Visualising Emotion: My Blueberry Nights

 My very very first with Wong Kar Wai. I have heard so much about his style of film, his perspective on love, the beauty of the visual word, the lingering moment...  And yet I haven’t seen any of his films that are the most famous, ie In the Mood for Love and Chung King Express.

I wanted J to get me My Blueberry Nights first because I liked the premise of the story… of broken hearts, many nights, a trip in search for yourself, a café owner and the untouched blueberry pie. And I can’t write about the movie much. Writing about it will, I feel, somewhat kill the spell of beauty that the movie must needs cast on the first time watcher.

There’s nothing spectacular about the film, no crackling performances, nor even a sharp and memorable script. But there is this obsession with feeling, an ability to take emotion out of the insides of human consciousness, and display it, in all its glorious colours, in the cinematic medium. For, the colours are so much a part of the experience. The warmth of attraction, to the cool glow of rejection, the illusions of Vegas, all find their place in the haze of neon that makes up so much of the film. There is the ‘moment’ too… every moment in the film is held up, looked at lovingly, lingered over, as you would with a glass of good wine, before you move to the next. Every moment in the film is thus a moment to be loved and lived and enjoyed… an experience like none other.

I liked some of the ideas too… like, using an in-café camera (not quite your happy, blurry CCTV, but a nice, clear one) as a diary of sorts… to look over with as much of affection as you would your own back pages… and the entire metaphor of keys and open doors.

My favourite quotes:

Elizabeth: [wiping her tears] How do you say goodbye to someone you can't imagine living without?

Katya: Sometimes, even if you have the keys those doors still can't be opened. Can they?
Jeremy: Even if the door is open, the person you're looking for may not be there, Katya.

[last lines]

Elizabeth: It took me nearly a year to get here. It wasn't so hard to cross that street after all, it all depends on who's waiting for you on the other side.

Of Friends and Friendship Day...

Estella's back to muse and ponder awhile. And today- the first Sunday of August- "Friendship Day"- seems like a good choice of day to do just that. For Estella is at one of those points in life when she has to say "goodbye" to a regular set of friends, and perhaps move on to a new set. So this may be the right sort of time to look back and think of what friends and Friendship Day have meant over the years...



School was those glory days when every new class meant a new set of friends.... Friends you make one year, and forget about the year next... And every year those scores of embroidery threads that one wound into delicate, colourful braids.. or knotted into patterned bands, to make one of those countless "Friendship Bands" to tie your friend into an eternal bond of friendship with.

Things got a little complicated when the card companies decided to jump into the scene and make the nation "celebrate" Friendship Day with pomp and gusto. Thus, those simple, hand-made bands of thread gradually got replaced by stuff which became more gaudy and showy and appropriately expensive. Friendship began to be measured by the amount one spent on the band. And the card, and the gift. This kind of materialistic "friendship" usually reaches it's peak in those adolescent years, when life is lived out at a level of intensity absent from any other stage in life. ("Hormones", the expert would say.) And thus one loves and hates impulsively, intensely, and briefly. Friendships are formed at the drop of a hat (or perhaps the tying of a band), and are lost equally quickly.

Yet ironically, these teenage years are sometimes those years when one finds the true friends... friends who love you as you are, friends you grow with, friends who matter even when you are at your very worst. And even as you begin to cement these bonds into permanence, it's time to leave school and head towards different cities, different colleges, different lives. The friendships that matter are put to the real test- will they last, in spite of the distance and the differences? This age of enhanced communication makes things a lot easier, but then "distance" is often felt in terms of emotions, and not in physical terms. One often "grows out" of school friendships.

College brings to us a new-found maturity, new-found freedom, and new friends. Somehow or the other, three (or four or five) years at college often produce more lasting friends than do fifteen years at school. Are we more careful about the friends we choose? In college "Friendship Day" ceases to matter.. it's just another day at class, just another day to spend with friends. No more cards, no more gifts... yet so much more of friendship.



Sometimes friends can be found beyond the common spaces of college and school. People you may have known from different stages of life, and with whom you have managed to re-connect. Sometimes these connections are so full of the true meaning of friendship, full of love, trust, mutual respect, and a genuine sense of "getting along". With these friends we chatter day and night, before "Friendship Day" and beyond, yet we may never have wished them a "happy friendship day".. simply because there is no need to.



