Unsure

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Bhumika bit her lip and glanced at her watch as she walked back and forth on the platform. Suddenly there was a deafening hoot and before she could calm herself down, the Kerala Express to New Delhi chugged into the station and screeched to a halt. She looked out through the window at her parents after stowing her luggage. Her father seemed to know exactly how she felt. Anxious and unsure.

“Don’t worry, you will be fine. And we are just a call away” he tried to reassure her. She exhaled deeply in the hope of releasing some of her anxiety about what the future in an alien land had in store for her. She waved till she lost sight of them as the train sped away. She had been excited upon clearing the interview and gaining admission into one of the best colleges in the country but when it was time to leave the comforts of her home town and family, she wasn't sure she could cope.

She thought back to the day she had learned to cycle. Her father used to support her by holding on to the back of the seat while she tried to pedal. Initially she would keep turning back to look at him but soon she was sure of her father’s presence behind her. It had made her confident. Then one day, she had cycled quite a distance before she realised that her father had quietly let go. But he was there watching over her.

As the train stopped at the next station, she felt her muscles easing up. She felt the invisible presence of her parents, ready to hold her hand whenever she needed them. As always, it made her confident.

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Queasy

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“Ma, I can’t do this!” Megha paced the kitchen, irritated that her mother had not informed her earlier. She was just not prepared for this sudden decision by her parents. It irked her that they had gone ahead with their plans, being indifferent to her feelings and wishes. She had just begun working and had many dreams waiting to be turned into reality.

Her mother seemed to be composed and nonchalant. She dismissed her daughter’s concerns saying she was being immature. “Give it some time, you will be absolutely fine. What’s wrong in meeting Ankit and having a chat with him? Remember that we always choose the best for you.”

“Ankit may be the best guy in the world, Ma. But…”

“No ifs and buts. You are meeting him.”

The thought of meeting Ankit when she was already in love with Sunil made Megha queasy. Her parents had known this, but were not willing to face the questions of family and friends. She felt sick as she opened the door of the cafe where they were supposed to meet. She took a seat opposite to Ankit determined to send him packing with her well-rehearsed lines when Ankit caught her by surprise.

“You know I was forced by my parents to meet you. To be frank I’m not too keen about this.”
Megha was delighted by the rejection. Her uneasiness faded away as she said a polite goodbye to the stranger and thanked him in her head.

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Moody

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My parents are concerned about me. They are worried sick that I may have a serious problem. They don’t like it that I keep to myself these days. They tell me not to me so moody, spending so much time behind the closed door of my room. Painting and poetry befit people of gloom, I am told.

But within the comfort of my room, I am myself. Nobody to be compared with, none to compete with. I spend my time reading, writing, painting and dreaming. I enjoy the slow pace of life here. My mom sees this as a danger signal. She thinks that I’d be better off doing the things she has planned so meticulously for me.

Strangely, those are the very things I loathe. Being dragged from piano lessons to dance class to martial arts to public speaking and debate clubs. Participating in endless competitions. Bringing home shining golden trophies that will be showcased in our living room. A spectacular display of my failure. Failure to freely do what I love.

Sometimes I want to scream. I want to tell my parents that I am not one bit excited about their plans for me. That I find solace in the silence of my room, putting my thoughts into words. I want them to know that I am not insane just because I prefer to be on my own. How can I tell them that it is their plans that suffocate me? Plans where I don’t belong.

As we sit with the psychiatrist, my mother goes on and on about how I am so downcast in spite of them being such encouraging parents and me being an achiever. As usual I keep waiting for my turn to talk knowing that it will never come.

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Kindness

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My sister and I got busy in the kitchen. She read out the ingredients from mom’s recipe book and I arranged them on the counter. Both of us aren't too keen about cooking, but we were determined to bake cupcakes to make a birthday special and memorable.

As I mixed flour, eggs, chocolate, sugar and the remaining ingredients, my sissy whipped up butter, sugar and cream cheese. Together we poured the batter into moulds and licked the mixing bowl clean as they got baked. When the lovely aroma of cakes wafted from the oven, we couldn't stop ourselves from believing that we had put together perfectly the ingredients to happiness.

