Suffocated

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Reshma cleared the files and papers from her desk and switched off her computer. The clock on the wall told her that it was time to head home from work. She checked her cell phone. She had missed thirteen calls from Satish who had also left her seven messages. With a sigh she decided to read the messages first.

“Hey babes, hw r u?”
“Busy? I’ll call? Wanna head to the beach today evening?”
“I knw u gotta visit ur mom bt can’t it wait? Reply plzzz.”
“Pick my call. R u tat busy? Dnt u luv me anymore”
“Just wondering if you are with someone else. I DON'T deserve this.”
“I knw by the blue ticks on WhatsApp tat u read my msgs. Why dnt u reply???”
“Where the hell r u? Cm home. Visit mom later.”

She heaved a sigh. What was with Satish? Things had changed so much in three years of marriage. Initially she would blush when she received his texts while she was at work. She shared with him her whereabouts and engagements. Her colleagues too thought it was cute and sweet of her husband. But with time the messages revealed his insecurities and inferiority complex. She had tried to convince him that it did not bother her at all that he was a clerk and she, a reputed doctor.

But Satish was always doubtful. He demanded to be updated with each and every detail of Reshma’s day. The patients she met, the fiends who invited her over and even how she spent each penny of her salary. She was fed up of answering his questions. She had informed him that she had an important surgery scheduled and so would be busy. She felt suffocated, unable to live freely. She glared at the messages; they seemed like a death sentence.

She decided she couldn’t put up with his demands anymore and messaged him back.
“You are right. You don’t deserve this. Good bye.”



Linking to 
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Nostalgia

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After spending fifteen years in the Gulf, we returned to our native village in Kerala. The naalukettu looked exactly the same, though the surroundings were now dotted with new buildings and houses. I walked over to the swing that hung from the Gulmohur tree. It was wet from the early morning showers.

I sat clutching the sturdy coir ropes enjoying the gentle swing back and forth. The bright red flowers let go of the cool drops of rain they held. They awakened within me a feeling of nostalgia, a sudden longing for my past that now seemed  to be so perfect. It was as if each drop wanted to remind me of a story long forgotten. Under my feet lay a thousand red petals of the Gulmohur on a carpet of green grass.

It was many years ago on a similar morning that I met Madhavan. He used to walk past our house every day wearing a crisp white mundu and checked shirt. An occasional glance gave way to smiles and soon we started meeting at the nearby temple, spending endless hours under the sacred Peepal tree. Life seemed so perfect, with Madhavan as the hero of my love story.

I was jolted back to reality when he waved from the other side of the brick wall. “How have you been?” he queried with a smile.

“Fine.”

There was an awkward silence before I headed into the house saying “It is going to rain.”

How could I face him, having given in like a coward to the pressure from my family to marry a rich man working in the Middle East? I drifted back in time to sweet memories untainted by the bitterness of my marriage.

Naalukettu - Traditional house in Kerala

Mundu - A garment worn by people in south India

Gulmohur - A flowering tree

Peepal - Sacred fig tree




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A Name for Keeps

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A name is a word by which things, people, places and animals are known. It helps us to identify them from a group with ease. Well, when it comes to names of people, it is a little more complicated, given the socio-cultural set up we live in. So it is common to find people with two names, a given name and a surname. The surname could be the name of a parent (mostly the father), family or even caste. So a name can reveal quite a lot about a person!

I wouldn't say that one’s identity is tied to a name but I do believe that a name, over the years becomes a part (however small) of one’s identity. We grow up being known by a particular name. Some people choose to keep them; some change them of their own accord or under pressure. Ultimately it is just a matter of choice. However, it is more common among women than men to change their surname after marriage. Some of the reasons given by people who prefer to change their names post marriage are:

1. Everyone in the family will have the same surname, creating a sense of belonging and it is easier to identify members of a family.
2. It avoids hassles especially while travelling abroad, inheriting property etc.
3. It helps the new daughter in law adjust easily and accept the new family as hers.