Which brings me back to wonder what "Friendship Day" means, if it does mean anything at all. It is certainly not necessary to call and wish all your friends on Friendship Day. This Day gradually ceases to matter, even as we grow older, while the friends- the genuine, close ones- matter more and more every day.

Yet, during those insane, carefree and impulsive days of adolescence, the Day matters as much, if not more, than the friends. So many days of frenetic preparations, so much effort to braid thread into bands, to decorate cards.. all for friends who you grow out of, someday, sometime. But we need this Day. As an important Day to celebrate every year of teenage, to give and receive those precious little souvenirs, to grow out of- one fine day, and to look back upon with fond reminiscence when it does indeed cease to matter. And when you do look back, when you do hold those old thread-bands, frayed around the edges, dust-worn, you remember those people who gave them to you.



And sometimes, perhaps, you do pick up your phone to text them a "Happy Friendship Day".

Villanelle

Are you not weary of ardent ways,

Lure of the fallen seraphim?

Tell no more of enchanted days.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze

And you have had your will of him.

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Above the flame the smoke of praise

Goes up from ocean rim to rim.

Tell no more of enchanted days.

Our broken cries and mournful lays

Rise in one eucharistic hymn.

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

While sacrificing hands upraise

The chalice flowing to the brim.

Tell no more of enchanted days.

And still you hold our longing gaze

With languourous look and lavish limb!

Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Tell no more of enchanted days.

- by Stephen Dedalus in

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

by James Joyce

A poem that I love..

Recueillement

Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.

Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici:

Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,

Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.

Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,

Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,

Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,

Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,

Loin d'eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,

Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;

Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;

Le soleil moribond s'endormir sous une arche,

Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l'Orient,

Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.

— Charles Baudelaire

Prose Translation by Francis Scarfe :

Composure

Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still. You longed for evening, and look, it is falling now. A dusky atmosphere enfolds the city, to some men bringing peace, to others care. While the base herd of mortals, beneath the lash of pleasure, that pitiless torturer, sets out to reap remorse in slavish entertainment, my sorrow, give me your hand, come this way, far from them.

See where the bygone years are leaning from the balconies of heaven, in their faded robes of yesteryear; where Regret, with a smile on her lips, rises from the fountain's depths; where the dying sun falls asleep beneath an arch; and, like a long shroud drifting from the East, listen, my darling, O listen to the gentle night's approach.

Well, the little black thing on your right is called Maukie. I chanced upon her on a random blog, and I absolutely had to have her here. This little thing meows and purrs plaintively when you roll the mouse (!) over her. She reminds me so much of my baby Mew.

Love having you, little Maukie.

Of all the bizarre things, I've suddenly decided to 'come out' with this blog of mine. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that I have suddenly started seriously blogging. Therapy is sweet. Not only does she grant that I can be called a writer, she has also linked me to her blog (which is infinitely superior to mine, and must be read by all who care to visit this page). Which means that my blog gets to be read by people I don't know, and hence I get comments that are clear and unbiased. Which means that there is an added interest for me in my own blog. Which in turn will make me write some more.

Thanks, Therapy. You're a peach, as usual.

Grrr... II

Another thing that completely Pisses. Me. Off. is this attitude that I get from most male shopkeepers in and about town. It is this attitude of me being the helpless damsel-in-distress who simply cannot do without their over-helpfulness (read : unsolicited interference). I mean, when I ask for a new copy of Huxley’s Brave New World, I’m asking for a new copy of Huxley’s Brave New World. I’m NOT asking for a ‘guide-book’. I’m NOT asking for Ramji Lall’s weird interpretations. I’m NOT asking for ‘helpful’ notes. Finally, I’m NOT asking the man behind the counter what he thinks is the best and cheapest copy. I understand that he’s trying to be helpful. I understand that this is what most girls (in CU, at least) choose to buy.