With the frosting, they looked beautiful and delicious. We carried the tray of cupcakes to the flat where Mr. Sen lived. He opened the door to our collective “Happy Birthday”. He was touched by our gesture and had tears in his eyes when he said “I just received a virtual cake on Facebook from my daughter in the States. I don’t think I’ll ever find out how it tastes though.”

I looked at my sister. She nodded and I knew she had read my thoughts. “In fact Mr. Sen, we baked these on the request of your daughter.”

“She wanted it to be a surprise you see!” I stammered. We climbed the stairs back to our flat in silence, overwhelmed by a deep sense of satisfaction gifted by a simple act of kindness.

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Euphoric

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I nervously paced the deserted corridor that smelled of disinfectant. This was my first time and I didn't know how things would turn out. I said a silent prayer and wondered what it felt like to be on the other side of the curtained glass door. I was clueless and that made me feel left out. I wished I had someone to keep me company to reassure me that everything would be fine.

Would you like to come in?” A head popped out of the glass door.

“Is it allowed?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. What if I screwed it up and fainted instead of feeling happy and proud?

“Come on in.” She said with a smile.

I changed into a green gown. I could hear my heart pounding and my mind suddenly went blank. I walked up to my wife who was propped up in an awkward position, and held her hand. She was happy to see me and managed to smile even between the bouts of severe pain that made her scream.

Her grip tightened, her face turned red and she let out a blood curdling howl. I watched as a tiny head and then a dainty body pushed its way out, into our world.

“It’s a girl. Congratulations!” Someone had said after cleaning up the baby and swaddling it before handing it over to a delighted me. It was one of the best moments in my life as I looked at her face staring back at me. I kissed my wife who beamed as she held our little princess. I couldn't stop the stream of tears.

“How does it feel? my wife asked me.

 "I am a dad!!! I feel euphoric!!” I said.

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Brave

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Her heart swelled with pride as she watched her daughter picking vegetables from their small but well-kept garden. She thought of the little one as the greatest blessing in her life, her sole companion. They lived in a very small house amidst the lush greenery of a small village in the Western Ghats, but even with the limited resources, they lived a life of happiness and endless love.

She ran a small tailoring unit where she sat for hours together, cutting up cloth and making garments along with two other women she had employed. She grew vegetables, kept a few hens and taught neighbouring children in the evenings. Her daughter too pitched in to help though she was all but twelve.

It had been brave of her to stick to her decision of keeping her baby knowing that the journey of an unwed mother was going to be an arduous one. Her parents had cajoled, threatened and finally disowned her to save themselves from embarrassment and public disgrace. Her boyfriend had asked her to be practical. But she knew she was a fighter who would never give up. Not even if it meant the end of her education, luxurious life and the comfort of loving relationships.

She never regretted her choice. In fact she was even more determined to build a new life from scratch with her daughter. Her mind never once wavered even upon being tortured by wagging tongues. She fought her way through life like a brave warrior, without doubts, never turning back.

As her girl came in with a basket full of freshly picked greens, they shared a hug and headed to the kitchen. There was work to be done.

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The Goddess

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Strange are the ways of our society,

stained with sins yet preaches piety.

Women worshiped akin to God

yet for a little space, made to slog.

Daughters educated for a fine match,

confined within the matrimonial patch.

“Be ambitious competent and bold

yet meek and homely” they’re told

Widows burnt alive, paraded

their lives considered faded,

the childless with  a womb cursed

survive a living hell, lips pursed.

Glorified as an incarnation of God,

over her dreams and feelings they trod.

Don’t mistake her silence for weakness,

see the strength behind her meekness.





Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge

The Offering

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With hope in her heart, she climbed uphill to the temple that had given her solace for two long years after her daughter went missing at that very place. Walking past the familiar sights of beggars lined up along the path and hawkers selling idols, trinkets and flowers that people gave as their offering to please their deity, her eyes resumed their quest for one particular face.

A tiny girl with a tear stained face in tattered clothes walked up to her and tugged at her sari, pleading for alms. Normally she never paid heed the dirty creatures and their calls, but not today.

As a strange kind of realisation snipped off the threads of hope that had held her shattered self together she quietly placed the offering food and money meant for the lifeless idol, on the girl’s palms and proceeded downhill.

P.S- This is my first attempt at Five Sentence Fiction.