I’m accepting of the fact that everyone has a right to choose what they want for themselves. But I would definitely want to keep my original name. It is a name I have grown to like over two decades and a half. Everyone knows me by this name. I have been Vidya Subramanian for my friends, teachers, family, employers, colleagues, students and many others. Even my husband and his family got introduced to me and even liked me while I sported this name. My certificates of birth, my achievements in academics, sports and art have been inked with my maiden name. Why would I want to change that? Is there any pressing reason? Not that I know of.

About blending into the new family, I have accepted my husband’s family even without a surname change. I am as much a daughter as I am a daughter-in-law. And a xerox copy of our marriage certificate is enough to convince authorities that we are married (whenever there is a need), so there is nothing to spoil our plans of going abroad. So what if surnames differ within a family? It doesn't make a person a stranger at all. My mom has kept her name since birth, but we still are a loving family. Isn't it strange that the same is not expected of men? Don’t they too have to accept the girl’s parents?

And having said that, why should anyone change a part of themselves for any relationship? Two individuals willingly sharing their lives, love and family without compromising on their identities - that’s marriage for me. It is bad enough that my name is tagged with my father’s, when I would have preferred just “Vidya”. I’m too lazy to take the arduous journey to Indian government offices to add, subtract, replace and modify my name. So I let it be. Vidya Subramanian it is, from birth to death and even after!!

P.S: I understand that people have their own reasons for keeping/changing/modifying their names. To each one his own! I'm thankful that my husband finds the idea of my name change equally absurd.

This post was written for the IndiSpire topic Should a woman change her maiden surname after marriage?
Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

The Final Call

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She failed to understand the unexpected shift in her parents’ priorities after having nurtured her dreams, fuelled her ambitions and prided in her achievements all these years. With the wedding fast approaching, everyone including her future in-laws seemed to be coaxing her to be more forgiving and less adamant about pursuing her career as they thought it was only through compromise that a marriage could last forever.

She recalled that just a few weeks back during the bride seeing ceremony, everyone seemed to be impressed with her qualifications, her talents and the well-deserved promotion she was offered at work. Wasn't it hypocritical that people wanted brides to be highly educated and knowledgeable yet homely, willing to replace her dreams with someone else’s? “I won’t let anything spoil my dreams” she thought as she picked up the phone to make that final call which she knew would change her life for the better.

P.S: I'm on top of the world now, having written my first guest post for Shanx who blogs at Embark With My Thoughts. You can read my blogging journey here.

This piece of Five Sentence Fiction was penned for the topic Spoiled at Lillie McFerrin Writes

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Matchmaking

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Parents frantic, seek a match

people applaud as a good catch,

squeamish about qualifications essential

probing if incomes are substantial.

Essential is a job quite decent,

 with no stage in life quiescent

height and weight just perfect

complexion that doesn't deject.

Family name, fame and wealth,

education, hobbies and health

supersede matters of the heart

for a secure married life to start.

With the essentials in place

man and woman see face to face,

the best of them they showcase

lest they fall behind in the race.

In lightning speed vows are made

elaborate plans are then laid;

a game of luck has just begun

hope it turns out to be some fun.

P.S: This poem is written in lighter vein about the Arranged Marriage Market in India. It is in no way intended to hurt any one’s feelings. The debate over Arranged vs Love marriages is never ending. It works differently for different people. Ultimately all that matters is one’s happiness in life. Happy Holi!

Written for the prompt "Essential" at B-A-R
 Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

A Friend For Life

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A new found friend

you stepped in to blend

with my life, to win

my heart and reside within.

Over cups of tea

our thoughts flowed free,

occasionally trapped

within love notes wrapped.

You came to my door

and offered nothing more

than a tender stroke of my hair

promising a lifetime of care.

A man of words very few

a heart full of love so new,

you rarely needed words

to bridge our different worlds.

In simple silence you waved

a magic wand I craved

to create new cheer

with someone so dear.

Akin to sky and land

sometimes, water and sand

different we may be

but so are lock and key.

At every day’s start

I seek a promise from my heart

for a special place to keep

this friendship so deep.




 Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

The World Within My Blanket

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“Shhhhhh…..give me your hand and haul yourself into my world quietly. It is a tender, delicate world in here, under the cosy comfort of my blanket. It is a magical world that you will soon find is too good to be true. I love making new friends, and I’m glad tonight it is you. Come into my world beneath the warm folds of my star studded blanket. A world I have created just to invite friends over and share my fascinating tales. I love telling stories. Be my guest tonight and allow yourself to be enchanted by the beauty of my world.

I am like any ordinary 10 year old girl you can imagine. I live with my parents and little brother in a wonderful house by the brook.  My parents think I’m a kid but I think I’m quite grown up; at least enough to understand all that happens around me. Under the starry blanket, the sky of my world, I live a happy life with a loving family and many friends.

My parents, you know are the best in the world. My classmate Liz says they look beautiful and warm. My brother and I mean the world to them. Both of them are doctors, the kind who speak to people about their problems and try to fix them. I thought only God could do that, from above the twinkling stars. Don’t you think that’s a cool thing to do? No matter how busy they are, they spend a lot of time with us. A lot. We often go on picnics, to the movies, the circus and once in a year we go by plane to a faraway place. We play together, have fun, invite my friends over, cuddle up and read books, go fishing and do so many things together.

My dad and mom I think are the best of friends. Sometimes I feel they are in love! Like the older kids in my school. They hold hands and talk a lot. But what makes my friends jealous is that they never yell at each other or go mad at me. I can tell them my fears and even share some secrets. They listen. They would do anything to keep me happy, I’m sure. Dear friend in my blanket, don’t you think they’re awesome? Hold my hand and tell me you’d love to have a family as great as mine. I really hope you do."

---------------------------

Outside, I hear the click of a door. I poke my head out. Dad is home. I strain my ears to catch the tiniest of whispers. But I don’t have to. The familiar yells, clattering of china, a few sobs, menacing threats and a flow of words I had been asked never to mouth, pulled me out of my blanket sewn with stars. The world outside my world was so different. Which one is real? I don’t want to know. I disappear into the reassuring warmth of my blanket and pull it tightly around me. It is such a beautiful world in here.

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Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge.

Linking to : http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

Henpecked!

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To my dear henpecked husband,

No I don’t intend to insult you, unlike our society ever ready with many tags that aim to degrade you, to question your testosterone levels and to reinforce its archaic, misogynistic beliefs on you so as to snub out the slightest glimmer of hope for change. To me the word “henpecked” brings renewed hope, and pride in having a partner who truly cares and believes in equality ignoring the rants and grunts of people around. A partner who dares to stand by his convictions least affected by society’s screwed up ideas of what makes a man “man enough”.

You are special my dear henpecked husband, a rare gem among a million “Indian men” out there. You actively share the boring house hold chores making them a fun activity. I can freely ask you to do the dishes without having to feel guilty (mama’s boys don’t do house work, it is meant for girls) or to press my legs when they ache. Of course you too seek my help with office work and other things.

I like it that you don’t sit snugly, propped up by pillows, watching T.V with other men while I prepare tea or clean up. I have never had to scream in my head “You are the host too!” when we have had guests. I feel loved, my presence in your life respected, when you never follow the “let men eat first” rule and make sure we eat together. You are the man of my dreams, for whenever there have been little sacrifices, they have been mutual.

Domestic chores thanks to you don’t get pushed into “woman’s domain” in our house. It is our home so together we work to keep it clean. We all feel hungry so we think nothing of sharing kitchen work. We are both educated having thoughts of our own, our own interests and ambitions. We defend and safe guard them for each other. I want you to know my henpecked hubby, that I love it that you don’t interfere in my career choices. You realize that beyond the umpteen roles I juggle, there is another me, just me with dreams and desires for myself. So do I. I promise you we will do what we love to.

Much to the displeasure of our society, you love to spend time with my parents as much as yours and realize how important it is for me to know that they are happy and well. And because you are special, you don’t expect to be showered with gifts and given a lot of importance by my family just because of your Y chromosome. You involve me in the decision you take and the choices you make.

