the spot of the rape or harassment because you were going to buy some exotic medicine for your mother or husband or child. You might wonder why you should lie about it. But trust me, the Bharatiya Nari is not supposed to be doing anything other than sacrifice her time and effort for her loved ones. Of course, I am sure you would have seen enough films which illustrate my point.

2) Remember not to wear anything other than salwar kameez and sari for sometime after the incident. Better not wear sleeveless too. Apparently for some women, their arms function as secondary sex organs, which signal the rapacious male. Wearing anything ‘immodest’ will be a huge negative for you when it comes to public support.

3) Always cry. When you look into the camera, tear up. Wobble your chin like the actresses from the sixties' movies. Take acting classes if necessary. (It goes for all the potential rapees.) Throw around the hint that your husband doesn’t want you or that nobody will marry you now.

4) Make sure that you sell one of your kidneys. You will need a very good team of lawyers, need daily therapy to help you face the court, police and the media. But of course, if you come from a well-off back ground, I guess the easiest way to justice would be to kidnap the guy and cut off the tools of the crime perpetration rather than face all the pantomime.

5) Are you good looking? How young are you? The younger and the better your looks are, the more sympathy you will get. There is no greater joy for our male patriarchs than to aid a beautiful damsel in distress. Let’s face it. If you are in your thirties or forties, you have already been in bed with a guy or two and have had all the action and might as well be considered a washed up hag with no sexual future. You should consider that point before you pursue the case.

6) If you were a virgin before the incident, it would be better if you get a certificate from a doctor that your hymen broke during the rape. Our society needs no more proof that the rapist(s) was/were vile creature(s). Oh, the horror to have broken the seal of virginity of a young maiden!

7) Do you have a boyfriend? Break up, break up, break up. The press will be all over that, portray you as a woman of loose morals. But of course, there is always the chance of your boyfriend describing every romantic moment you ever had to the media. Also try and be sure he doesn’t have any videos and pictures of you in any Abharathiya Nari positions. Don't even think about going to the police if you have a girlfriend.

8) Since this is the age of the internet and everyone is on Google search through Facebook, it would be extremely prudent to wipe off your entire set of pictures from the net, especially ones in which you are having a good time with your male friends or the ones where you are laughing with your mouth open. Shame shame, very loose woman.

9) Now this is a very important point to remember even if I have kept it for the last. Teach your family and friends the art of looking at empty space as if they are zombies.

If you have got all the above criteria intact, then take a long deep breath, pop in a nerve relaxant, walk into the police station and hope you don’t get raped there again.