This piece of five sentence fiction is written for the topic 'Offering' at Lillie McFerrin Writes.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge.

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Queen of my Heart

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The balm to my soul, my mother

like your soothing presence, there’s no other,

your loving smile and precious tears

string together memories for a thousand years.

So special is the love we share

that with ease our hearts we bare

to each other, lifting heaviness

wiping weariness, ushering happiness.

A child again cradled in your arms

absorbed, enchanted by your charms,

I want to sleep undisturbed once more

loved, caressed, wanted like never before.

The world may change within a blink

snapping apart many a strong link;

do remember, queen of my heart

even death cannot make us part.

P.S: I fall short of words to express my love for my mother, the woman who taught me to be soft yet strong, simple yet beautiful in my own way. The miles that separate us physically is a painful exaggeration of the distance between our hearts. She is the definition of pure, unselfish love.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge

Unscarred

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I watched you walk away jilted

your face hung low and wilted,

I chose to keep you away

setting your thoughts in disarray.

I believed I had a choice

I was polite and made no noise,

it was my life, my decision;

that upset your planned precision.

But you came back unexpected

to show me you were dejected,

with a few drops of acid you spoke

and burnt my dreams down to smoke.

Brave, the warrior in me fought,

you thought I’d give up, distraught?

I battled the bruise and the blister

unwilling to succumb to the disaster.

I am not the body you scarred

whose features you savagely charred,

survives my spirit, strong as ever

keeping me bold and beautiful forever.





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The "good girl" illusion

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My dear granddaughter,

As I write this, the house is in total silence; you are definitely up to some mischief. You have not bothered to slip into the pink frock mummy has given you. Your focus is on the unscrewed door knob which you are struggling to fix with a screw driver, ignoring pretty Barbie. I silently pray that in the years to come, you stay the same, doing what you love without getting trapped in the illusion of being a “good girl”.

I have talked to you about good manners, good habits and good behaviour. But I warn you, the “good girl” image that society will doggedly police you to attain, is a dangerous one. I hope you never end up being one, for it is a black hole that will suck out your dreams, vision and self-worth. You don’t believe me? I talk from experience, because till a few years back I was that good girl, chiseling out from myself my ambitions, ideals, likes and dislikes to smooth myself to fit into society’s definition of a “good girl”.

I know you’re confused. Let me explain. In my childhood, in order to be “good” I had to be subservient, suppress my loud laughter, take dance lessons in spite of my liking for sports, clean my brother’s room while he played cricket, among many other things. As a teenager, I had to learn to cook and embroider though I was not interested, take up arts in college though I dreamt of becoming a mathematician and eat only after the menfolk had eaten, no matter how hungry I was. When I adhered to all these expectations, I became a “good girl” and I thought I was happy.

When I was in college I got my first love note and once, a man stalked me passing lewd comments. But because I was a good girl, kept quiet, changed my wardrobe instead and wore winter clothes in scorching summer as I was told that women who wore skirts and sleeveless tops “asked” for rape. When a stranger came to see me with his family to seek me in marriage, I agreed without talking to him or worrying about my education that would remain incomplete. The elders in the family were pleased, they called me a “good daughter” and I thought I was happy.

Marriage too was about adjustments (to say the least) and they inevitably had to be from my side. I juggled multiple roles and was taken for granted by my husband, in-laws and even my own children. Soon I forgot my tastes in food, clothes, movies, hobbies and everything else. I blindly practiced customs and rituals, knowing too well that they had lost their relevance. I hardly met up with my friends and when I did, I wondered with guilt if my family was running smoothly in my absence. When I lost myself in devotion towards my family I was called a “good daughter-in-law” and I thought I was happy.

Now when I look back at the life I've lived, I see only unfulfilled desires, shattered dreams and a totally different me. It pains me to think that I was just a puppet, in the hands of my parents, husband, in-laws and society. I danced to their rhythm, because a disobedient puppet with a mind of its own is a considered dysfunctional and would be discarded. I wanted to be loved, appreciated and belong. So I danced when the strings tugged at me.

When I realized my folly it was too late. So here I am, a “good grandmother”, writing to set you free from the strings society will bind you with. Remember that “good girl” is a mirage, a trap, a mere tag you get in exchange for your life.