I am truly blessed to be holding your hand in life knowing for sure that you’re real with all your imperfections. A real person with emotions that are not locked up in false perceptions about manhood (men don’t cry) with ambitions whose reasons stretch beyond the need to be a provider to the family. Love, this, let me say, is what I find most appealing in you.

These you may feel are too trivial to be written about, but I have no words to tell you about the solace they bring. It is not very easy to be a twenty first century- married- Indian -woman(feminist) with a career. It is like living in a pressure cooker forever. Those who yield to the pressures and live a life of conformity may seem to be happy, but the compromises they endure for the make-believe peace sets off a turbulent storm in their heads that rages for a lifetime.

So be proud of that label dear husband, go ahead and flaunt it.

Your Happy Hen ;)

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge.

Linking to : http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

My blues

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I painfully shed a tear or two

at our relationship wrapped in blue;

the growing silence between us

was ignored for long, without fuss.

Together yet alone, married yet loveless;

I sought the cause of this strange mess.

Was it greying hair or boredom?

Could it be the suffocating lack of freedom?

At the candle lit dinner we hardly spoke

As if over our food we would choke.

Did he have a secret love out of wedlock,

he who had always stood by me, my rock?

Convinced and curious I became a spy,

scanned his words for traces of a lie,

I got my answers that very night

when my face reflected an eerie blue light.

Yes that very blue, the light from my phone

in whose company my face always shone,

was the  culprit, the source of my blues

shadowing away my life’s many hues.



This post was written as part of the Ultimate blog challenge

Where Ganga meets Yamuna

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I am Ganga. This is not my story alone.

In fact this is the only story I have seen around me and heard from the women of my neighbourhood at the end of a tiring day or while waiting to fetch water in the long queue that snakes around the corner of the tall buildings where the lucky rich people live. Of course, theirs is a different story because they live in houses that touch the sky, beyond the reach of miseries and wretchedness.

I am a working woman.  My day begins at three in the morning when I wake up without the aid of alarm clocks. That’s the time my husband’s day comes to an end and he knocks at the door. On some days he prefers to bang so hard that the wooden planks that I painstakingly gathered and nailed together fall apart. My husband slaps his victory on my cheeks. Sometimes he celebrates by wringing my neck till he squeezes out a few drops of tears from my eyes. A few punches mean that the cheap liquor he had gulped down was not to his liking. On a lucky day he just disappears into the only other room in our house with a younger woman. He ends his day by slumping on the straw mat on the floor, where our daughter sleeps.

 I fear for the safety of my daughter but I have to go out to work. I do not want us to stay hungry. So I cook some food and sit down to make floral garlands that I sell at the local market. This is the best part of my day. I bathe in the fragrance of the delicate flowers that is a magical balm to my wounds. As I thread the flowers together, I weave dreams of a better life. Sometimes, I feel jealous of my Memsab who lives in one of the tall buildings; security guards watching over the queer houses stacked one on top of the other. Her husband is a caring man who never beats her. He pampers her with the luxury he can easily afford. He gives her so many gifts when he returns from places where he travels by plane. They have a beautiful daughter who goes to school, speaks English and dances well.

After selling garlands, I go to work as a maid in a few houses. By evening I reach Memsab’s house. In between my chores I talk to her. She listens patiently to my laments. She seems to understand my problems though she has none of her own. I have dinner at her house, pack some food for my daughter and return home. My daughter and I mop the house and wash clothes. We say a prayer and try to sleep hoping we never hear the knock at the door next morning.

I think about my day as I lie on the floor at night. I did the same tonight. Today Memsahab was not her usual self. As I poured out my heart and the story behind my bruised body, I noticed a stray tear slide down her cheek. It must have been a very heavy one because it dragged itself along, peeling away a few layers of a beautiful mask, so skilfully worn that I never had a clue all these years. Beneath her mask was a similar story veiled by silence.

She is Yamuna. And this is not her story alone.

Lesson 1 for the newly wed: Advertise

It was the beginning of a new academic year. The entire school was back after a refreshing (or not so refreshing) break. It was my first year at work after marriage. Many of them at school knew about this as I had invited them for the function before we broke for the holidays. As I entered the school office I found it strange that after the expected “Congrats!”, “How is married life?”, “How was the honeymoon?” and “How are your in-laws?” people started giving me deadly looks. I cringed as they scanned me from head to toe.

