Menarches and Monologues

Mothers who do not miss tiny specks of dust that settle on the rods of the window, like the toppings on your favourite ice cream, cannot be fooled when it comes to those tiny deep red blobs on your pale lemon-yellow frock, while you whirl around playing ‘Runner and Catcher’. I was rushed inside with unnecessary force, amidst a hush and a frivolously weeping Ammumma and bathed in cold water. I tried to mouth my genuine bewilderment while Amma scrubbed me vigorously with soap. She did not respond except for a curt nod and continued with her task (wiping now) while I sneezed a couple of soapy froth bubbles owing to taking in breath at the wrong moment. While I scrambled out of the bath, she said “You’ve become a big girl now.”

Never would I have ever imagined that a simple and an absolutely normal biological occurrence as periods could instigate chaos in a household. 

Well, it can.

Arrangements were made and I felt as if the house was heaving suddenly with a lot of people who came to visit Me. I was made to sit in a room where people sat around me and spoke about totally insignificant matters like the oncoming exam for their child or the extravaganza of next-door family weddings. I remember aunties and elder sisters pressing their fingers on me and looking at me almost pityingly (which I’d soon find out why) as they came in and squashed into the remaining space in the room, while uncles refused to meet my eyes and stayed ‘outside’ the room, embarrassed for some reason. None of this surprised me more than the fact that people started weeping unnecessarily when they saw me all decked in a traditional ‘pattupavada’ and wearing a flower garland that fell way below my actual hair. A relative who I swear I was seeing for the first time ever, came so close to plant a wet kiss on my cheek, that I could actually see her eyes fill up like a fountain before they spilled. Utter confusion and a complete disarray ensued in my brain on what was exactly happening to me and why was there a sudden shift of worlds due to a few negligible, probably washable, drops of blood stain?

Some of my marvel at the whole thing seemed to have clawed its way to my face because Amma pinched me hard and whispered, “Close your mouth and stop gaping like that.”

A momentary distraction came in the form of my brother and cousins who peeped in through the window. Their sincere worry had been that the ‘Runner and Catcher’ was still on hold and we were down by just two points. I wished I could give them a proper and credible reason for putting The Game on hold but I was too perplexed and all I could manage was that it was something serious as there were a lot of adult tears involved. 

Little did I know that the events that followed would be just as weird and strange as the others. A brown hard bound vintage copy of the Ramayana was placed before me as I sat facing the idols in the pooja corner. I was asked to retrieve a ‘Mirror with a tail’ from it and look into it and perceive my beauty while the crowd in my house stood and watched. I took the mirror from inside and stared at it trying my level best to ‘perceive my beauty.’ All I saw was a pair of bemused eyes staring back at me along with my identification mole (mentioned in my school diary) near my right eye.

Thankfully, the periods that followed later in life had been less eventful and surprisingly marked by a lack of concern. For one thing, cramps made their way into my monthly bloodsheds like stubborn pigeons refusing to go away even after repeated warnings. Spotting days after spotting days passed as Amma received calls from school informing I passed put in the assembly or the exam hall or the audio-visual room and the like. I’d be brought home where I lay in a pool of blood and my misery. Defying logic was one of the acclaimed qualities in Amma. The logic here was pretty simple too. Why not allow me to stay home on the first day of period? At this she strung a together words that made up a flashy multicolored mismatched chain, like ‘strong’, ‘giving into the pain’ and ‘bold enough to endure’. Finally, Dad decided to save his energy for a worthier argument and left the matter. 

One such day I was brought back from school and in between my emotional and bodily distress akin to your lower abdomen getting ironed so that it became wrinkle-free, I managed to ask her, wouldn’t these monthly auto tours gauge a larger hole in the money saving schemes designed by her. In response to this, she left me to my despair in the hall upstairs, alone and knowing I’ll have no one to rant to, which is the ‘worst’ when in pain. No doubt about it, fifteen minutes later I saw darkness creeping into my eyes and colour bombs exploding inside my closed eyelids as I clutched my stomach in agony. I slipped onto the floor allowing the cold to creep into the scorching blisters.  Some kind of a yelp came out of my mouth in the next contraction and I was hazily reminded of the same noise that Caliban from The Tempest produced in the excerpt covered by our teacher a few weeks ago. My exceptional liking towards Literature has come in handy quite a few times in life. This was one such moment when the lines of the Play flowed out of my head through the wails in my abdomen like a water out of a tap. As I twisted and turned and warped in convulsive pain on the cold floor, my throat shrieked the most gruesome and hollow-toned monologues by Shakespeare, though everything was punctuated through a scream. Half an hour later, I was put back in bed by a thoroughly shaken father, who kept asking my aunt, the family doctor, if period cramps could affect mental stability and turn his daughter into an English chanting 80-year-old. 

