The Awakening

Woman of substance, sophistication, world-weariness

The woman who knew it all

The multi-tasker, the doer of all things that need to be done

The lover of lists, the lover of checkboxes and checkmarks

The keeper of neat piles in neat stacks in neat boxes

The woman who knew how to manage it all

Who took things in her stride

Not a hair out of place

Then there came a day

Just a day like any other, one of many black figures on the calendar

A little special ‘cos she would go to the beach

A childhood sanctuary, favourite first place on one of her lists

She stood there on the paved walkway by the beach

Watching the boats in the blue yonder

Bobbing like puppets doing a dance

Directed by an invisible hand

A breeze tickled her ear

Wisps of hair came undone from her careful topknot

The breeze gathered strength

Something stirred deep within

She gazed at the sea

Was it calling to her?

The breeze was getting uncomfortable now

And yet in a way she was strangely cosy

Off came her slippers

Tossed aside in an uncharacteristic move

Locks of hair slipping out

She stepped out onto the still-warm sand

Watching the sun begin its descent towards

Its routine yet bewitching dip in the deep

Hesitant steps soon broke into a run

The wind embracing her lifting her hair as she finally let it loose

Now like a benign Medusa she stood

At the foamy edge of the shy waters lapping the shore

The wetness tickling her feet

She saw the high tide build up

And she walked in letting the wave wash over her

She fell back onto the shore drenched

Rivulets of salt running off her

Marking her with sand and bleached remains of seashells

The breeze enveloped her now

A gutsy wind unafraid of her steady gaze

Goosepimples bedraggled hair wet lips

The taste of sand in her mouth

Dirty she was and yet strangely cleansed

A freedom to be herself or even to just be

Delicious in its newness and as comfortable as an old worn blanket

She let herself go

The waves washed over her again and again

The breeze made unruly love to her

Her checkboxes lay unmarked

This woman who suddenly did not know it all

Did not have all the answers

But who had awoken from a long sleep

To soul-quenching, soul-stirring Life

The staid figures on her calendar laughed as they danced

The Spirit of Midnight

Lines of thought
Jumble themselves up in my head
Like woolly yarns of pastel,
Knotty, and tangled, crossing each other
Over and over
Till one knows not beginning nor end.

They slip between my fingers
Like glossy globus pearls
Pitting themselves on the floor,
Scattering everywhere, crushed underfoot.
On all fours, I scramble to gather them in,
My fingers slick with a sweat that seems
Precipitous with the end of reason.

Sleep, the slayer of mundane demons,
Lies forgotten on the crumpled bedspread
Moist with the drool of my meaningless dreams,
Where I still wander in the hope of finding an answer.

I know not what I write
But write I must.
There is a spirit in me that scorches,
Curls tendrils of my hair into feisty disobedience
And demands my obeisance

There's no letting go
Even when the soft threads tighten around me,
Biting into my body to leave dents
And the ravaged pearls take their revenge
In bright spots of crimson red that smudge my fingerprints.

I write, a farewell song,
An elegy, an ode, a hymn,
In desperation to be remembered
Or as a channel for the Unnamed that knows not the limits of Time and Space...
I know not which, but I write.

No more #FOMO, try some #JOMO instead

I often relate Father Time to the person who first came up with this concept of seconds and minutes marching steadily to plot your life. The Hunger Games fans will probably immediately visualise the arena, in Catching Fire (Book 2) which is marked like a clock, with each hourly section housing its own deathly peril. Suzanne Collins did something really smart there (even though I think the first book was far better), in the depiction of Time as a killer, something the Hunger Games contestants need to stay ahead of.

It's something many of us can all relate to, this pressing need to keep up, know more, not miss out. Isn't it ironic that in an age when most of us are living with more conveniences than we could have probably dreamed up, we are more stressed out and burned out than ever before? Time is today more elusive than ever, even when we have all the time-saving and doing-the-job-for-us gizmos our parents and grandparents could have scarcely imagined just a few short decades ago.

