The Idea-smithy

See anything interesting?

Look closer.

The funniest part is that this is the second one that I spotted within 20 minutes. I thought the earlier one was a mistake but two? Am I missing something?

I was burrowing through my closet the other day. Buried beneath the long-forgotten scarves and shawls and tee-shirts, I found an album.

Just before he left for his first trip back home to Delhi, he asked me,

What shall I get you from there?

And I said.

Yourself. Lots of yourself.

‘Lots’??

Yes. You with your family. Your school. College. Friends. Festive occasions. Baby memories. Photographs. I want to see what the rest of your life is like.

He looked at me like I was crazy. (Those were early days after all..in the months that followed, he got used to my weird requests). But he brought back photographs. An album full of them.
Read the rest of this entry →

Can it be wrong to want anything?

It could be silly or meaningless
impractical or impossible
unfathomable or illogical.

No, actually not.
All those things describe the object of one’s desire
Not desire in itself.

I want. I WANT. I want. I want.
And there’s nothing more to it than that.

I was surprised that you didn’t care so I went away

And now I’m stunned to discover how much you actually do.

Why does my absence make you feel so much more than my presence does?

My last tweet reads:

Ever get the feeling you’ve said all there is to say? That’s NOT where I am. I feel like nothing I can say now can top what I already said.

Let me try anyway. It’s not going to be pretty or classy or well-written. There are just too many thoughts running around in my mind and crash-boom-landing into each other.

I wrote this post last week. Of course you know that, you were there. For the first time on this blog, I’ve felt like I wasn’t alone, speaking out to a vast vacuum with no idea of where my words and ideas were landing, who was picking them up and what they were turning them into. Not any more. You were there with me, reading, re-living my experience and comforting me.

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

It wasn’t a ‘this happened to me now so I must note it down in my journal’ entry. The Idea-smithy is very little a journal in that sense. But it was something that was experienced a long ago, a multitude of experiences - of events, of situations, of sensations, of emotions, of relationships, of people and of realizations. That’s what I write about and so I wrote about it.

Like I said, I wasn’t confident about sharing it online so I sent it to a few friends. Finally, after a couple of hours of sitting on tenterhooks, I did what I always do when I’ve been nervous long enough - threw out my fears, walked out and said,

I can’t bear to be scared anymore. So here I am, come and hit me if you will!!!!

Metaphorically of course, to the demons in my mind. Then I published the post, switched my computer off and walked out, intending not to look at the blog till Monday.

I went out with my dear, darling N and the little lord. My little lord, the only man to read the post before it was published, woke up from his nap and hugged me. Then the three of us played a giggly, silly Scrabble, ate dinner with our fingers and went home. As N dropped me off, she hugged me and said,

I’m glad you put it up. Brave girl! Good night!

As I opened my door, the phone buzzed with my no-nonsense, rockstar friend messaging,

You make me a proud blogger tonight! I’m so glad you put up the post! You rock, girl!

Earlier that evening, the lovely Meetu told me,

I shared the piece with some friends and they all thought it was beautiful! You should put it up!

And later that week, when I met her for lunch, over the fun, back-slapping banter, she leaned over and said,

No weirdos as yet. I’ve been watching. People are surprisingly decent!

So yes, this post is turning out to be a sentimental replaying of the things that people have been saying to me about my post.

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

There is a reason I’ve been quiet for a week. A week, can you believe that of me!! No new posts, no changing the yahoo avatar, not even a reply to the comments, prompting my indignant spitfire pal to remark,

Woman, at least answer those comments! People are saying such nice things to you!

The truth is…I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know what to say.

I wrote the post for purely selfish reasons, like something I should have written in a diary years ago but decided to finally go ahead and do it - on the blog instead. I thought I’d get a few comments from people sympathizing (which I’d hate) and a couple of friends patting me on the arm and maybe, oh just maybe a couple of weirdass-trolly reactions.

What I was completely unprepared for was this. It feels like that post was sitting atop a huge lock of emotions and experiences - my own and a lot of other people’s. All week I’ve been caught in the flood. Comments, emails, IMs, tweets, messages and phone calls. Friends have called of course. Strangers have written in and shared intimate experiences that I can’t even talk about since I’m bound to silence by their confidence. And most of all - the people in between, neither friends nor strangers, people with whom I have a connection but not a relationship - have shown me their human faces and I am finding it really difficult to keep them at arm’s length now.

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

Someone I was annoyed with months back and stopped calling, called me and said she had read the post. And in the next moment, she was in tears and telling me about a relative who had abused her at age 5.

A colleague sent me a message telling me how much it had touched him. A colleague I say? Yes, I’ve maintained a strict no family-no colleagues policy on this blog till last week. Writing that post dissolved a lot of my own rules. And when someone at work asked me for my address, I gave it and found this message the next day.

People I hang out with often and never discuss anything more personal than my boyfriends and even that only in jest - spoke to me and told me quite honestly that they didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to say that I appreciated that. It was like I showed them my real self - the one behind the smart comments and style statements - the messy, emotional one and they responded. Well.