More fainting and seizure days followed while I resorted to my drama recital once within the confines of home. I still had no idea how it worked but somehow my energy alterations to the monologues reduced the impact of cramps on my head. This way, I’d be more concerned about the ensuing derangement of Lady Macbeth or Caesar or whoever depending on the text chosen by the school for the year. 

Maybe that’s what is meant by purgation in literature; how it purges you or relieves you slightly of your pain. Or the Cramps and Caliban share a secret code in life. Plausible. Later on, there were people (not the teary ones) who appeared to say, “Cramps are a passing phase. They stop when you’re fifteen, no sorry, twenty, or was it twenty-two? No. definitely twenty-four.”

Shakespearean texts work more than these unsolicited advices, everyone. Nineteen years later, cramps are still on, for your information. So are Caliban’s little monologues.

Rainy Strolls and Feigned Oblivions

 No. I am not somewhere far away from home, randomly reminiscing about the beautiful monsoons while I look out of the window at the lashing rains on the rooftops and the bewildered dogs on the street. Well, yes and no. Yes, I am away from home and no, I do not have a window here and hence I am not blessed with the sights of rain wrath over the neighborhood. I sit inside a rectangular cabin with wooden partitions for privacy with a fully working AC (sometimes giving you an unfamiliar sensation of a mortuary), a water cooler and a canteen, if you have the energy and will to take a walk of five steps. Whining, in any form is frowned upon here for the same reasons. What are you complaining about, exactly? Everything is so accessible. No tiring walks. No getting wet in rains. No distractions. Complete productivity. 

Funnily enough, sometimes, we realize the charm in something after we have lost it. Chennai rains, for me, have always been painful reminders of how everything around you changes except for a tiny sliver that adamantly remains the same. 

From 8b classroom, High School Section, Hari Sri Vidya Nidhi School too, you could see rains soaking the houses nearby, their cars and our own captains, running around without a rain coat or an umbrella. Some of the sprays hit my face as I leaned across to get a good look outside. Wishful it seemed to me, that, one would, sometimes, have neither rain coats nor umbrellas to shield you from rain. Enviously, I scowled at them while they playfully punched each other, laughing all wet and drippy.

A seemingly normal mistake of forgetting the umbrella was so unusual for me. Wait, was it really? For me or for my household? I mean, come on, you cram your breakfast, gulp down water, wash up, put on your bag and that's when Amma hands you the umbrella. There's no gap for a disgruntling sigh, let alone, refusal.  Once, in my desperation, I went the farthest you can go, in my house, by quickly slipping it back in the rack when she turned away. But she ran behind the car, yelling so loudly even the deaf neighbor grandma heard and looked irritated while I took the umbrella, accepting defeat. Forgetfulness is a rare quality, the 14 year old me, felt that day.

At 3:30pm when the school rang its final bell for the day, however, I stood quietly in the school porch, my umbrella hanging limply by the side, observing the umbrella-less kids go home unheeded and non-guilty. Well, a split second later, I tucked my umbrella neatly inside and wore the expression of a pretentious fussy idiot, cursing herself for forgetting the umbrella and walked ahead. 

All the water slushes and muddy piles with fish in them, aside, the best part was when you enter the narrow alley leading right up to my house. The alley was flooded completely and surprisingly with crystal clear water that went up till your knee, with no one but snoring neighbors in every house sleeping their way through the moody afternoon. I stepped into it and felt a shiver down my entire body due to the chilled water and took probably the slowest walk of a lifetime.

However, when I emerged after a while, remotely resembling a sea otter, with wet hair puckered to my face and teeth chattering violently, my sheepish face was met with a pleasant faced man, dad. He opened the car doors for me and I got in. Dad's usually irritating phone calls saved me this time as I could steal the umbrella out from my bag and put it under the car seat. 

Fifteen minutes later, when I sat down in a warm and clean pair of clothes with almost dry hair, thanks to the vicious hair drying techniques of my grandmother with the only risk of getting your neck cricked, I couldn't help but think of the half-amused half-confused face of my mother when she heard I forgot the umbrella. Thank God, she did not have time to dwell on it as she was pushed aside by a frivolous and positively alarming grandmother with a huge towel and a soap.  

Random Musings

 You know something we keep hearing about home. That home never changes. Home always remains the same. But right now, when I walk the paths which I've covered like umpteen times over, I think, 

..is it really that way? Does anything remain that way? 