#FOMO keeping you on the phone? Take a break!

It would be simplistic to point fingers at smartphones, the widespread use of the Internet or social media, and say, 'hey, there's the culprit!' Puts in mind the quote about pointing a finger at someone, and having three fingers pointing right back at you! Humans are so quick to absolve themselves of responsibility and blame anything else for their lack of progress/happiness/contentment that I often wonder why God chose this species to confer higher understanding on. Today we are no longer using the tools (social media, smartphones, TV, whatever else); the tools are abusing us and we are happy to be their slaves. And we coolly advertise our addiction too, like for instance, #FOMO. Gee, that's so cool! Quite a few celebrity-related accounts I checked out on Instagram have proudly put up posts advertising their #FOMO, Fear of Missing Out for the uninitiated, as a happy-to-be-guilty-of-this trait.
All you are missing out on is life, yours to be specific. I was pretty happy to chance upon #FOMO's nemesis, #JOMO which is the Joy of Missing Out. It's ok if you don't know what your favourite star wore to every cash-rich advertiser's event, it's totally cool even if you are not able to like every status update posted by all 1,178 of your friends and you will still be breathing if you haven't clicked 8 selfies today and updated the world about every single 'fab' thing you've done, like eating, drinking, hanging out, more eating, drinking, hanging out...
Don't bring out the brickbats yet; I'm no killjoy and I am pretty much active on social media. But now that Facebook brings up all your long-forgotten memories, I realise how much time I wasted by posting inane updates on Facebook (examples are Sumi is thinking, ...is wondering what to do, ....is so excited and raring to go!) and, dear Lord, 'farming' (Isn't Farmville around these days? Was it killed by Candy Crush?). Now that I'm finally writing (short stories and getting on with that novel I always wanted to write), I think back and realise I would have been way ahead of the game if I had started back then!

Go find your rainbow!

What I am advocating is moderation, to live this life grateful for the breaths you take, savouring the food you eat, playing with the children, the cat, the sunlight, whatever catches your fancy, finding your passion... actually being in the moment rather than being a hanger-on in someone else's online world. Yes, I am arguing for real life, which, if you try it, will give you a greater high than any kind of virtual reality.  I am not pitching for the eschewing of one for the other but for a kind of wholesome inclusiveness and a balance that keeps your life dynamic, as it is meant to be. Let me leave you with these beautiful words by George du Maurier:

A little work, a little gay

To keep us going—and so good-day!

A little warmth, a little light

Of love’s bestowing—and so, good-night.

A little fun, to match the sorrow

Of each day’s growing—and so, good-morrow!

A little trust that when we die

We reap our sowing—and so—good-bye! 

My Story

My story flows from my sorrow,
Its jagged edges, a red, reeling heart.

My story is born of my sin,
Deliciously secret, guilt caressing its dirty lips.

My story is born of my love,
Deep, yielding, fraught, delicate, ever more and never again.

My story is filled with my dreams.
Feather-light, they fill me to bursting. And then some more.

My story speaks of desperation
Of dried-up tears, dashed hopes and itchy scars.

My story has the rabid spirit of vengeance,
Of the embers of anger, the ashes of wrath.

My story has splashes of furore,
Of restlessness, and wandering monkeys.

My story is made up in my mind
And lived on the crackling veneer of reality.

My story is made up of my words,
An experiential vocabulary, my eye fixated on syllables that will fit just right.

But really, my story has no beginning, nor end;
It's a speck, it's but nothing in the endless swirl of the Hourglass.

My Choice is, apparently, not in Vogue

Dear Deepika Padukone and the creators of the My Choice video,

Like any other mere mortal on social media, I, too, was flooded with links to the My Choice video. With so many friends sharing it, I did the irresponsible thing I usually do when it involves a favourite celebrity, brand or a good friend's judgement in deciding what to share: I 'liked' the post on Facebook before moving on to watching the video. Sadly, in this case, all three let me down.

