The box of paints

Let me tell you the story of a box of paints … A box of 72 vibrant colours that never existed anyway. A multitude of hues that I had shrugged away as ‘not important’ which one-day came back as black as it could to stare in my face and say

“If only you had-”

My mother, whom I call Umma; and I, as every teen daughter and mother in the world never saw eye to eye. But still she was my soul friend and the very back bone I stood upon. No, I don’t add these as literary ornaments but mean every word of it. I mean I could have gotten knocked up and the first person I’d still run to would have been my mom. Don’t take me wrong. She probably would have set me on fire but you get the drift!

But after marriage, and being countries apart, things changed. I, who was never (still am not) a person about phones , rarely called her. Whenever we were together, we did talk to each other a lot, but when I came back to Abu Dhabi, the number of calls would just decrease.

And then she fell sick. Her kidneys failed. Her diabetes took over, and it took a leg. Ruthlessly. Just like that. Yet she faced that with surprising strength and courage. Don’t think I am eulogizing her. She had to undergo the procedure on local anaesthesia because of her kidney complications and couldn’t be given strong pain killers. So, had to make do with Paracetamol. And still she bore it with a straight face and solid heart. She was quite a woman, bold and stubborn. Misery had a hard time pinning her to the ground because she just wouldn’t stay down. She would with all that’s weighing her down, stand up and fight… and she did, fearlessly until the very last moment.

While she suffered, I moved back home for an year and got caught up amidst some personal problems, an ailing mother, college work, running errands and a stubborn child. As everyone does, and often wrongly, I too shifted my focus to things that ‘should’ be done. After all, we all grew up with a thorough education on  ‘Prioritization’ and I was no different. I let my logical mind schedule my life and put my emotional intelligence to rest. So, ‘important’ things got attended to – mom’s sickness, exams, Khalid’s studies, hospital visits, bills, groceries et al. while I got myself tangled in a messy web of frustration and irritation. And now in retrospection, I find that my judgement was flawed. And my mom definitely wouldn’t have approved.

Let me explain.

Years earlier, I had come home from an exam, not any exam, my 12 th finals – gone terribly wrong. I was crying and in a bad mood. My mom told me that I had given my best and that was it. Then she just took me out to the beach and we talked about other stuff, had roasted chickpeas and came back home. By the time I was back, it still bothered me but not as much as it had. And this was because she wielded her emotions to drive her decisions. And if I had been at home with a failing kidney, I’m pretty sure she would have brushed the somber mood aside with a trip to the beach or walk at the museum or masala dosa and filter coffee at the Indian coffee house.

And that’s where I failed even while winning the caretaker game.  That was the period when she had asked me for a box of paints. She was an artist and rendered images beautifully in monochrome, but had an unexplainable aversion to paints. But during her last years, she had this intense longing to create paintings and repeatedly asked me to get her an artist pad and paints. I kept saying yes and then irreverently postponed. By the end of a college day, I just wanted to be back home which took another 30 minutes.

But there was a store two minutes away from my college with ample parking space. There were weekends when I went to the city to do my shopping. But then I (we) conveniently postpone it, or inadvertently forget it. Because tomorrow is another day, isn’t it? What’s the hurry?

And then I returned to Abu Dhabi, and as my mom grew weaker, morose and disoriented, and would rarely be in a mood to talk. It eventually became so difficult to talk to her that I hated listening to her mumble indistinctly into the phone. It’s not that I hated her but I missed my mom and I hated seeing her like this. I wanted her back. I wish she would talk to me as she used to. Long, deep and intimate. Every time I called, it felt like an obligatory formality and it felt so in genuine. So my calls which were already scarce, got lesser and was confined to calls to my dad or sister in law asking how Umma was.

And then she passed away. For all my optimism of she braving the physical disabilities and coming back to life, she just gave in. And ceased to exist.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I didn’t feel anything. I just didn’t act like as I was expected to. And that added to the criticisms that were already flowing in about ‘how I  could have looked after her’. But those things didn’t bother me. I know I looked after my mom well. That didn’t stroke the flame of guilt. But something else did.

The box of paints.

And the rides I could have taken her along. The cups of coffee we could have shared. The restaurant dates we could have had. The movies we could have seen. The small things I could have bought for her.

But I didn’t do all that when she was alive.

And now I find myself wondering what it would have been like to do all that. I find myself imagining myself to be with her when I’m out for a coffee – chatting over cups of brew. Things only we would understand. Creating paintings together. I think of her to be sitting next to me while I go on a long drive, while it’s raining. She loved those rides. Or just fighting about the way I dress as she vehemently disapproves it. And now what’s the use of “ What if-s” if it can’t resurrect her.

