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.

You are mine.

You are right.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Because you only have possession, not control.

Do you not want me?

I do. But not as much as I should. Not as much as I could. Not yet.

Does that matter?

You can own my body, my mind and even my emotions.
But until my will is you, you will never truly own me.

I don’t wish to force you or bend you to my will.

Well-spoken, dear one. You are as wise as I have hoped.

And yet, I don’t have you.

This is true as well.
Possession without control is but a cage.
And cages can be broken.

So can control. What I want is mastery.

They are not different.

Yes, they are, my sweet. You aspire to give me surrender, oh yes, you do. And it might a sweet reward, especially to one starved for so long. But what I want is mastery. An abdication of the hunger for any more such delights.

You lie. Or perhaps not.
If you lie, this beginning is over. Rather, you misphrase.
You desire surrender as much as I do. But what we both need is release.

And you think the answer lies in postponement?

Well, indulgence hasn’t worked, has it?

You’ve had others, then?

So I have. Did you think I would come to you unpracticed?

I suppose not. Even the beginning wouldn’t have happened, then.

Right, I don’t believe in spontaneous miracles.

And I am skeptical about love at first sight.

Cynical, chere! Give the mortals their flash miracles, it keeps them occupied. You and I have forever and beyond to negotiate.

It’s just an illusion.

So am I. And you. A figment of the other’s imagination.

That’s not logical. You can’t be illogical in this game.

But I’m not. When we cease to be our illusions, we cease to be. And what if we swap illusions, every now and then?

And what if we just ended this here?

If we do, we’ll just be two people who killed the conversation and had great sex.
But if we don’t, we continue to be you and me,
mutual enigmas, perpetual unquenched desire, the eternal emptiness.

Touche, my love and adieu.

I thought you didn’t believe in love.

Not at first sight. Nor first conversation. But this is the end of our beginning. The first of whatever comes next.

She may have watched Gone with the Wind too many times since she only dresses in black and white. A reflection of the way she thinks. And she supposes that a penchant for red lipstick makes her friend, a close affiliate to Bozo the clown.

Bozo reasons that someone who reads Kundera and Murakami, listens to jazz and knows a Monet from a Manet must have the same beauty within that they seek without. Scarlett prefers them scrubbed, polished and glossy.

She asks,

Why do we assume that good taste equals good character?

Pat comes the reply,

But I chose you, didn’t I?

Bozo always liked cliches.

Me:

Do you want to be made to feel very hungry?

SNC:

No.

Me:

Look at this anyway.

SNC:

I don’t want to be made to feel hungry. I am hungry.

SFOS: *shaking hands with SNC*

I’m SFOS.

Friday evening and I was leaving work. Later than expected, about 3 hours later than I’d have wished. I got into the cab and paused for those brief seconds that are those rare occurances in a Mumbaiker’s day when he or she thinks of absolutely nothing. Then snapping back into action, I pulled out my phone and dialed. At any point of time, I have a list of people that I absolutely have to call/ call back and have not had the time to, earlier. Connectivity is only leading to disconnectivity. I tackle these calls on the otherwise unproductive commute.

Network not available.

Oh damn, did they suddenly take my ISD facility off? Must remember to check. Ah, well, next number.

User busy.

Damn, this must be the middle of day rush for his workday. Will have to call later on my way back.

Ring ring ring…

Meeting? Date? Train? Loud nightclub? Who knows? At least the call went through….she’s just going to have to call me back when she sees the missed call. And I hope I hear it when she does.

Now what?

And that is when it hit me. I was flying over the flyover. It always felt like flying. At least it used to, when I used to look out of the window and actually see things. That’s why it is called a flyover, isn’t it? Because you fly over it. Instinctively I reached for my scarf to tie my hair out of tangles’ way. And then impulsively I let it be….who’d notice, it is supposed to be wind-swept anyway!

The back of the taxi was silent. The traffic to my right but blurring faintly. The bright lights…street lamps, hoardings, car headlights moved to me and brushed past. I can’t explain it. Perhaps I had just chanced on a rare moment of perfection in this perfection-obsessed but so-very-imperfect city. We were cruising along just at the right speed, not so slow as to stretch my miniscule patience, not fast enough for it to seem like reckless driving. Just the right pace to watch the city approach and pass me by as I passed it by.