But why don’t these same shopkeepers show off this same helpfulness when the boys buy their stuff? That is because they are “men”, and why would “men” need help at all? They obviously know what they need, don’t they? And one must get them what they want. But women... oh, they don’t know what they want. When they want to buy a book, they obviously need a guide book, or a Ramji Lall at least, else how else will they write their exam? And HOW will they pass? No, no, we must help them out. We are their knights in shining armour.



PS—The best thing is to play the damsel in distress, however annoying it may be to some of us. ‘Tis the easiest way to get maximum help out of random strangers. To ask them in the guise of an intelligent, educated woman is to get gruff, minimal replies which are usually of little use. Play damsel in extreme distress, and people may actually go all of the way if you simply ask them on which street your destination is. The more the “distress”, the better it is. Of course, your brain goes “Grrr...” all the way.

Grrr...

When I say “Grrr..” I mean it. The other day, I had gone shopping for stuff in the New Market Area, so Ma called up and asked me to pick up some lingerie for her. OK, said I, I will. And so, the obedient daughter trooped in to one of the only shops in New Market which sells her brand of lingerie, and asked for the stuff. My mum being quite a few kilos heavier than I am, obviously wears a size larger than I do. And when I walk in to a shop and ask for a size which is oh-so-obviously not MINE, I do not expect the leery old man standing at the counter to actually look me up and down, and tell me, in the silkiest of tones, that he does not think that it would fit me.

I was speechless. In fact, I think I stood for some time without saying anything, while the man simply stood and smiled. Yes, smiled. And in a distinctly lecherous manner that left me feeling disgusted. What audacity!! What bloody nerve! After recovering my senses and my power of speech, I icily asked for the stuff again (pretending to ignore the looks, smiles and titters of the rest of the sales-men in the shop) and, having finally got it, left.


This is easily the most disgusting thing that happens to us women. Yes, we do get felt up in all modes of public transport (to be felt up in an auto is the worst of all). But to just stand there, and know for a fact that the middle-aged (or old) man is undressing you in his mind... never mind the fact that you may be dressed “modestly” in your regulation jeans-and-kurta... this absolutely takes the cake.

Required : Female staff at ALL shops selling items for women.

Maturity

The other day, a friend sent me a random message saying that he thinks I’m “mature for my age”.

It made me sit and think... something I have not done in a long while. I remembered those long discussions we used to have, sitting on the back-benches in Class XII-S, with the warm afternoon sunlight pouring in through those dirty, broken window panes... I remembered myself loudly asserting that maturity is “all about knowing who you are”, while DR insisted that it was the ability “to know who your friends are”, (and therefore, by implication, to know who your enemies are, as well). I remembered PN firmly declaring that it was “the capability to make your own decisions“, while SB thought that maturity was just a term employed by parents to make you feel guilty about doing things which you want to, but should not (her case : when she wanted to scribble on the walls of her house out of pure artistic impulse, and was flatly refused permission by the parents, who thought she should be “mature” enough to know what not to do at her age).

So what is “maturity’ all about?

The ordinary definition would be “to be adult”, to be-- to use a childish term-- “fully grown-up”. But like all abstract terms, there are no well-defined norms by which to state that “this is maturity” and “this is not”. For instance, a girl of 18 years is considered mature enough to marry... yet if the same girl is in a relationship with an older man, she is thought to be a child, and the man is often accused of being a “cradle snatcher”. And God forbid if the girl is 17 --only a year younger— the man may be branded a paedophile.
At home, if you are living with your parents, you are considered mature enough to do a lot of work, yet not mature enough to take any important decisions with regard to your parents, never mind that you are 35 years of age and earning really well...so long as your parents are not dependent on you, you are not mature enough to run the house or take major decisions.

I believe maturity is an inherent quality that comes naturally with age. One need not legally be an adult to actually be one. Maturity is to know who you are. That will automatically make you aware of who your friends/foes are. Maturity is not only the ability to make your own choices and take your own decisions, but also to be able to live up to them, to be able to take the full responsibility of the consequences of your choices/decisions. Finally, maturity is an ability to look into yourself... to be able to analyze your merits and demerits, and to be able to accept yourself exactly as you are, without making excuses for your faults. “That’s backbone”, as Conrad would say. How many of us are well and truly “mature” , if maturity is to be defined in these terms? I cannot pretend to be one...