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

I was also pleasantly - most pleasantly! - surprised by the reactions of men. Friends and strangers. I do not believe (well, not anymore) that every man is a sex-starved monster. I have had the privilege of knowing and being loved by many wonderful men. Family, friends and yes, lovers too. Some of the men who have commented have demonstrated in their own ways how much they love and support the women in their life. For the women who have suffered and relate to my experience, please do read those comments as a reminder that half of the world - the other half - may be just as caring and wonderful as we are.

I want to add that my experience does not trivialize the brutal experiences suffered by hundreds of little boys worldover. Child abuse is not gender-specific and I suspect a lot of men relate just as well to my post as women do. What’s worse is that women still have a chance of receiving some comfort and sympathy when they share their experience but I think most men don’t even feel comfortable enough to talk about their horrors. My heart goes out to them. I wish I could say more. I wish I could do something to make the world a safer place for children - girls and boys.

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

The most heart-rending of all has been reading and listening to the experiences of others. People who haven’t spoken about their horrors opened their hearts and bruised souls up to me. I feel so helpless, so powerless. I have no balm for their pain. Nothing to say except mumble,

I know, I know. At least I think I do.

Almost guiltily I find myself feeling really grateful, so very thankful for how lucky I am. I was not assaulted by a member of my family. I was 9 or 10 and reasonably old enough to understand what was happening. And though my post didn’t cover this very well, I had a supportive family. They believed me when I told them and did everything in their power to make things easier and as normal as possible for me. They did not restrict my freedom, guilt-trip me or even probe me about my experience. And years later, I learnt just what a horrible experience it was for them to learn that their little one was experiencing something that they could not protect her from. But they let me learn and supported me in every way they could, my parents did. What a blessing that was, I can see only all these years later.

In the later years, I also had access to books, media and the Internet where I was able to learn more about what I had experienced. I learnt about trauma, child abuse, sexual assault and the various ramifications (physical, psychological, mental) on the victims. I discovered - and which to this day I hold true - that the nastiest cut, the most potent poison in such an experience is the fact that the victim ends up as the casualty AND the guilty party. Whether it is self-imposed or societal, most people I spoke to after this post exhibited either directly or otherwise, an unwillingness, an embarassment, fear even of sharing their experience with other people. My first reaction while putting up the post was defensive as well.

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

One particular friend I shared this experience with, shared something of her own. A brutal experience but also the pain inside her, which didn’t come out in the form of tears but which I could see in her eyes. Her words chilled me.

I find sex disgusting.

And then for thought,

You know the odd thing is that we are the kind of women no one would ever expect to experience things like this. We’re bold, proud, smart and independent. The kind of women who won’t take shit from anyone at all. Who would think it?

It made me think that we’re that way not despite our experiences but because of them. Somewhere after the realisation that there is no one around to ‘make things alright’ for you - no teacher to shoo off bullies, no parent to pull you out of trouble, no friend to stand up for you - somewhere after that, you make up your mind that you’ll take care of yourself after that. Forever and forever.

All I can say is how glad I am to have written it. I really thought it was over and the fact is that it is. And yet the healing goes on. Every conversation, every relationship is a proof of the fact. Every minute is a reminder to myself that it is okay to ask for help.

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

There’s something else I’d like to add. From the comments I received, I gather that some of you think that I’m being brave and noble and forgiving of my guitar teacher. The truth is that I’m not. I am not a forgiving person (ask my boyfriends, ask my ex-friends, ask anyone who has ever stood me up, said something nasty to me or hurt me). I am one of those people who carries a hurt like a badge of honour long after the war is over. But the truth is that I really feel nothing more for my old teacher. No anger, no resentment, no fear, no coldness, no disgust. Nothing. It is just as if he were a total stranger and I didn’t know him at all.

Perhaps not entirely unrelated, I took guitar lessons for 3 years and even played on stage once. But to this day I can’t play a tune. It isn’t that I haven’t tried. But I hold the guitar, mutely and there is no recollection of the chords and notes that I know I used to be able to recognize. I have no connection or recollection with that music anymore. It is as if my teacher and my guitar are both strangers to me. I gave away my guitar a few years later, donated it to an orphanage. I can only hope that it brought some child more happiness and music than it brought me.

I remember reading once that Rudyard Kipling grew up away from his parents, with a nanny who battered and abused him. He wrote much later that the experience had left him unable to feel any anger or hatred. I know just what he meant. There is nothing more that I know how to say about this experience.

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

Thank you.

Thank you so much for reading. Thank you so much for writing to me. Thank you for telling me that it will be okay. Thank you for sharing your souls with me. I’m so, so very touched.

And finally, I’m sorry for being such a moony, loony sentimentalist and embarassing you (some of you anyway!). I blame it on the rains, they always have a weird effect on me. If you like my fiery, sharp-tongued, stylized self better (and oh, say you do, I work hard on it!), I’ll be back soon!

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.

I know someone whose mission statement has to be “Mujhse panga mat lena!” She fights off robbers single-handed, she champions the causes of Clean Mumbai, Feminism, Equal rights, Rakhi Sawant and Salman Khan. We love her anyway but for her kickass attitude, she gets the I Style! vote. And if you think I’m kidding, check out what she wears at home!! While most of us lounge in bathroom chappals, this lady shows off spikes on her slippers!!

And just in case you’re still wondering who I’m talking about, go say hi to the Gutsy Gal, queen of desi-bloggydom and Bollywood blog-rockstar.

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? Read the rest of this entry →

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?

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!