Head: Sindoor and Bindi missing.

Neck: Mangalsutr/Thaali missing.

Hands: Bangles missing. Ring missing.

Toes: Toe rings missing.

Too many things missing, much to their discomfort. I have always hated jewellery especially gold. So without them I felt absolutely normal and comfy. As I smiled at every one and asked them about their holidays, I got weird responses like

“At least the mangalsutr, can’t you wear it for your husband’s sake?”

(Is my husband’s fate sealed in a few grams of gold hanging from my neck?)

“Girls these days!”

(Yes girls these days at least try to think with their own head rather than the moral policemen’s)

“Your husband or at least mother-in-law didn’t say anything?”

(They have better work to do than police me)

“How will people know whether you are married or not?”

(I don’t display labels of any other relation on my body. Apart from being a wife, I am a daughter, granddaughter, sister, aunt, friend and many others. If I displayed a symbol each for the endless relations, I would collapse under their collective weight)

“People will always respect women who wear the symbols of marriage”

(People should respect others based on qualities for which he or she can take credit. One’s religion, sexuality, appearances etc. don’t qualify for that)

I dodged most of them with smiles though I had answers and better questions with me. It would just fall into deaf ears. I should have anticipated this. I was under the notion that times had changed and people were more accepting of fresh ideas and that patriarchy did not exist in educated people’s world at least. Too naïve. I was in no mood to share my ideologies with them. I headed to my class. Only to dodge similar questions repeated by gen next with an added “Your husband has allowed you to work even after marriage, so…”

(I am an adult, the constitution says I can vote someone into power in the Indian democracy, I can get a driving licence, can get married and do so many other things. But wait, someone has to allow me to work, take care of my parents or wear clothes of my choice?)

Of course, I don’t intend to blame the children who said that. Their words reflect the society we live in. Children imbibe ideas and notions from adults around them. It is a different story if women did these things of their own free will, but most often there is an invisible but undeniably present mental filter in our heads (especially after marriage) that doesn't allow our values and ideals to permeate into our consciousness, instead lets them fade into the past as distant memories that would soon be forgotten. In the struggle to get into the good books of others, we become a new person, living someone else’s dreams, thinking like someone else, one’s identity inseparably tagged to someone else’s.

 I am myself first. I love the person I am. Happy the way I am. I have many dreams for myself. Without having to feel guilty. Only then I am ready to don the role of daughter, sister, friend and wife without losing myself.

P.S: Many people have argued with me saying that these are part of our culture, so we should accept them without questioning. I believe culture changes, it evolves. Otherwise we wouldn't have been able to get rid of many social evils and malpractices like sati. Some others tried to give me scientific reasons behind sindoor, toe ring, bangles and thaali associating it with reproduction and sexual life. Just a gentle reminder that people from other cultures too have been there, done that!

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Wanted: Homely Girl for Broadminded Boy

She made garam garam rotis and paneer for him. He liked to eat out.

She broke into a sweat making gajar ka halwa and pakoras. He hated greasy food.

She ironed his clothes perfectly. He loved the wrinkles and creases.

She scrubbed herself clean and powdered herself. He loved the smell of sweat.

She went to the parlour to make herself attractive. He hardly noticed.

She flaunted her mangalsutra and sindoor. He found them too loud.

She quit her job to take care of his needs better. He found it too odd.

She cleaned the house. He felt the home smelled of a hospital.

She never asked him for any gifts. He waited for her to say what she wanted.

She mindlessly obeyed her in-laws. He wanted her to think and act independently.

She invited relatives on Sundays and treated them well. He wanted to go out for a movie.

She was unhappy that he never acknowledged her effort. Then one day her friend advised her to be herself.

She ordered pizza and chocolate mousse.

She did not clean, cook or iron.

She stopped her parlour visits.

The mangalsutra was locked away in the cupboard.

She applied for a job.

She made some plans for a trip together.

She was contemplating the idea of appointing a maid.

He cried foul and called his mother.