A Moment Of Bliss...

I just happened to watch Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Saawariya and was left feeling...well... cold. It is supposed to be based on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “Sentimental Love Story” – White Nights. What a complete wreck Bhansali has made out of it... Does he not understand that not all stories can be stretched to epic proportions just to make a neat profit?

White Nights is a simple story. It is the tale of a loner -- a dreamer and a romantic—who finds love in a chance encounter with Nastenka, a simple little girl who is, in turn, waiting for her lover. They meet for four nights, against the backdrop of the ‘white nights’ of a St. Petersburg summer. The love lies in their connection, in their friendship, in their conversation, in the way they pour out their hearts to each other, though they are strangers to one another. Yet, when Nastenka’s lover returns, she leaves the nameless friend, and goes away with her lover. But there is no bitterness on the part of the nameless friend :

“ But that I should feel any resentment against you, Nastenka! That I should cast a dark shadow over your bright, serene happiness! (...) Oh no – never, never! May your sky be always clear, may your dear smile be always bright and happy, and may you forever be blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness which you gave to another lonely and grateful heart!

Good Lord, only a moment of bliss? Isn’t such a moment sufficient for the whole of man’s life? “

The dreamer’s hands rise up in benediction over Nastenka’s future, such is the effect of the moment(s) between them. It refreshes him, and gives him the strength to live his life all over again. Dostoevsky here explores fully man’s inherent loneliness, and his need for love, for human company...a fact that is especially relevant in the life of modern man. The need may be fulfilled only for moment, as in the case of the protagonist of White Nights. It is for him to savour the moment, make the most of it, make it last his life as the one moment that changed the way he looks at life forever...

One wonders whether something should be made out of that moment.. would a relationship really have the same quality of beauty and clarity that a moment of connection does? I suppose it cannot. And therefore, to try and convert a moment of love into a long-lasting relationship, or a long-lasting situation, is a futile effort. Over the years, the relationship changes, as do the people involved in it. Perhaps the relationship changes precisely because the persons do. And perhaps this is why White Nights ends as it does. Would the nameless protagonist choose to write about Nastenka if he did marry her? Her charms would have worn out for him after years of marriage and the daily business of living in the real world (which is notoriously not pretty, and lacks charm). Perhaps this is the same reason why Jesse and Celine (from the film Before Sunrise ) remember each other so well, and want to meet each other again- yet end up doing so ten years later (in the sequel, Before Sunset). Such magical connections of love are not meant to be confined within the defined norms of a long-lasting “relationship” – they rise above that, they go beyond, into a different realm where there are ideas but no illusions; where love is enhanced by lust, not diminished by it; where reality supersedes the best that imagination has to offer, yet is by no means unreal .

And perhaps it is the touch of the tragic, the sense that the moment is not to last, the ephemeral nature of the whole thing, that gives the moment its everlasting beauty. Proving yet again that man’s life is a complex pattern of paradoxes and ironies.. while it is defined by the eternal quest of man for that symbol of beauty, of grace and love ; that something that would give meaning to his entire existence...a Nastenka.

Random thoughts

Sometimes I walk through lanes and by-lanes, looking for something that is lost...
Sometimes I trudge through muddy roads while rusty tramcars trundle past...

Sometimes I feel tears trickling down a cheek...

Sometimes I am a ping-pong ball thrashed from this end to that...sometimes I am the table on which the game is played.

Sometimes I am the cushion she rests her foot on ; sometimes I am the heel of her shoe.


Sometimes I hurl a brick at the stillness of my reflection in a pool of clear water.


Sometimes I slash my wrists with the shards of broken dreams.

Sometimes I wander through the fish market, in search of silence. Sometimes I am a piece of dead flesh, on the butcher's table...while my blood is spattered on the white walls.

Sometimes I step in front of a speeding bus...and am pulled back by a passer-by..."Ey! Paagal hai kya ?!"

Sometimes I stand at cross-roads, holding on to a sign post for dear life.

Sometimes I just stand and watch the colours of the rainbow fade into grey clouds...




(written on the 6th of January, 00-30 hrs)

Sometimes I wonder if I have missed out on life in general.


