When Me met Me

[This is what my 40 year old self told my 30 year old self when they accidentally shared an empty coach. My 50 year old self may have very different things to say- maybe I should get them to meet.] 

The first thing I noticed was her book; Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird". The train was almost empty, but I chose the seat directly opposite her.

She was in her late twenties, though the severe hairstyle made her look older. Her clothes were too big for her­­––perhaps she hoped to cover the excess fat, but she only looked shapeless. I noticed she was using a boarding card as a bookmark––definitely a professionally qualified executive.

She must have sensed my scrutiny, because she looked up. I met her eye, and smiled.

"I was looking at your book", I said. "I have exactly the same copy."

"It's one of my favourite books,” she confessed. "Must have read it at least a dozen times."

"Me too." We got chatting.

"Who runs?", she asked, looking at my backpack with the logo of a marathon.

"Me. I've done four half marathons, and one full."

"W-O-O-W", she drew out the syllables. "I can't even dream of running 5 kilometers."

"Why don't you try? You might surprise yourself. That's what I keep telling my kids."

"You have kids? You don't look it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're so slim."

"Well, I do work out."

"I wish I had the time."

"You can always make time." I knew how superior I sounded.

"I guess so! But tell me", she said, changing the subject. "Is motherhood all it's made out to be?"

"I can't imagine not being a mother", I replied. "But have kids only when you are ready to put your life on hold for them."

Her station came. "Been great meeting you. Hope to run into you again,” she said grabbing her bags.

"We will." I reassured her. "And one other thing. Harry Potter. Do start reading Harry Potter!"

I don't understand why my friends are dreading turning Four-Oh. My twenty-nine-year-old self had not recognized me, and she was clearly impressed by what I had become. How many more surprises are in store as I advance further into the best age––the middle ages.

Originally posted here

Fifty

[To the Me that I am, and to the Me-s that I was]

She is Ten-

Riding her shiny red bicycle

Flying with the wind

Falling down, getting up

Testing the limits of her world

Free to be who she wants to be.

She is Twenty-

Pushing boundaries, fighting the world

Rebelling for the sake of rebellion.

Breaking conventions, finding her own path

Reading, thinking, arguing

Figuring out who she wants to be.

She is Thirty-

Trying to please everyone

Trying to do everything

Her life is going where she wants it to

She’s vaguely discontent

Is this who she wants to be?

She is Forty-

Permanently exhausted

Taking on more than she should

Pushing herself to do it all

She has it all. She is happy.

Just as she wants to be.

She is Fifty-

Still learning, still growing

Making mistakes, not repeating them

Doing the best she can, failing often

She is Imperfectly perfect, Smiling, 

Just as she wants to be.

Bhagyalakshmi, a Tale

 Her fingers gently trace the curls on her daughter’s head while she suckles noisily. Whatever the tempest raging in her mind, an unerring calm always descends over her when her daughter is latched onto her breast. Her Bhagyalakshmi. Her baby. Her innocent, defenseless baby. Did she even suspect her entire universe was about to collapse around her?

As long as Bhagya’s father was alive, there was hope. He would recover and come home from hospital. She would nurse him back to health. They would move back to the city. She would take up cooking jobs to support themselves. She could even do some embroidery work on the side to earn extra money to send home to the family. They would be happy together. Someday, Bhagya would get a younger brother. They would have his namkaran in the village.

But it hadn’t happened that way. Bhagya’s father didn’t recover. He was in hospital for a month. He was fighting. He seemed to be getting better. They said he would be released in a few days. Then he suddenly got worse. And today, he died. He was gone. Her anchor was gone. She was a widow with a baby girl. She had nowhere to go.

His family blamed her. Blamed her for seducing their son. Blamed her for bringing bad luck on the family. Blamed her for bringing the disease into the family. Blamed her for falling sick. Blamed her for infecting the entire family. Blamed her when people began to die; Sasurji, Devar, Sasuma, Jethani. She blamed herself too. But she hoped they would forgive her.

Now he was gone. What would happen to her?

Her baby opens her eyes and looks at her. She kisses her on the forehead and gently shifts her to the other breast. She latches on and started suckling. Her baby is constantly hungry. Her milk is no longer enough for her. Soon she would be ready for solids. How would she manage? Would things have been better if they had remained in the city. If they hadn’t come back when the cases started rising?

The memories of last year were still fresh. They were living together when Lockdown was announced. He had no money; he used to send all his savings home. They survived on her savings and the goodness of strangers. When lockdown was extended, he wanted to walk back home. But they knew his family would not accept her. He could not leave her behind, so they stayed. They begged their employers for money. Only one Madam obliged. On many days, they went to bed hungry. They didn’t think they would survive, but somehow they did.