Set yourself free,
Granny

This post was written as part of the Ultimate blog challenge and Indispire 

Define good girls... Everybody has an opinion about a good girl...so whats yours? #GoodGirls

The Alliance

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“She’s getting too old!”

Pushpa aunty told.

“Better get her a mate

To escape ill-fate.

Let me help you here

With a boy so dear

We’re looking every where

For a pretty girl who’s fair.

Educated but homely

For our son so lonely.”

“You just saved us,

See what she does,

My daughter well-read

Says, marriage she won’t tread.

It’s a world she dreads

Being tied down by threads.”

“Oh! These girls so educated

Seem so agitated

Don’t they need a man

To give them all they can?

My son is just perfect

Same caste, same sect

Has a big fat pocket

Enough to buy a rocket.

Lucky, your princess

We expect so less

Just some cash and a car

You needn't go too far!

About jewels I won’t talk

As I know you’d have stock

From the day you had a girl

It’s been part of your world.”

“Thank you Pushpa, I feel so bright

To me the match looks all right

We have saved some money

For our dear little Honey

She’s ambitious and smart

Bright head and soft heart.

She…..

“That really doesn't matter

Girls’ dreams do shatter

It’s nothing very new

Mine did too.

In time she’ll be expert

At cleaning away dirt

Taking care of us

Without any fuss

Cooking up dishes

Will be something she wishes

Serving guests well

So that our hearts swell.”

“Pushpa, take it cool

For I ain't a fool

To give my daughter away

Go elsewhere to bray

I sure for you will pray

To get a girl one day.”

And my daughter, let her fly

The sky so high

Let her find her love

Who fits like hand in glove.”

But I wasn't THAT type!

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She heard voices far away. They were so familiar. Was it her mother? They became louder and louder. And louder until her ears ached. “Please stop it!” she begged. But the voices continued. What kind of a cruel joke was this? She felt tired and her body felt sore. She wanted some peace. She wanted to sleep, curled up inside her mother's womb. But these voices!

“Don’t speak or laugh loudly.”

“Don’t whistle.”

“Sit properly with your legs close to each other.”

“Wear loose clothes that don’t reveal the shape of your breasts.”

“Don’t mingle too much with boys.”

“We are expecting guests, go and wear your dupatta.”

“Don’t ask too many questions, just do as you are told.”

“Better learn to cook, sew and clean the house.”

These were just few of the strict instructions Meera had received from her mother and aunts through her growing years. From that day. Yes, the day she first saw that bright red streak of blood as she prepared to shower. Little did she know that it would change her life forever.

For a few days, perhaps even months she felt very special. She could join her older cousins Lavanya and Namita in gossiping and sharing  secrets. Earlier, they used to speak in hushed tones while Meera was around because she was just a kid. She even felt elated that some of the boys in class had begun to look at her differently. She enjoyed the attention secretly but never forgot her mother's words. “Wow! It really feels special to be a girl” she thought, as she browsed through her wardrobe unable to decide what to wear to the party that evening. She liked being her parents' little princess, she felt protected and vowed never to disobey them.

Her mother kept feeding her with lots of dos and don'ts. Why not? She was a girl, like a burning splinter, dangerously placed near fuel. The only solution was to douse the splinter. Sometimes Meera felt they were appropriate and at other times she would ask her mother to stop nagging her. She was a good girl, she would never do anything that would make her parents upset. So she was safe unlike those bad girls who wore short skirts, who had boyfriends, who conveniently forgot their dupattas at home, who roamed the streets after dusk and sat carelessly with legs apart. She took pride that she was growing up to become a well mannered and respectable young woman.

She woke up with a start. Her mouth was parched, her feet cold and her head felt heavy.  Then she heard other voices.

“Hey you! Beautiful.”

“This won't take much time.”

“Come on, don't do anything stupid. Or you will regret.”

Then after a long pause, “The bitch deserved it. Come on let's leave.”

 Her eyelids could no longer contain the outburst of sadness as her entire body wept. So did her spirit. She felt her mother's warm hands caress her tear stained cheeks. What went wrong? For a second, her gaze met her mother's. With utmost pain she realized that there was no answer. With a sigh she closed her eyes again hoping to slip into another world where she would truly be a princess.