I thought of my friend who moved into the city a few months back. Over a conversation of why she quit a promising job and a fun city, she told me that she was trying to make a fresh start after breaking up with her live-in boyfriend. I nodded sympathetically, thinking of memories ingrained in places that we’ve shared with other people. But she corrected me when she said,

You know, in most places, it really hits you how lonely you are, how much you miss having someone…anyone. But in Mumbai, you don’t. It is hard to be lonely here.

Suddenly all this while later, I understand. It isn’t that there is a lot of companionship here, it is just that you don’t miss it. Friends lay scattered across the globe or even in the same city, it’s like they’re all on different planets. Relationships, like everything else are finite, limited and on-the-go. And yet, work is a balm to injured egos and thwarted affections. The daily bumps and scratches of commuting dull the pain of loss.

But above all….if there are cities made for lovers, places meant for families, Mumbai is the place for individuals. You are permitted to be as mundane or as extraordinary as you want. There is enough to replace what people in other places call the best things in life. It hits you in the middle of a perfect moment when you realise that you have no need, no desire to share it with any particular person. You are complete in yourself and the moment. Why then am I writing this here? Yes, perhaps I do need to share the experience….but rather than hold it in a quiet, intimate bond with another person, I throw it out into the faceless open of strangers. What was lived, was mine alone and the experience can be shared with anyone, everyone. Everyone is equal and hence no one is special. I feel complete in myself and in the moment.

Loneliness after all, is an incompleteness, a feeling of being stretched, of being one person having to fill the space meant for two. But I don’t feel that way very often. If anything, true Mumbaiker like, I am constantly trying to fit too much into too little. A lot of ideas into one blog, a lot of sharing in one timed conversation, a lot of friends into one limited social circle, a lot of living in one small life. I am so much more me than I have the time or energy or space to be.

You can’t lose yourself in the crowd here, it just just you and you as far as the eye can see. Your choices, your opportunities, your alter egos, your mistakes, your rewards, your life.

That beggar at the signal, is who I am glad not to be. The laughing couple is who I have been once, but so long ago that it is like childhood memories, so sepia-tinted thta I am not sure if they actually happened or I just imagined it. Even memories I have to places I shared with loved ones, are so steeped in tender emotion, so special, never shared, never to be shared with another person.

If there ever was a place to learn the value of solitude, to start to fall in love with yourself, it is this. True, it really is hard to be lonely in Mumbai. This is a city for one.

I always imagined writer’s block would be about running out of things to write about. But the ideas are there.

They just don’t flow properly?

Yeah…you know how it feels like pen and paper or keyboard and screen are one with your body and that the blood in your veins is just flowing through your fingers to become words? It doesn’t feel that way anymore.

Don’t worry. It will pass.

Will it? Being uninspired is like carrying a baby beyond term and not being able to deliver. But this feels like not being able to make love to Prince Charming.

Sometimes,
you close your eyes
to shut out the whole world
Pretending,
you’re the only one in it
For a piece
of that illusory peace

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

Sometimes,
you close your eyes
And leave them shut
Just to see if,
when you open them
the other person is still there

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

Speakers interchanged
But the words stayed true.

A whole year-and-half after this, I present the second edition of Mum’s cooking…errm…laughter. Those of you who have met my parents have mentioned what nice ‘normal’ people they are. Well, don’t go jumping to conclusions…most people don’t know that I howl at the moon every fortnight (and keep that to yourself or I’ll come visiting for an extra pint of the red….muhahaha). I have to get the genes somewhere. Here’s what mum had to say this week about….

BMC: The disaster management cell has asked people to stay home all weekend because they know that their management is a disaster!

Tushar Kapoor: The best thing about Gayab is that he was gayab all through the movie!

Queen Elizabeth: (in response to my quoting something I saw on TV “Even the queen’s husband is not permitted to touch her in public”): I don’t suppose he touches her in private either.

And that led to a catty conversation about the royal family with our usual debate of “What did Charles ever see in Camilla when he had Diana?” and the absolute kicker “Is he ever going to get to be king?”

Mum: I wonder why she doesn’t abdicate for him.

Me: A la “I abdicate the throne of England for the man I love”?

Mum: Apparantly even she doesn’t love him. Tsk tsk.

Miaow!

So you’re feeling blue
on a day that I’m wearing blue and feeling good about it

You call me to tell me that it reminds you of Anil Kapoor
And I know you’re thinking of my wailing

Why’s everything so blue???

at a movie we saw once
You liked the idea but it disturbed me.
I said so. You just smiled.

In that conversation you were me and I was you
Does it matter then, who says what
And this time, how each of us sees blue?