They were ready to give up and go back to his village when one house she worked in called her back. She begged them to pay her in advance. They agreed. Gradually, she got a few more jobs. Her husband was not so lucky. He was a driver, but the family he worked for didn’t want him back. He couldn’t find another job. He drove an auto for two hours every day when the owner took a break. Sometimes, he was hired as a driver for half a day. Once, he drove a family to the mountains for a holiday. They had chicken when he returned.

Last year, it had been just the two of them, so they managed somehow. Now, with Bhagya, they knew they could not survive another Lockdown. Already, her husband’s earnings had started to come down. The old lady she had engaged to mind Bhagya while she went to work came down with COVID. Their neighbours were falling sick. They had no choice; they had to return to his village.

She looks down at her sleeping baby. Feels her soft palm pressed against her breast. Her tiny chest rises and falls with every breath. She gently caresses her baby’s fair cheeks; traces the curve of her long eyelashes. Her daughter is prefect in every way but one; she was not a boy.

He hadn’t been able to contain his joy when she told him she was pregnant. “When the child is born, my family will accept you”, he told her. They got married in the temple the very next day. She could not afford a new saree, but she felt like a bride when he draped the red chunni on her. “You look like a Rajput princess”, he told her when she gazed shyly at him from under the chunni. Who knew? Maybe she was a Princess; all they had told her was that she had been abandoned outside a temple. Orphans like her do not have a history.

If he was disappointed not to have a son, he didn’t show it. “She is Bhagyalakshmi. She will bring us luck”, he declared. He got the Punditji to cast her horoscope and sent it home to his family. They hadn’t even acknowledged it, but he continued to send them money every month.

“If I were not an orphan, your family would have accepted me”, I told him often. “They will when they get to know you”, he would assure her. But they hadn’t. And now they never would. She was on her own, with Bhagyalakshmi.

A wave of grief lashed over her. The anguish of losing her husband- the handsome man who had won her heart; the tender lover who encouraged her to move in with him, the kind hearted partner who refused to abandon her, the brave warrior who fought so hard to stay alive. She pushed it aside and surfaced. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. She had to think of staying alive and keeping Bhagya alive.

She couldn’t stay here any longer. She would have to return to the city. She was efficient, she was clean, she was honest. People would employ her. But what about Bhagya? Who would look after Bhagya while she was at work? How would a single woman with a child survive on her own in the city? How would she keep Bhagya safe when she grew up?

No, she wouldn’t be able to take Bhagya with her. She would need to secure her future before she left.

She holds her baby close. Then wraps her in her red wedding chunni. She kisses her on the eyes and lays her reverentially in the wooden chest. She places a Mata ki Tasweer and prays to her to watch over her baby. She takes one last look at her beautiful baby, slides the horoscope under her head and closes the lid of the chest.

With the moon as her witness, she will float the chest down the Ganga. When they finally find Bhagyalakshmi, they would know that she is the daughter of a Kshatriya family; she will not be a nameless orphan like her mother.

The next day, when the family wakes up, they will find that she is gone.

______

The next day:

Why add pronouns to our bio?

 She/ her

I added pronouns to my bio a couple of days back.

As a cis het woman, my gender identity was never in question. Why, then, did I feel the need to do so?

It was to show solidarity with non-binary and transgender persons, but it was also more.

To step back a bit...

Most of us have grown up thinking sex and gender are the same. But they are not.

Sex is what is assigned to you at birth based on your sexual organs.

Gender is what you identify as, regardless of what was assigned to you. Gender, unlike sex, is non binary.

There are non-binary people who do not identify as either male or female.

There are transgender people who's gender may be different to the sex assigned at birth.

Their preferred pronoun may not be obvious just by looking at them, which is why, to avoid being misgendered, they specify.

Why then, should a cis-ally add pronouns to the bio, when the gender is "obvious"?

It is essentially to display a symbolic solidarity. To tell non-binary and transgender people that they have our support, that they are normal. And to prevent misgendering.

But there is more.

Non-binary and transpersons are often the target of hate. By putting up pronouns in the bio, cis people destigmatise "otherness" and help create a community where it is harder to identify a non-binary or transgender person from a cis person.

Putting our pronouns in the bio is a small thing we can do to make non-binary and transgender people feel more accepted, and to destroy myths around gender identity.

June is #PrideMonth  

Why I do not celebrate Mothers' Day

 If I define myself at all, it is as "mother".