Home does not have my grandfather anymore, frowning upon me as I walk outside the gate after 6pm.

The wide sky view from the terrace has been blocked a little by the new building on the next street. 

Pages have turned a brownish yellow in Kafka's Trial and Desai's Journey to Ithaca. 

Lizards play around in the verandah of the neighbour who moved out a few months back. 

Everything is different. Yet, something is so familiar. The odour. 

Odours filling the lanes, insides of my room, when the leaves rustle in the balcony and when ammumma fiddles in the kitchen. 

Even when buildings erupt, odour remains, I guess. 

When people move out, odour fills their absence. 

Muthassan's cupboard still smells like him. 

My books too. 

Wafts remain the signals to memories. 

On Those Who Remain

All the times i have found my train compartment empty, the feeling of being alone never crept into me. All the times I have been squashed by the crowd, the feeling of insecurity never bothered me. All the times I have walked alone, I never tasted solitude. All the good moments without you didn't materialize. Maybe, the blame was to be solely vested upon your words. No. Not your words. The culprit had been my trust. My trust in your words. Why blame those meaningless innocent units of language when you, out of your own accord, are willing to just let go of your grip? When the unwavering faith decides to perch upon a not-so-balanced branch of words spoken out of the effect of stars, I guess. The resultant period was one of the best in my life. When life's contradictions start making sense to you. When in the sweltering heat, all you feel is the warmth of the morning sun. When you listen to rubbish, all you can do is grin. Without knowing that you yourself are becoming so(rubbish), just creating a parallel world, a parallel space with a box of cards only to be caved in with the lightest of the wind. But you believe. You believe that such a colossal feeling of love is in these little things. It is imbibed in these little moments.
Until one day, the space you manouvered cringes, the world comes toppling down and all that remains are the fragments of those good split seconds you've had, hanging around in the dust. Then you know life is about the big decisions. Decisions on when to stay and when to leave. On when to give up and when not to. When to grip the hand and when to let go. And once your unwavering faith had perched upon a not-so-balanced branch of words, you come pelting down. Hit your head, your face full of muck, nose smashed, eyes screwed up against the dirt, hands shrivelled and feet twisted.
Recovery isn't impossible. All the more a full state recovery is indeed more than possible. You'll be back in your feet in no time. Embracing life with a little uncertainty, a little doubt, a little fear, a little apprehension, a little regret, a little resentment. Just a little. Not more. You are not depressed. You have just changed. The best part of your self consolation is that you can keep telling yourself, it's all in the 'big decision of the choice of your branch'. And it transpires only after you have comfortably settled on it. In the end though you will pick yourself up from the floor, wipe your hands on your  clothes and leave. Limping a little. Just a little.
That's the problem with feelings and memories. They refuse to give up. They still cling on waiting for the branch to regrow itself.
But never to worry. The smile would fade. The feel of the grip would fade. Those eye locks would fade. Those stolen secrets would fade. Everything would grow dim. And you would cover it up, mash it up with the new. With the sanctioned new. You will smile again. You will realise again. You will be happy again.
But the faded substances will persist. Just a little. Here and there. The smile. The grip. The moments.
Don't worry. You will be faded. Just a faded picture to be carried to the grave. Faded. Still it's there. Just a little.

AILS OF THE MIND-WITH PERTINENCE TO WOMEN’S SAFETY

Diffused lights shimmered in through the windows. The frequency of traffic in the city cannot be seen to decrease until it is around twelve in the night. Busy world. People with their busy lives hurry across to meet their ends. Everything for the sole reason of happiness and satisfaction. But truths stretch beyond the the petty human desire to attain the perfect ecstacy in life. Fate plays an imminent role in framing our lives and most often more than what we ourselves contribute. The marks we attain, the career we set up, the food we prepare and the things we own, all of it can be lost if fate wants it to be lost. And we are given no thought, choice or chance. Birth and death are a matter of minutes or rather seconds. Life is a miracle happening between both. Human beings are given the rationality, the thinking power which places them different from animals. However, the irony of today’s situation is that animals act more sensibly than men. They exhibit the power to reason out things well much above the ordinary men. In keeping with the shastras and traditions that govern the everyday life of common people, it is quite easy for us to comment on the general attitude of the pious and orthodox men in leading the ceremonial practices and rituals. However reality quite often flashes before our eyes by which we are able to see that many of them do not do what they profess. This fact proves to be one of the primary causes which affect the happenings around the world. Misconceptions regarding the value and meaning of life need to be wiped out. All of us ideally would like to have value-oriented joy filled satisfactory life. But the clause ‘value-oriented’ is often overlooked upon as the busy world supplies us with no time to instill values along with career-based narrow-visioned knowledge that we are thrust with in our educational institutions. The capacities of the human mind are vast and admirable. Once it has been set in the right the right stream, the pressing problem of distinguishing between the right and the wrong will be solved. Indeed, it will be surprising and pleasurable to watch the interesting changes it will bring about in their attitudes.