With my dad, I learnt to correct these mistakes. But Dad and I, we are just father and daughter; but my mom was my best friend. Still I call him regularly, and go down to meet him whenever I can. Because I know it makes him happy. And I don’t want to leave another box of paints on the table. But if you haven’t suffered the loss, you haven’t. And there’s quite an awful lot that we take for granted. Be it our spouse, kids, parents or siblings. Agreed that we all have limitations of time, money, distance and so many other things. But if you can, find time to buy your loved one that box of paint – or even that one tube of splendor.

വാഴ്ത്തപ്പെട്ടവൾ

‘എന്താ പറ്റിയേ ?”

കിളവി താരയോടന്വേഷിച്ചു. അവൾ മുഖം ചുളിച്ചതല്ലാതെ ഒന്നും പറഞ്ഞില്ല. വീണ്ടും കിളവി ചോദിച്ചപ്പോൾ, അടുക്കളയിൽ തിട്ടപുറത്തിരുന്ന പാത്രം അവൾ സിങ്കിലേക്ക് വലിച്ചെറിഞ്ഞു.

“ഉച്ചക്ക് വച്ച മീൻകറിയിലെ മീനയാളെ എഴുന്നേറ്റു നിന്ന് ‘സല്യൂട്ട്’ ചെയ്തില്ലത്രേ!” അവൾ തിരിഞ്ഞു നോക്കാതെ പാത്രങ്ങൾ പട പാടാണ് അങ്ങോട്ടും ഇങ്ങോട്ടും വലിച്ചെറിഞ്ഞു കൊണ്ടിരുന്നു.

“അതിനാ പാത്രങ്ങളെന്തു പിഴച്ചു, എന്റെ കുട്ടീ?”

പല്ലില്ലാത്ത വാ പിളർന്നവർ ചിരിച്ചു. തലയിലേക്ക് രക്തം ഇരമ്പി കയറുന്നത് പോലെ അവൾക്കു തോന്നി. തള്ളയെ അങ്ങ് കൊന്നാലോ?

എന്നെ കൊന്നു കളയാൻ തൊന്നണൊണ്ടല്ലേ? അവൾ ഒന്നും മിണ്ടിയില്ല. കിളവി കസേരയിൽ നിന്നും ഒരു വിധം പണിപെട്ടെന്നെഴുന്നേട്ട് അവളുടെ അടുത്തേക്ക് ചെന്നു. “വീട്ടിന്റെ വിളക്ക് എന്നിട്ടെന്തു പറഞ്ഞു?” അവൾ അവരെ ഇരുത്തി നോക്കി. “ഒന്നും പറഞ്ഞില്ല്യാലെ?” കിളവിക്ക് വേറെ ജോലിയൊന്നുമില്ലേ എന്ന് പിറുപിറുത്തു അവൾ പുറത്തേക്കു പോയി.

“സ്വയം എരിഞ്ഞുതീരുമ്പോഴും ചിരിക്കും. വെളിച്ചം തരുന്ന വിളക്കാത്രേ!” തുണി മടക്കാൻ തുടങ്ങുകയായിരുന്ന താരയെയും നോക്കി അവർ കട്ടിലിന്മേൽ ഇരുന്നു. അതൊക്കെ സുഖിപ്പിക്കാൻ പറയണതാ എന്റെ കുട്ട്യേ!” മുഖം കടുപ്പതിലായിരുന്നെങ്കിലും അവളുടെ കണ്ണുകളിലെ മൂടൽ അവര്ക്ക് കാണാമായിരുന്നു.”ഈ ഉമ്മറത്ത്‌ എരിഞ്ഞു തീരാനാണോ നിന്റെ ഉദ്ദേശം?”

മടക്കി കൊണ്ടിരുന്ന കുപ്പായം വാങ്ങി ദൂരെക്കെറിഞ്ഞിട്ടു അവർ അവളെ പിടിച്ചടുതിരുത്തി. “നഷ്ടം വിളക്കിനു മാത്രമാണ്. ആർക്കോ വേണ്ടി എരിഞ്ഞു തീർന്നു കഴിയുമ്പോ പിന്നെ ആർക്കും വേണ്ട. ക്ലാവ് പിടിച്ചു നശിക്കും! ഇല്ലേ കുട്ടിയെ?”

അനുഭവങ്ങൾ കടഞ്ഞെടുത്ത അറിവാണ്. അത് എതിർത്ത് എന്ത് പറയാനാണ്? അവൾ തലകുനിച്ചിരുന്നു.