I see so many people happy with the tritest things... A girl in my institution with her stick of bright pink lipstick, a child on the street with a broken plastic cup, an old man laughing with his grandson beside him, the young dude with loud music blaring from his car.... I stand and look at them, I watch them as though they belong to some world beyond my own, watch them as though I'm watching a film. I often find myself failing to understand this happiness, failing to fit in within the general scheme of things. I feel as though I don't belong here. I don't even know where I belong. My inherent coldness and sense of detachment have removed me so completely from everything that is real, everything that is warm and friendly and comforting. And yet, somewhere deep within, I know that I am longing for that very warmth, comfort and happiness that I see.

I never wanted to remove myself from the ordinary life, from my human self. I hardly know what happened, or even how it happened. And sometimes I fear that this really is my true self... cold, unfeeling, indifferent.... Will I never be truly, genuinely, unreservedly happy?

Bisharjan

One can never hear the beats of the dhaak without thinking of Bisharjan... There is a traditional rhyme to which the dhaak inevitably beats... something that is taught to us Bangalis from pretty much our first experience of Pujo :

“Thakur thakbey kotokkhon,
Thakur jaabey bisharjan...”

So the very hour that Pujo begins, its knell is also spelt out with the dhaak and the kanshor ghonta. The four days of frenetic festivity and mindless enjoyment that defines Pujo end on the night of Dashami, the day that the idols are traditionally immersed. The people of the para come down for a final sight of the goddess, and wait and watch as she is hauled up on the truck.

All this while, the dhaak beats incessantly, picks up new rhythms, changes its pace, slows down, then picks up again, yet continually reverts back to the theme- Thakur toh jaabei Bisharjan....

As the dhaak beats reach fever pitch, the truck revs up, the men and the women enthusiastic enough to go for the Bisharjan clamber on, and the goddess bids a final adieu to the pandal that was home for a few days. The dhaakis accompany the Bisharjan party, and the ones who stay behind in the pandal lurk till the beats of the dhaak grow fainter and fainter, till they are heard no more...


The pandal is now left desolate... Only a diya remains where the goddess had presided over so lately.... and the pandal decorations and the lights and the traces of sindoor and sandesh (that the women had given to the goddess as a sign of farewell, and to each other, in a ritual called ‘Sindoor Khela’ that takes place on Dashami) further add to the sense of desolation.

Thus ends Pujo... leaving a sense of emptiness in the hearts and souls of all who were a part of it, of all who were not, yet have observed... But the cries of the Bisharjan-party still ring loud and clear, and makes the solitary diya in the pandal burn brighter still :

“Aashchey bochhor aabar hobey,
Bochhor-bochhor hobey-hobey”

While I was walking down my daily jaunt, I saw a three copies of The Bhagwad Gita lying on the footpath- the 'shop' of a street-side book seller. One of them was in English, one in Hindi, one in Bengali...

Now I had been looking for an English version for a long time, since I'm most comfortable with this language, and because I have (embarrassingly enough) no knowledge of the chief of the works that constitute the religious texts of my own religion. Seeing a Gita on the footpath, therefore, I wasted no time in going across and asking for the price. I was determined not to haggle over the price, it being a religious book and all, and my moral scruples deciding to act up at the precise moment, but the man was selling it for a mere five rupees, so haggling would have been criminal.

I made the purchase, and then was wondering on the possible demerits of placing the book beside my purse in my bag (religion , philosophy and cash make ill bedfellows). But then I had no choice, because there was no other place. And then, of course, it had also been kept on the footpath.


One question...What is the place of religion in the life of an ordinary, urban Hindu today?

Estella and Estella

I first read Great Expectations as a wide-eyed thirteen year old, and though I was not yet of an age to be capable of analysing myself, I sort of found myself in Estella. No, I am not an adopted child, nor even brought up by a Miss Havisham kind of figure. Neither have I lived as a recluse most of my life, taught to scorn those who had not the privileges I did. I’m strictly not beautiful (someday I plan to orate on the postulates of true beauty, but here I imply physical attractiveness), and so I have no real right to be proud.

