The Idea-smithy

Eight years after hearing about it for the first time, I finally watched The Vagina Monologues. Wish me a happy birthday since I’m being reborn. On second thoughts, don’t say a word. Just listen as we speak - my vagina and I.

I hated being a woman. The restrictions, the rules, the fears of my mother, it made me angry.

I hated being a woman. Being smaller built than the boys, slower than them at games, lagging behind them on my bicycle, my scrawny legs pedalling furiously to keep up. I never could.

I hated being a woman. It took me a long time to get used to my curves. I walked like my flat-chested 12-year-old self till I was 17. Till a classmate told that it wasn’t the done thing for a girl to walk with such a straight back. Till, a boy said, “You walk with your boobs thrust right out at the world.” And when I did get used to them, I took them on with a vengeance and used them as lethal weapons. Bait? Hah! Call them Venus fly-traps! I loved their power and I hated them for the compromise they were.

I hated being a woman. Bleeding every month, feeling pukey and giddy-headed and sticky and smelly.

I hated being a woman. 10 years old and being told, “Boys can do whatever they like. But a girl’s reputation is like glass.” Twelve and my tuition teacher’s voice, “What a horrible laugh, so loud and monstrous! Look at Sonya, how prettily she covers her mouth when she laughs. And she doesn’t make a sound.” Thirteen and being admonished, “Sit with your legs together. Only a slut sits with her legs apart.” Yes, I really and truly hated being a woman.

But I didn’t always. I didn’t know I was a woman for some time. And then suddenly I did. Or more accurately, I suddenly knew he was a man. As he introduced me to his manhood and asked me to pat it, hold it, feel it.

Oh stop! I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I held myself back. And I held myself in. Realizing suddenly that if I didn’t, everything inside me would fall out of the hole.  And in that moment, I seperated my vagina from me.

Sometime later, I summoned up the courage to tell my parents. I said he had tried to kiss me once. ‘Tried to’, not did. ‘Once’, not many times. ‘Kiss me’, not…. 

My classes were stopped and we didn’t speak about it again. I gave up trust that day as well as faith in men. I even stopped hugging my father. I assumed a genderless identity. And later, sexuality was paraded as an accessory, not experienced from within.

As the years passed, I built armour upon armour. The strongest of them was the desicion that when I was uncomfortable or hurt or unsure or unwell, no one would know, least of all the person who caused me pain. I banished the fears. I suppressed the blushing and giggles. I stifled innocence and wonder. I held back pain. I shut down tears. I sent them all to the dungeon to keep my shameful prisoner company. 

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I didn’t speak of it for ten years. One day a neighbor asked my mother about the guitar lessons I’d taken, since she wanted to send 8-year-old daughter for them too. When my mother told me, I asked her to tell our neighbor what had happened. She admitted that she was too embarassed to. I said, “If someone had told us the truth a decade ago…” and I left the room. There was nothing more to say.

Four years later, I was playing a silly game with my boyfriend, slapping and giggling. Then in a dramatic flourish, he pinned me down and held my wrists. That’s the last thing I remembered. The next thing I knew, he was shaking me very gently and asking, “What happened? I was only playing.” I didn’t say a word. Apparantly I’d gone all stiff and began whimpering.

My vagina was locked away into a dungeon when I was nine and went into silence after that. 

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

As I watched the monologues and the vaginas of women around me sing and squeal and laugh and moan, I asked myself,

If my vagina could speak, what would she say?

And I heard her stammering, painfully shy reply so clear it made me cry.

She said,

I AM SORRY.

I’m sorry I disappointed you.
I’m sorry I hurt you.
I’m sorry you are in pain.
I’m sorry that I remind you of my existance.
I’m sorry I exist.
I’m so very sorry that I didn’t make you happy.
I’m really sorry that I don’t make you proud.
I’m sorry that you’re ashamed of me.
I’m so, so very sorry.

And as she spoke, her fellow prisoners stepped free from two decades of confinement. I had scratched off the worst I’d seen in my life and sent them down to my vagina, keeping the best bits for the part of me on show to the world.

My poor vagina, surrounded by my shame,
my guilt,
my pain,
my bad memories,
my nightmares,
my anguish,
my betrayal,
my agony,
my frustration,
my sorrow
…and my tears.

She cried, my vagina cried. And for the first time in years, I did too, with her.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Small wonder then that my relationships failed. Such a hellish place it had turned into that I’d only send those I wanted to banish down there. No wonder the very worst of men appealed to me and the very worst in them turned me on. And even they were petrified by what they found there.

I hated doing it in the dark.
I hated doing it on my back.
I hated doing it in bed. Or a couch. Or a car. Or in the open.
In fact I hated doing it so much that I never did.