So what is My Choice all about? Coming in the #VogueEmpower series, which has done splendid videos on domestic abuse and women's safety, I expected something pathbreaking, mind-blowing. Names like director Homi Adajania and Deepika Padukone meant I definitely had something to look forward to.

And then the film rolled: featuring a stunning Deepika and shot in stark black and white, the film had all the poetic metaphors that made a woman feel good about herself, about being infinite, about not being a caged soul, about roaming free, about wearing what I want, being the size I want... Woohoo... I am all for that!

And haven't I heard them a hundred times before? Are these really about women's empowerment? Are men not judged for what they wear, the work they do, the way their bodies look? Are men not criticised for who they want to marry? Or not? Or if they are gay or bisexual? These did not look like women's issues to me. These sounded a whole lot like gender issues, masquerading yet again as women's problems.

What troubles me is that these are the superficial problems. The choice (or not) of taking on a surname, working late, wearing the clothes one wants... these are the decisions an educated, privileged woman makes. What about the illiterate woman of little means? She may not be so bothered about working late at the homes of these very privileged women, if it means she can earn enough for her family. Her only decision about clothes may be to wear the ones that are least worn out. Do you think she is bothered about being a Size Zero? So who are you really empowering?

The reason I liked the Madhuri Dixit #VogueEmpower video is because it chose a distinctly upper class setting to show a disturbingly common problem. It conveyed the message that domestic abuse happens in every strata of society, not just in underprivileged homes. And it had a great message about sensitising our children, male and female. The Alia Bhatt video, again, could be projected to reflect the mindset and concern of girls, whether they are driving by themselves or taking a late night bus home.

I refuse to think that a woman's empowerment is all about wearing the clothes she wants to wear, being the size she wants to, coming home when she wants to, having extra-marital sex, no sex or whatever. Yes, these are definitely the concerns for a handful of women who are regularly featured in Vogue. But what about the rest of us women?

We want to get better at the work we do, get into leadership roles, make a whole lot of moolah and never worry about the time-money conundrum again, spend some great time with our families, make happy memories with our friends... and that's the middle class me talking. All my house help wants is job security, a little plot to call her own, and funding her children's education. These are just bare life needs I am discussing here. There's a whole lot of deeper societal issues like female infanticide, education (for all children), child marriage and more that need to be addressed in terms of women's issues.

Yes, society needs to change. And I am happy to see government and private initiatives in this regard. But making a remarkably beautiful video on the peripheral issues is just Vogue reaching out to its target audience. It's just a misplaced wish of mine, but I wish Deepika hadn't been a part of it. Now the message reaches out to so many people who are likely to be misled by her sheer aura. Don't get me wrong, I love the woman and think she is a damn fine and intelligent actor... which is why I wish she had put some thought into reading this script.

My 9-year-old and 3-year-old are both fans of this lovely lady and I do not want them hearing this message one day, and coming away with the idea that feminism is just about wearing what we like or living the way we like. What about our responsibility to society? Where does that figure? Why get into a marriage if you are looking for sex outside of it? Would you be okay if a man told you that? Gosh, that would be offensive! And what was that line ... 'don't be fooled if I am home by 6 pm'? I don't even want to start on all that's wrong with what that line implies...

Sex is definitely an important part of our life, but it does not (and must not) define every relationship we have or choice we make. And yes, I do hope my girls can choose to love who they wish to love, man or woman, but I definitely hope they will have the courage to end a relationship before they sleep with someone else. Casual sex is a choice women (and men) should be free to make, but it is not women's empowerment.

Let's not use feminism and women's empowerment as an excuse to stereotype men further and trample on them. Even if you believe patriarchy did that to us, 'an eye for an eye' hardly seems to be the appropriate revenge. I am all for change. But let that change be inclusive. Men are not the enemy. The enemy is a social mindset and lack of a level playing field for everyone. And we must work towards changing that. So let's cheer the man who gives up a career to stay home and look after the family's needs and the woman who conquers the world! And all of  us mere mortals in between!