                                                  Men and women form the two components which along with nature survive on this earth. All the three religious texts speak of the multiple ways in which Man had been created by God and the events that followed. However, one fundamental conclusion which can be drawn from these ancient, medieval and contemporary explanations is that He must have had infinite purposes in mind while creating man, women and nature. They were to mutually respect one another and exist. The fact that it was not possible for one to exist without the other needs to be inscribed in humans of the age because the activities they are engaged in make us known of the bare truth that  they seem to be unaware of this. As the ages passed by men and women grew alongside their social, political, economical prejudices. Of all these one of the perceived misconceptions is that of WOMEN BEING INFERIOR TO MEN. As seasons change, so does nature, people, mindsets and the world. Somewhere during this process, this too might have cropped up and persisted its way through generations. However, the hard truth is that this ever-propagated ideology still exists magnified as never before.

                                                                  Atrocities committed to women unspeakable to the bare ear are not unheard of. Dowry deaths, rapes, female infanticides, honour killings and the list is endless. The so called ‘all powerful’ men being responsible for this managed to shove off the punishment they deserve. The reason as to why they involve in these offences; whether it is to derive the sadistic pleasure by inflicting pain upon somebody or to establish the stereotyped belief of men being physically superior; it still remains unknown. The most recent example is the issue of the Delhi brave heart where in the cruel and barbaric act of 6 inhuman creatures and the protests and uprising that followed was made known to the world. The question that ought to be raised is that if this incident could stir up such a dire reaction from the responsible Indian citizens, why is it that all of them don’t realize that a girl is t be respected and not insulted??? If the Delhi Police Force could be summoned to counter the protests in such large numbers where were they on the fateful night of 16^{th December}??? All of these can just be posed but not given a proper answer to because the solution is A LONG TERM ONE.  

India is a democratic nation. It literally means that India shall have a government ruled by the people and for the people. The framers of our constitution had all these concepts in mind while writing down the preamble of the Indian Republic. All of these facts are taught and ingrained during schooling then why does it take a brutal rape or assault for Indians to realise that that women are also HUMAN???

No stringent punishment or longwinding protests are an answer to this subsisting problem. The sense of humanity should come from within. The ability to distinguish between the right and wrong should be planted at the time of childhood. The innate responsibility of a man to respect a woman should not be dictated but be executed by man himself without any outside advice. Value based education deeply rooted in our own culture and tradition should be imparted rather than job-oriented knowledge. Our epics , The Bible, The Vedas, The Quran contain the true moral and ethical ways and beliefs of life. The true way of living imbibing the importance of the interdependence of man woman and nature ought to be taught alongwith academics. India can no longer continue as a developed as well as culturally, morally, and tradionally rich country if this ever-existing problem is to remain. Enlightened citizenship and responsible leadership is the need of the hour. The issue of the Delhi braveheart where the girl fought for her life most courageously and admirably is an eye-opener for all of us. Her death should not go in vain. Rise and stand up for justice. Rest not till your goal has been achieved. "Indians.....WAKE UP!!! OPEN YOUR EYES AND SAVE YOUR SISTERS ....!!!!! IT IS WHAT OUR MOTHER NATION NEEDS RIGHT NOW...!!!" 

                                                                                                                                      Jai Hind.

A Day in Memory

Cramming stale bread into my mouth, hands busy pushing my phone inside I ran out of the gate. The weight of my bag was cutting into my shoulders. Gritting my teeth and trying to finish my ‘breakfast’ I rushed along , amidst noisy and irritable traffic. I slowed down once I reached the French institute, my usual spot where I recognised that I still had five solid minutes to reach college. I allowed the dense sunlight to wash my face as I let out my breath and relaxed a bit. It was the year end. I had no major things to worry about then. All assignments completed and handed over now we just had the impending exams waiting.

Distracted by a small noise, I turned round to see a girl about three to four years of age, tugging onto her mother’s saree pointing at the cotton candy kept nearby. She had jet black hair, neatly plaited on both sides laid with orange flowers which deeply contrasted with her blue uniform. Her mother got a real big candy and passed it down to her. She greeted it with a wide smile which made her even more cute with one teeth jutting out re positioning the others. She tagged along sucking at it and watching her mother devotedly. Somehow, her innocent eyes took me around ten years back.

