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…)

Will the Anonymouse who commented on my last post please take note? Yes, the one who didn’t leave behind and email address (if you had, I’d have kept this more discreet) but said,

absolutely stunning!! i plan to use this poem to propose the girl i like…hope there is no copyright issue!

Great, I’m flattered and all that. Just about. I’m not amused by your wanting to pass off my writing as your own. And my poetry is my personal expression. It’s quite sick to use them on someone else. It’s creepy so don’t do it okay?

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 picks out the notes to a vaguely-familiar tune that I recognize as a part of the ‘Beginner’s Basics’ on a guitar. Mornings are practice times. During yoga class, he’s the only one who can bend over and touch his toes gracefully. This following week, he’s signed up for a workshop on Kallaripattu, that ancient martial art-form from Kerala.I am not sure but I’m willing to bet that in the second, just as in the first, he’s the oldest member in his class.

He’s well over 50.

He’s the first man in my life. Also The First Man.
(more…)

I’m back! Yes, on Friday the thirteenth. Firstly tell me that you think it’s a great day already because if you don’t I’m going to make you say it. I was born on a Friday the thirteenth!!! Not this one obviously but another one long, long ago (uh, not that long ago). I’ve been so terribly thrilled to know that I picked a big day to be born that I’m almost disappointed that no one’s making a big deal of it today.

Now to other things. I’m posting after a week. No, this was not a self-imposed exile, not another case of blog-i-cide. I’ve been busy. And for a real change in a long, long time, busy in a satisfying way. You know in the way that drains out every drop of energy from you and fall back into bed, asleep almost as soon as you hit the pillow, thinking that what a lot of things happened to you today and weren’t they all great?

So yes, I’ve been busy (in a good way) and expect to be so for a few weeks at least. I’ve managed to do much that I feel good about though nothing that I want to write about. I still don’t have much to say but I’ve been experiencing - how do you say it - bloggydrawal symptoms? Lekhni kindly points me a way out of it and gives me something to talk about today.

I’m cheating ever so slightly on this since the tag is meant to use the nearest book you find lying next to you. I picked a book in the morning, knowing fully well that I’d do this tag today. (What kind of a loser plans to do a blog-tag, huh? This one does, compulsive to-do list-maker coming up!!)  So I kind of bent the rules if not actually break them. Good thing too, the damn things needed flexing and exercise just like my back. Speaking of which, I really should join the yoga institute now instead of just stretching along my instructer’s lessons. And I need a mackintosh and no one tells me where I can find one - the rain gear not the computer!!!

Okay, okay I’ll come back. *Huff Puff* It’s been awhile since I did this. Sticking to the point that is. So here the tag be -

• Pick up the nearest book.
• Open to page 123.
• Find the fifth sentence.
• Post the next three sentences.
• Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

The book I picked up is The Good Husband of Zebra Drive by Alexander McCall Smith. Sentences 6, 7 and 8 on Page 123 are:

She reached across and laid a hand upon his wrist. He looked down at where her hand rested.
‘You mustn’t be sad, Rra,’ she said.

Blah, I wish I had more than 3 sentences to go by. At least there’s an entire action in this set and a conversation bit as well as two characters. Which is much considering it’s only 3 sentences. What’s more, they’re as good a representation of the book as anything. I haven’t actually gotten to page 123 as yet. I’m savouring this book page by page since its the very, very, very last (or just most recent I hope) book in the Mma.Ramotswe series.

And I’m tagging five people I suspect would have a good selection of books to pick from:

1. Sensorcaine
2. Rada
3. E Vestigio
4. The Saint
5. Chronicus Skepticus

Boy, I wish I had something profound or interesting to say about my contribution to this tag. All I can say is that it is a reminder of the emotion of compassion and probably one I could do well to remember.

Gah, I can do better than this, I know. Oh please tell me that you believe it too. Foo (as the boy would have it), I’ll let you go and take my blogger’s blocked self off to enjoy Friday the thirteenth.

I wrote about a copycat blog which had passed off one of my posts without crediting back to source. That was more than fair warning, I think. But the offending post is still up there with no response. So here it is again:

My original post

and

its copy.

Shame on you, Mr ‘Teens to toons’. Do grow up and learn to write something of your own. And in the meantime, at least understand that copycats get caught sometime.

And oh, this may be a public-access blog but at least to its owner, you are definitely not welcome here anymore.