But here’s the catch. I’m proud. Terribly. I don’t know why. I can’t even define this sense of pride. Let’s just say it’s that indefinable something that makes me believe I’m different from the rest. Not superior. Simply different. And it isn’t only vain pride, I actually am different. There are certain things about people and society I simply cannot comprehend, and their incomprehensibility somehow cuts me off from people big time. I’m isolated in my understanding of this world. Rarely do I see someone agreeing to my views; even rarer are those who see and believe what I do. For those who don’t, I have only pity to offer. Someday the truth will shine down on them like some abstract sun, lighting up their souls and making them capable of vision.



And that is not all. What Estella and I share chiefly is the coldness of heart, the indifferent attitude, and the cynicism. Of course, it’s not possible to be human and sensitive, and not to feel strongly about some things in life. But then, there has always been this sincere lack of passionate feelings, for anything or anyone. Even in the initial stages of a crush, there has hardly been anything more than vague stirrings of the soul. (Not, I admit, in the case of my first crush- that one was different.) Sooner or later, the dust seems to settle down on my feelings, and all emotion disappears into a vast limbo. I have watched patiently while my friends, in the “first bloom of youth” (as Dickens calls it), mooned over a cricketer, a film star, or any other pimply teenaged boy. But I never felt that kind of a feeling. I don’t know what I’m saying here, but I’m trying to express in words what I feel (yes, feel), not what I think. Even today when I see my sister gushing over some trifle, I fail to understand the emotion. She is way older, but I believe I’m wiser (told you I was proud). She simply thinks I’m ante-diluvian, with long, wispy white hair.



When Pip passionately declares his love for her, Estella responds with cold cynicism. She declares herself incapable of feeling in any form. “It is in the nature formed within me” , she says. The emotion of love is something that she fails to understand-it is simply a form of words; but nothing more. She decides to marry Bentley Drummle because she is simply tired of the life she leads. There are no charms in it for her. This tiredness, this weariness is something that has come upon me quite recently. I have no idea where I am going… or what I’ll do next. It’s this vague sense of purposelessness that seems to be engulfing every aspect of my life. Suicide would have been an option if I was not afraid of the pain that it involves. Oh yes, I’m scared of pain…dreadfully so. And I’m tired of the life I’ve led, especially in the last five years. I’m greatly tempted to marry, like Estella, simply for a change of situation. But that would be wronging my unsuspecting partner. And whatever I do, I shall not do that. For deceptions and hypocrisies are not exactly my cup of tea.


Cynicism is usually the scar that experience leaves behind. Estella is a cynic because she is conditioned to be one. Miss Havisham teaches her the ways of the world; Estella is not only adopted to Miss Havisham’s care, but also to her cynicism. Mine is a little different. My parents aren’t cynics, so I cannot have been imbued with their cynicism. No, my cynicism has been born out of an observation of this world and her ways….

The biggest difference between Estella and myself is perhaps the fact that she really doesn’t have a heart to feel. I do. I feel, and have been feeling for a long time now. Estella’s cynicism and indifference prevents her from feeling, till life teaches her otherwise. My life has taught me that it is better to be cynical, and not feel, and therefore not get hurt. I’m scared of any emotional excess.... I seem to have seen and felt a lot more than I should have, and don’t want to go there anymore.



This post may seem like the outpourings of a confused soul. Perhaps they are. This was, at best, an attempt to analyse myself, and the way I think. This exercise of self-introspection is usually best carried out within the safe confines of a diary. I don’t know why I’m choosing to put this up on my blog.

Me and my Blog

This is not the first time that I’m blogging…nor is this my only blog page. I keep wondering why we all blog…..who’s going to read them anyway? Not only is this an anonymous blog, the author will also not ask anyone to read it. It doesn’t seem right, somehow, to write what you think is wonderful, then ask others to view it and comment upon it. It’s almost as if one is fishing for compliments, an idea that is wholly disagreeable.

No, this blog does not ask anything from anyone. What I’m attempting here is a blog that will be personal, something that will reflect my self, without being intrusive and overbearing. I’m not sure how successful I’ve been in the other two blogs. Because I’ve never attempted anything like this on blogger before. This account will be something like the diary I keep, except that all personal details will be thoroughly masked. For, anonymity is my chiefest ambition, and giving details of any sort will simply not do.