Impatiently stamping my foot, I glanced worriedly at the clock in my drawing room. Amma came along carrying my lunch bag shouting that she will be back in a few minutes. She met my indignant stare with a watery smile and we set out to school me holding the bottle. I was eager to make her known to the most exciting things happening in my school. The school captain had been elected and what more it was someone I KNEW! My tiffin gave a dangerous wobble as I jumped around shaking my head, chattering loudly to the perfect nods of my mother. Sometimes, she irritably engaged herself in tightening my pony or straightening the creases of my already well-ironed skirt while I was going on about the way Rohit snatched Sanju’s notebook and threw it at Lakshmi’s head. We had almost reached the house with a big furry black dog who always gave a threatening growl at the sight of anybody. While ranting out my innocent worries, I suddenly felt something press hard on my head. My mother uttered a little scream and the bystanders gave out a silent laugh. A crow had sat on my head, pressed its claws and flown away at the sound produced by Amma.  I slowly, touched my hair eyes wide with shock. Stifling her laugh with difficulty, she soothingly brushed my hair and led me along after which I was silent partly due to shock and partly, wonder.

A firm utterance of my name brought me back to my present senses, also to face one of the worst luck you can ever have in your academic life. I stood up, having absolutely no idea of what exactly the teacher had inquired, let alone the response I was supposed to give. Snide remarks complimented by harsh glares followed and I heaved a sigh of relief as one of the nightmares of our department walked out muttering curses for students who oddly resembled ‘lazy idiots’ in her dictionary. Waking my pal, who had dozed off and was blissfully unaware of the scene that had just taken place, we trudged along to the Auditorium programmed for the installation of the new Senate. Ninety minutes of report reading fairly good enough to put a human, who has already slept for ten hours the previous night, to sleep was staged under the shade of the pomp and pride of the not-so-good institution of ours, introduced to us by an emotionally hysterical principal. Susan’s head dropped onto my shoulder as she drooled on. I gave a dangerous yawn and immediately one of those annoying committee members warned me not to sleep.  Scowling, I folded my hands and stared at the stage.

But here, instead of seeing the white clad student leaders led by the little devil on earth, I saw a different auditorium, and on it, fourteen captains, just fourteen, with their badges and sashes, ready to give up for the next set. My glasses glinted in the yellow light along with the badge pinned onto the collar of my short. This had been my pride, my identity for the one year which had thrust me with experiences each of which taught me a valuable lesson in life. My group, my Ganga house had been my goal which had successfully emerged out tonnes of sweat and toil. Placing my badge on the plate, I saluted my school and walked out with my companions realizing with a slight pang that despite all the pains and hardships endured during the past year, somewhere in my mind I still felt , I will miss it.

Walking back to class, my friend stopped to have tea, her last solution to avoid sleeping and I walked along in my trance. She pulled at my little finger and I glanced at her widely, passionately. She made me sit, doubtful expressions lining her face. How could she not because her gesture made me slip maybe, just a few months back.

We had not seen each other. Or I will rephrase it. We had not seen each other after knowing each other so much. My heart was in my mouth when I saw him grinning at a distance with the same naughty twinkle in his eyes. It had been a day worth reliving, where we walked shoulder to shoulder, finding pleasure in the smallest of things, talking, breaking all the rules of normal conversation, words tumbling over one another due to excitement. Places, situations, people and the whole wide world did not matter as long as we were with one another. He tugged at my little finger pulling me into the game store, with a wink. I smiled mischief evident in my finest weapon and his greatest weakness...

Chennai does have moderately pleasant breezes, in fact, one of it just blew across my face as I closed my eyelids and allowed it to whiz past. Opening them, I saw her at a distance. The only gift I had inherited from my school to my college in the same proportions. She hurried along, the familiar anxiety drowning her beautiful features. Evidently, her project on Dyslexia had not reached up to the mark and was dissatisfied about it. Complaining loudly, we walked along busy roads and irritable traffic. A day of past, no, maybe a few days or events of the past, had intervened in my dull and uneventful procession of degree completion in a city far from my loved ones. I sighed to myself and smiled at the thought of the memories in my life, worth reminiscing about. Looking up I saw the accusing stare of my best soul. Apparently, my expression had not been in tune with the news she had just proclaimed. Quickly clearing my throat I nodded fervently replacing the grin with a frown, our static mood almost at every moment spent in My College.