Those who came to visit were offered a gracious cup of tea and then lulled into a battery of tests - a moat, a dragon, an army of defenses. And those that got past, walked up to the gates to find them locked. No entry into this love-lane, we’re shut, you’re unwelcome, go home. They did.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

My new friend calls me a child and tells me that there’s a little girl he sees when he looks at me. Now I understand. At long last, I’m in the throes of an emotion nearly long-forgotten - TRUST. I banished it to my basement along with the other more tender emotions. If other people trust with their hearts, mine has gone made its home in the hovel downstairs. I trust from deep down there, like a slender creeper growing out of the ground. And what do you know? He’s right after all. My vagina thinks she’s only nine years old. That’s the last time she breathed free. Sweet child of mine indeed.

I used to be a sweet child. Warm, affectionate, trusting and open and always getting into scrapes. All of that went away with the confinement, right down into my vagina which is everything I am not. Sweet, pure, soft and warm. And it stayed that way for twenty years despite the confinement.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The book was wonderful. But the play brought it to life. It made me laugh (not smirk) and cry (not scowl). It gave my vagina her freedom and her voice too.

This is for Mahabanoo, Dolly Thakore, Avantika, Jayati (the moaner!) and Sonal Sachdev, the wonderful, spirited ladies who made last night come alive at Prithvi theatre. You made me whole again. You brought me back to life.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

If my vagina were to dress up, what would it wear?

Well, it’s worn iron shackles for two decades. Now, if she could, she’d like something light and airy - preferably nothing at all.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I read Lolita when I was eighteen. It was a revelation. One more step in what turns out to be a long journey. A journey of healing. A lot of people I’ve discussed the book with say that it is a sick book, making excuses for paedophilic behaviour. But I think, they just don’t know. Of all the people, I can hardly be an advocate for child abuse.

But reading Lolita gave me some perspective on what happened to me. I suddenly saw my abuser as a human being - a very bad and flawed human being, a sick human being but a human being nevertheless. Not a monster, but human. And human beings can be overcome, overpowered and even forgotten. Almost.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

About 5 years ago I was at a doctor’s clinic when I suddenly realised that the man sitting across me was my former guitar teacher. I was shocked that it had taken me that long to recognize him. Even more shocked at what I felt - nothing at all. In my memories he was a big-built man. But in person, after all these years he just looked so tired, so small, so weak, so obscure and so old. I can’t change what happened and it would a lie to say that I’ve forgiven. This is a wound that cut me so deep, it bled me right out of the right to be angry and seek revenge. Seeing him again was like someone smoothing over the scars of the wound.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I didn’t have the courage to put this up online immediately. I had to ask a few friends about it. Two of them told me that it was deeply moving and should be shared. One cautioned me that I should remember to ignore any weird-ass reactions. Finally two others,  told me about their own personal accounts of horror. And in the end, that’s really what gave me the courage to share this.

Happy birthday to my vagina. And welcome to the world of the living again.

Yes, there’s more.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Do banished memories go to hell? I hope not, ‘cos I’ll only end up meeting them there again. Besides they deserve better, so much better than the  darkness in my mind.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

A friend who hurts you
….is the one most likely to come back and apologize 
….is the one that deserves forgiveness the least.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

If intimacy is what happens when love and hate collide,
Then seperation is when they lie together in the same bed…or grave.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I would hold onto any scrap of you that I can get,
Even if it is only a painful memory.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I would make sure the memory of me never fades in your mind
Even if it means having to leave only a memory of me behind with you.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Love means never having to say you’re sorry.

I take that to mean, the situation of being sorry never arises. After all, what else is love but taking the other person’s happiness as one’s personal responsibility? Even if that’s impossible, so is love.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Forgiveness is admitting the humaness of the other person
And divinity in oneself.

I think I can live with being just human.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Forgiveness is for the world at large, a fair exchange for our own peace of mind. But anyone who is special enough to love, is special enough to never be forgiven.

At 2 a.m. I reached the conclusion that I am not much of a people-person anyway. Why else would I be deeply annoyed by the thought of a packed social life? Perhaps the most people-person person I’ve encountered is Neil Gaiman’s Death. And then again, nobody loves anyone else that much, do they?

To you I come at the very end
I wait for you and look for you
In all the dark crevices in the world
And in the minds of men

At least I know you’ll be waiting
Smiling, but waiting nevertheless
It is good to know that all the twists and turns end at the same place
And that all roads lead to HOME..and to you.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Speaking of which, Neil Gaiman says,

We are creators. When we begin, separately or together, there’s a blank piece of paper. When we are done, we are giving people dreams and magic and journeys into minds and lives that they have never lived. And we must not forget that.

I leave you then with a mouthful of moonshine.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I was just about to hit ‘Publish’ when the phone rang. We used to be classmates, with nothing in common except the classroom. But we understood each other’s silences well. Oh how sappy that sounds! But we were never in love with each other. All we were, were good friends. For no other reason than that. And that’s all that matters. He would totally know what I mean by this post, even if the words sounded strange to him.

