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.

Good morning, my lovely readers! I was almost tempted to say ‘ my garam-samosas’ and then I realised I was just carrying the Honey-from-HT Cafe hangover too far.

I had the most brilliant day yesterday! The morning rain ruined the grand plans of the day for me….grrr, if I could get my hands on that stoopid shower, I’d strangle it! An hour and a half on a journey that shouldn’t have taken more than half an hour, missed meetings, crunched deadlines, panic all over the place…don’t even ask. Then I stepped out on my own, realizing quite suddenly that I had half a day to myself with no meetings to attend, no appointments to keep up and actually - nothing to do!

So what did I do? (more…)

I like to make a grand entry and a quiet exit.
At events, in situations and other people’s lives.

There’s nothing quite like making a splash since most people believe in first impressions.

On the other hand, goodbyes for me, need to be quiet,
Like they almost never happened..so perhaps it will be the same again if we meet
It could be that goodbye just isn’t a word I like
Or maybe I just like leaving behind a lingering question mark - as a final gift.

Leaving was a hard lesson to learn but one well-learnt.

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

Update:

Within ten minutes of writing this post, my phone buzzes with the following note:

From what I remember, you went out as quietly as you came in.
But you hover in ways I cannot describe.

With that last line, you just made my day!

You’re beautiful.

For reasons I can’t explain
I find my gaze pulled in the direction of you
Quite incomprehensibly,
I can’t think of a single intelligent thing to say
When you turn and smile at me
And wait for me to behave like a normal human and respond
But I can’t.

I’m lost in the wonder of your presence
Wondering what I find myself in
Wondering what my self is
Wondering why I’m light-headed
And remembering just in time,
Something I never had to learn
…how to breathe.

What an idiot I am!
I tell myself and give myself a little shake,
Resolving not to look at you more than I look at others
But exactly 47 seconds later, I find my gaze shifting
Just like that needle on my table did last week
Ah, so that’s what they mean by ‘magnetic personality’
Feeling momentarily brilliant and then stupid
For realising belatedly something every wordsmith should know.

I’m hot and bothered
And flustered and nervous
All words that flood my mind after you’ve passed from my sight
Reproaching me for forgetting them
And I protest, “I couldn’t remember a thing!”
While the words mock back, “We’re part of you, stupid!”
And all I have to say is,
I forgot who I was for a minute.

You’re that beautiful.

Silhouette of Male Ballet Dancer

This, she thought to herself, is uncomfortable. Bloody uncomfortable.

Like being pregnant and not able to deliver.

Or like being married to Prince Charming and not being able to make love to him.

*Groan*

Those lines might have been really good but sounded trashy. Only because…because…she gave up.

I have writer’s block even before I’ve become a writer!!!

…she spoke to an empty house, immediately feeling a little sillier. No one in real life did that soliloquy-thing. People in books did things like that. The kind of books she wanted to write.

*Sigh*

She resigned herself to more silent soliloquy.

What’s the trouble?

The trouble is really that I’m afraid of what I’ll end up writing if I do write.

When did you start to get so self-conscious?

When the attention began, that’s when.

Ah.

Oh shut up.

Ah well, she surmised, why does it need to be perfect in the first draft itself. In fact, why does it need to be perfect at all?

Because you’ll never be in peace unless it is.

Well okay. But not the first draft. After all, only God makes creations perfect in the first attempt. And even he messes up sometimes.

And suddenly, despite the overused, tired phrase…..she smiled to herself in the darkness.

You and me, baby, haven’t been really alone for a long time. Missed me?

…she told her keyboard. And meant every word of it.

He said,

To the people we love the most, we are a little bit crueler.

I thought about all the people I’ve adored and how they’d agree. Secretly so as to not hurt me. And openly just so they could.

He said it was because of a streak of sadism.
But I think it is precisely because we love so much that we’re cruel.

We fear being hurt and those closest to us are in the position to hurt us the most. So we play our little games and ration our love or at the very least, withdraw it every once in a way, just to ensure that it’s not taken for granted.

That’s cruelty, akin to pulling a fish in and out of water. But that’s how we survive.
With and without love.

Todd Faber, in SANDMAN: “Fear of Falling”

Sometimes you wake up.
Sometimes the fall kills you.
And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.

I’ll take my chances.

I shut down Behind Cobwebs over a year back. I miss it today. I shut it because I thought I was getting to be too negative and that just having a place to put it was encouraging even more negativity.

Today, with nearly three times more visibility and so much more cheeriness that I’ve dredged up from the bottom of my barrel, I miss it. I miss the safe darkness so much I want to scream.

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

Six people have gotten in touch today to ask me where I am, how I’m doing and if I’m angry with them. I don’t know what to say. I haven’t been myself lately. It feels like I haven’t even been inside my own body, my own mind lately. And my soul has gone missing.

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

Years ago, someone told me, someone who isn’t a part of my life anymore and I never speak of him but I haven’t forgotten - told me,

Sometimes, you just want to feel sad. And then you need to be able to feel it. Not cheered out of it. Sometimes you just got to be sad.

I was reading a post about a happy girl two minutes ago and suddenly I was crying. Almost, the tears didn’t fall but they rose right to the very top and fogged my eyes. I used to be that girl…I think…I thought.

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

I am so tired, bone-weary and exhausted after a really nice weekend.

I’m angry, so wrathfully so, at some people and I don’t know how to find my way back into forgiveness.

I need someone to hold me and tell me it’s okay to cry.

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

Yes, I published and then immediately privatized (!) this post yesterday. And yet, enough of people caught it. I’ve replied to most of them but would the Anon who dropped me a note please look in this direction? This is the person who left no address behind but wrote the following:

I have been reading your blogs for a long time — And have enjoyed reading them.
I was concerned when I read “Sometimes you just need to be sad” — Do you often have mood swings? Or bouts of anger?

To which I reply, yes my dear child/friend/reader/stranger, I’m moody, I’m volatile, I’m irrational, I’m harsh, I’m bitchy. Family and friends are sometimes scared to tell me things because I’m perfectly capable of picking up a chair and hurling it out of the window. And equally capable of sitting them down, patting their arm and asking them to lay it all on their good ol’ buddy. Sometimes I care, sometimes I don’t and often even I can’t tell when one stops and the other begins. I often find myself unable to express what’s going on inside my head and all this ranting/poetry/fiction/posts are but a pathetic echo of what I experience.

I doubt you’re really interested in all this but it’s possible that that’s just my cynicism talking. Perhaps you’re someone I know and have burned my bridges with a long time ago,  but you’ve still stopped to ask me how I’m feeling. Maybe you are a total stranger.

Whichever you are, whoever you, all I can say is - Thank you.

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.