I want this space to reflect the life that I want to live, but dare not. This is me as I feel like being, definitely not what I am. And I want this space to be free from all the hypocrisies and the sham that life in the real world seems to be so full of….

Freedom...

I like to wake up in the morning with the belief that I am free.What does freedom really mean for a woman who is young, educated, and living in urban India ? This fact has haunted me from the day that I realised my privileged existence. Had I lived a hundred years ago, I would probably have been married at the age of 11, forced to bear children, and chastised for the birth of every daughter. I would have been uneducated….worse still, illiterate…and be forced to believe that if I dared to study my husband would suffer some misfortune. My husband would, of course, be at least twenty years older than me. If he were kind to me I would have been among the lucky few…not having to suffer abuse and marital rape, and being forced to live with the man, and having no one to relate my griefs to- or sympathise. I would definitely not be choosing my husband. My parents would marry me off to anyone they thought was suitable for me. And in case my father owed anyone a debt, that debt would be paid off by marrying me off to the son of the person he owed money to. My marriage would also be based on religion, community and caste. A Gujarati girl could not marry a Bengali. A Brahmin’s daughter cannot marry a Kshatriya. She must marry a Brahmin-the irony, of course, being that Hindu women are denied the fact of caste. They are the daughters, sisters, wives and mothers of the Brahmins, Kshatriyas and Shudras, but not Brahmins, Kshatriyas or Shudras themselves. My movements would be restricted to the home and the ‘antarmahal’ –the inner chambers where the men would not enter. I could not even stand at the window and stare at the world outside. I could not meet a stranger, even within the precincts of my home without the ‘ghoonghat’-the Hindu equivalent of the veil or the ‘purdah’. I would also have to appear in the ‘ghoonghat’ before the elders in the family. And it goes without saying, of course, that I would be wearing a sari at all times of the day and night. Not that I have anything against wearing a sari—It is one of the most beautiful dresses any woman can wear—but what concerns me today that society and family would decide what the woman must wear. Not that it is much different today…it is society that fashions what we wear, but at least I have the autonomy to wear what I want to, from capris to shorts to saris ! And even God would not help me if I was unfortunate enough to be a widow. Those who have seen Deepa Mehta’s ‘Water’ will know what I am talking about. Those who have not, please watch it. To be a widow would mean to live like an outcast in your own home, if you were lucky. If you were not, you would be sent to an ‘ashram’ of widows…to live like an outcast in the midst of society. As a woman, perhaps the most important privilege that I enjoy today is the fact that I have a voice. I am educated, and I have my own opinions on everything, be it religion, politics, or cricket. Best of all, I am allowed to voice my opinions, and be contradicted only in a healthy debate, and not because I am a woman who is incapable of thought. A hundred years ago, I would not have the right to ask my husband where he is going, or where from he has come. I could not question his decisions. I would have to accept unquestioningly all that he decided, even if concerned my most personal life. Not only my husband, but also the elders of the family, be it my own parents, or my parents-in-law. They would decide whether it was time for me to have a child, whether I should try for a son again, after having given birth to six daughters, or whether I should sell my personal belongings so that my husband can educate himself further, perhaps go abroad. One more huge step in the emancpation of women in urban India is the question of marriage. No longer is it a matter of compulsion, but one entirely of choice. True, society does exert a lot of pressure on those who choose not to marry, but the fact remains that we can choose! My parents cannot decide when I want to marry, and whether I want to marry at all. Education has given us freedom, and the ability and the confidence to earn our own bread and hold our heads high. Today, women marry because they want to, and not because they need to. The picture is not the same everyehere, though. Rural India needs to go a long way to emancipate their women. Even today there are hundreds of thousands of baby girls who are killed as soon as they learn to breathe. Of those who survive, very few attend school. Even fewer graduate from school. College is still unthinkable for girls in most of these areas. And they are still married off without being allowed their choice of husband in most cases. Which reminds me again of how fortunate I am to be living as I do today…free from the shackles that bound the lives of women hardly a century ago, and continue to bind the lives of those far away from the urban centres of life.