So even if I’m not a people person, there are people for a person like me.

When I was a kid, I remember a huge tin drum standing right next to our kitchen sink. It was taller than I was and was used to store water. Water, precious water, worth everything in summer.

Do I exaggerate? I was around 5 or 6 then. Old enough to feel the shortage, too young to do anything about it since I couldn’t even lift a full bucket by myself. Moreover a thick pall of gloom lay over the household. Mum, harried at the thought of having to fit cooking, cleaning, drinking water and the household’s other needs within a limited water budget. Dad, brooding over the questions of plumbing, drainage, borewell fittings and tankers, not to mention having to rush to work.

Everyone woke up early to catch the running water before it ran out. Vessels were scrimped on to avoid washing. Clothes were doled out as per strict hygiene requirments to save on laundry water. I also remember tempers flying high and getting scolded for a lot of things that never otherwise bothered the adults. Water-shortage time was always a period of suffocating, dark, depressing gloom.

What a sweet, unparalleled relief it was, the day the water shortage ceased and we were back to having 24-hour water supply! In the years to come, the water supply and plumbing systems evolved. (more…)

Forgiveness, that elusive quality, is so not like forgetfulness.

To truly forgive would mean being able to face the truth of what has been done to you and accept it for the rightest thing that could have happened and move on.

Barring that of course, for us less worthy mortals, (more…)

On February 18, a fifteen-year old British tourist called Scarlette Keeling was found dead on Anjuna beach, Goa. Death by drowning was the initial statement by the police. Scarlette’s mother, Fiona Mackeown pressed for furthur investigation, pointing out the bruises on the girl’s body as an indication of rape and murder. As the media and police dug deeper into the case, new facts came in light in the form of drugs and sex trade.

Scarlette came to Goa on vacation with her siblings, mother and mother’s partner. Her family decided to travel furthur to Karnataka while Scarlette stayed back. Her mother said that she had left her daughter in the care of 25-year-old Julio Lobo, a local tour guide. The ill-fated Scarlette then spiralled into a web of drugs, alcohol and sex with the people she met while working in the bar.

The most recent news on the case is that the police has confessions from the prime suspects, Placido Carvalho and Samson D’souza. Both have been booked for murder and rape.

The police and the media battle it out over whether it was drug overdose and drowning or murder that killed Scarlett. Goa comes under scanner, its image of an sunny, beach paradise ripped off to reveal its murky sex-drugs-crime underbelly. And, Fiona Mackeown’s personal life gets dug up and scrutinized in detail. All in a bid to answer the hanging question of

Who’s responsible?

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Remember Adnan Patrawala? The sixteen-year old who unwittingly became the face of Orkut’s dark side?
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This occurred to me when I was talking to a friend this week about breaking up. There is so much of literature available on love - how to find it, how to handle it, how to make it happen, how to make it last. But what about the sometimes inevitable - loss of love? There must be a reason that this post remains one of my most popular ones to date.

We are born with a capacity to love. But breaking up and letting go is a learned act…a lesson that comes with a lot of pain. While I can’t find a way to make that experience any less painful, for those of you who face it, maybe this will make it easier to deal with.
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Blogging is exploding like no one’s business with every next net-connected person signing up for their own URL. It is great to have this kind of freedom of expression combined with the sheer reach of the internet. In the meantime though, it surely is imperative to remember such things as etiquette. Good behaviour isn’t just lip service, it goes a long way in making things run smoothly.

This is a list of some things that I’ve culled under the general idea of good blogging etiquette. Note, you are a blogger if you have your own blog and/or if you read and comment on other people’s blogs. Readers and commentors are as much a part of this space as the writers are. Most of these are probably really obvious especially to long-time bloggers. Yet I see so many instances of these being thwarted that I thought I’d just put up a general guide.

So here’s IdeaSmith’s guide to being a gentleman/ lady on the blogsphere:
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The only way to be generous when you care,
 is to be ruthless when you don’t.

Caring:

a.	an inclination, liking, fondness, or affection.

take care of,

a.	to watch over; be responsible for.

b.	to act on; deal with; attend to.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Control:

a.	the situation of being under the regulation, domination, or command of another.

to control:

a.	to exercise authoritative or dominating influence over.

b.	to hold in restraint; check.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~ 

Where’s the confusion?

It was a wise man who asked, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
While searching for a suitable image for this post, I came across this. It’s a tad too religious for me but the truth is where you find it, isn’t it?

I was a stranger and you invited me in
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink
But when you asked for something in return -
to be paid with my freedom, my spirit,
You know why I had to turn and walk back into the desert

I’d rather be hungry than imprisoned.