I’m really happy to know that my posts are liked. I’m thrilled to bits when people comment or mail me to say that they identify with my posts. But attention can be a double-edged sword, what? 

Awhile ago, someone tipped me off to a blog that had lifted one of my posts. Before I had a chance to check it out, however, the copycat post had been removed. What’s more, the author of that blog turned up at my blog to apologize. A short while later, he also put up a post that was a glowing testimonial to me. Err, well…thank you very much…is all I was able to say.

Soon after, I had a chance to chat with one of his friends who told me that he often quoted my posts and spoke about me. Well, what does one say to that? Everyone likes admiration. I did too even while I found it disconcerting that someone I had never seen, met or spoken to, was praising me.

Today I discovered that another of my posts (and one of my favorites too!) has been picked and posted on his blog. It does say that he read it somewhere, though not where. I’m rather doubtful that such a long post could have been relived from memory without any recollection of its source.

I’m still reluctant to let this become unpleasant. So, to my imitation-as-sincere-flattery copycat reader, I say,

Thank you.

But I value honesty far above admiration. If it’s a choice of one over the other, I’ll pick the first any day. You however, don’t seem to be giving me a choice.

I’m not pleased or flattered about this at all. If that matters to you, don’t bother apologizing. Just take that post off right now.

You know who you are so I won’t use your name. Not just yet.

I trust you get the message.

I am really hoping that I won’t need to allude to this matter again.

Here’s introducing a new category at The Idea-smithy. Remember Anjani’s tangy toes? And K’s funky bag?

Never one for fashion trends myself, I’ve always sported my own style and been at the receiving end of much flak, disbelief…and admiration. Anything off-beat or unusual on someone else catches my eye as well. We are all spectators at heart and it’s the sights that charm, entertain and enthrall us as much as our other senses. And let’s not forget -  Tomorrow is being born in the form of new ideas!

I Style! celebrates the spirit of individualism and the sparks of it that I spot in day-to-day life. The photographs may not be picture-perfect, the writing could be better but the sights will be fresh.

I’m also inviting contributions to I Style! If you spot someone wearing something whacky, something crazy, something unusual, stop and talk to them. And if they permit you to take a picture, do send it to me. I’ll be delighted to feature it on I Style! Just make sure you’ve got their permission to have it up on the internet. It would be good to take down their email address. If possible, capture the article that caught your eye with just enough detail to give perspective (size, colour, nature etc). Avoiding the face respects the spottee’s anonymity.

Else you’re just going to have to rely on my two eyes!

I’ll open I Style! with an image of a man who shows us the way. Meet…

Khalil Gebran
Fashions Designer

There’s some difficult news about Peter Griffin, who some of us have had the good fortune to meet via Caferati and the Kala Ghoda Gazette. Annie Zaidi has posted the following on Peter’s blog:

Zig’s not well

Hi,

This is Annie guest-posting here, under very difficult circumstances.

Zigzackly had a serious heart attack about 3 days ago. He was in the ICU, being monitored for 72 hours, and has now been moved to a regular room. He’ll probably have to undergo an angioplasty soon.

Friends who are in Bombay with him have sent messages saying that he now seems relaxed and chatty, albeit pretty weak, and cribbing much about hospital food.

I do not have many details since I’m in Delhi, but those who wish to could write to me: zaidiannie at gmail dot com: and I will send updates as I get them.

John Matthew adds a note after having visited Peter in the ICU of Sterling Wockhardt Hospital, Vashi.

He is feeling much better and we had a long chat. (Among the topics discussed were: his cooking style, food preferences, Anglican faith, work, biryanis, how Indian food over-uses spices [we like to dump our spice don’t we?], the Mallu factor in hospitals, etc.) He seemed in the mood to talk and I didn’t dissuade him. His humour and irony is as strong as ever and he seemed in good spirits.

Dilip D’souza has also been to see him and has kindly offered to pass on any messages to Peter, when he sees him next. 

I met Peter for the first time at a house-party. We didn’t speak much but a few months later, I had an email from him asking if I’d like to be a part of the Kala Ghoda Gazette team. That was two years back. Besides the Gazette, he has also been nice enough to send some other interesting things my way, including some impromptu counselling on careers in writing.

I’m quite shaken up by this news. Please join me in wishing Peter a speedy recovery.