Becoming a mother was a life altering experience for me. It was not easy for a Type A personality to accept that precisely nothing was in her control.

Someone who stomped through life with the casual arrogance of one who believed she could do anything soon realised that practically every woman she encountered knew more than her.

It was humbling to know that babies don't come with instruction manuals. Initially, I made flow charts to determine why the baby cried- is he hungry, wet, hot, cold....., or plain fussy. But I soon surrendered them, and started relying on that most in-exact of things-instinct.

Becoming a mother taught me humility. It taught me fear. It taught me compassion.

It made me who I am.

YET, the only thing I do on Mothers' Day is wish my mother and thank her for being my mother.

Because there are many who are not mothers.

There are women who choose not to be mothers.

There are women who want to be mothers but are not able.

There are women who crave to be mothers but their situation forces them to delay.

There are mothers who lost their babies.

There are mothers who lost older children.

There are mothers who chose to abort a child, but still live with the guilt of doing so.

There are children who lost their mothers.

There are adults who lost their mothers.

There are mothers who were never there emotionally for their children

There are mothers who are disappointed in their child

There are mothers who disapprove of their life choices and keep away

Even a relationship as romaticised as the one between a mother and her child, is not always what it is made out to me.

To all those people, Mothers' Day is a travesty. It is a reminder of what they do not have. And a celebration which isn't inclusive isn't worth celebrating.

But, to all the mothers suffering from self doubt (and I doubt if there are too many who do not), I will just quote -

"There's no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one." 

Can we even Lockdown now?

Given how the number of cases is rising, it is tempting to demand a Lockdown- even Dr. Fauci recommends it. But clearly, those asking for it have no idea about the ground reality of the country.

Our healthcare system has totally broken down. We do not have sufficient hospital beds, we do not have sufficient oxygen, we do not have sufficient life saving medicines. The State does not have the resources to treat everyone who needs to be treated. In such a situation, how will Lockdown help?

Take the hypothetical case of one 47 year old who tests positive. The person is kept under home isolation, but the moment her SPO2 drops below 90, the drama begins. Her family starts the hunt for an oxygen cylinder which will keep her oxygen levels up. They run between dealers to procure oxygen and/ or medication.

When there is a Lockdown, will they be allowed free movement? Will the resources magically get procured and delivered in a contactless manner by vaccinated delivery staff?

The patient’s oxygen levels continue to drop. The family hears of a potential lead in a hospital, and bundles her and her oxygen cylinder into an auto to take her to the hospital. If she is lucky, she is given a gurney and with her oxygen cylinder she waits for a bed to become available. Her family is with her, waiting.

As long as the hospital infrastructure is absolutely inadequate to meet demand, and there remains a severe lack of confidence in the medical system, will a Lockdown prevent people from rushing their severely ill relatives to hospitals, and waiting with them till they get support? No Lockdown will contain people indoors while their relatives are dying.

The patient doesn’t recover. There are 24 hour long queues at crematoria.

Will a Lockdown help? Can mourners be kept away from cremating their own?

In the current situation where numbers are rising drastically, and the public doesn't have confidence in the system, even Lockdowns will not keep people indoors. And these are the people who are in contact with the severely ill patients, and are therefore most likely to be spreaders.

By declaring a Lockdown, all that will happen is that the families of those who are sick will be harassed even more than they are now. Last year, we saw how the Lockdown affected the socially and economically marginalised. Does it make any sense to repeat that, when the category of people who are most likely to be spreaders (the family of severely ill patients) cannot be contained by a Lockdown?

At this point, the best that the government can do is to mandate that all business that can shift to a work from home model do so. Exams can and must be cancelled. Restrictions placed on all unnecessary gatherings. Greater precautions be taken on public transport. A lockdown is neither feasible, nor possible- we need to do the best we can.

I can't breathe

 

She trashes underwater

Clawing for air

Feet weighed down. 

Sinking.

She can see the surface-

Her children, their dreams.

Nani. She wants to be a Nani.

She doesn’t want to go.

Her husband makes calls.

She needs but a simple molecule-

Two atoms of oxygen in an eternal waltz.

The bottom looms closer.

She sinks.

Gasping

Crying

“I can’t breathe”.

Her husband punches numbers.

The phone rings, unanswered.

Powerless to cut the call, he hopes.

There are no numbers left.

Helpless, he dials again.

He can’t meet her eyes.

He’s failed her- 

She who he promised to protect.

Her eyes seek his out. 

Her wide, terrified eyes.

“Save me”, they plead.

He can’t.

She’s gone.

Guilt.

Rage.

Emptiness.

Grief is a Bloody Moon.