“നിനക്ക് പഠിപ്പൊക്കെ ഉള്ളതല്ലേ കുട്ടിയെ? നിനക്കൊരു ജോലിക്ക് പോക്കൂടെ?”

കൂട്ടുകാർ പലതും ചോദിച്ച ചോദ്യമാണിത്. ഉത്തരം എല്ലായ്പ്പോഴും ഒന്ന് തന്നെയായിരുന്നു. പുള്ളിക്കാരനിഷ്ടമല്ല. വീട് നോക്കാനാരുമില്ല. പിള്ളേരുടെ കാര്യമൊക്കെ എങ്ങനെ?

നീ അവനോടു ചോദിച്ചിട്ടില്ലേ?

ഉം….

ആ ചോദിച്ച ചോദ്യത്തിന് കിട്ടിയ ഉത്തരമാണല്ലോ കാണാപാഠം പഠിച്ചു ആര് ചോദിച്ചാലും ഇമവെട്ടാതെ ആവർത്തിക്കുന്നത്; അവൾ ഓർത്തു.

‘വാശിയാണല്ലേ?’ അവർ നെടുവീർപിട്ടു. “ഭർത്താവിനോടുള്ള കടമകളെല്ലാം കൊള്ളാം! പക്ഷെ നിനക്ക് ജീവനും, ആരോഗ്യവും, വിവേചന ബുദ്ധിയുമൊക്കെ തന്ന ദൈവതിന്നൊരപമാനമാണ്! ങ്ഹാ….”

നീണ്ട ഒരു നെടുവീർപ്പോടെ അവർ കട്ടിൽ താങ്ങി എഴുന്നേറ്റു. വയ്യാത്ത കാലും വലിച്ചു വച്ചവർ ഏന്തി ഏന്തി പുറത്തേക്കു പോയി.

“ചായക്കെന്താ ഉണ്ടാക്കുക?”അകത്തു നിന്നും അയാളുടെ അമ്മ പരിഭവപ്പെടുന്നതു കേട്ടവൾ അടുക്കളയിലേക്കു ചെന്നു. അമ്മാമ്മ ഒരു മൂലക്കിരുന്നു പുസ്തകം വായിക്കുകയായിരുന്നു. അവരുടെ അടുക്കൽ ചെന്നവൾ ചോദിച്ചു.

“അന്നൊക്കെ പെണ്കുട്ടികളെ എഴുത്തും വായനയും പഠിപ്പിക്കുവോ?”

അവർ പല്ലില്ലാത്ത മോണ  കാട്ടി വീണ്ടും ചിരിച്ചു. “ഒരു കൂട്ടുകാരൻ പഠിപ്പിച്ചതാ”
“കൂട്ടുകാരനോ?”
“അച്ഛന്റെ കൂടുകാരന്റെ മകൻ. ഒടുക്കം വായന കൂടിയപ്പോ അച്ഛൻ പിടിച്ചു കെട്ടിച്ചു.”
“നീയമ്മയുടെ പുന്നാരം കേട്ടോണ്ട്‌ നിക്കാതെ ആ ചായയെടുത്തു അച്ഛന് കൊണ്ട് കൊടുത്തേ.
“അമ്മ കൊണ്ട് കൊടുത്താ മതി”
അമ്പരന്നു നില്ക്കുന്ന അമ്മയെ നോക്കാതെ , അടുപ്പത്ത് നിന്നും ചായ വാങ്ങി അതിൽ നിന്നും ഒരു ഗ്ലാസ്‌ ചായ അമ്മാമ്മക്ക് ഒഴിച്ച് കൊടുത്തതിനു ശേഷം അവൾ അയാളുടെ അടുക്കലേയ്ക്ക് പോയി.
“എനിക്കെന്തെകിലും പണിക്കു പോണം.”
ഉറങ്ങി കിടന്ന അയാള് ചിരിച്ചു കൊണ്ടെഴുന്നേറ്റു. അവളെ അരികിൽ വിളിച്ചിരുത്തി, അവളുടെ മുടി തഴുകി കൊണ്ട് ചോദിച്ചു “നിനക്കെന്തിന്റെയെങ്കിലും കുറവുണ്ടോ?”
ഉണ്ട്. ചങ്കൂറ്റം, സ്വാതന്ത്ര്യം, സ്വയം പര്യാപ്തത…. ബഹുമാനം!
“ഇല്ല, പക്ഷെ ഞാൻ കുറെ പഠിച്ചതല്ലേ?”
“മക്കളുടെ കാര്യം?”
“അവരൊക്കെ വലുതായില്ലെ?”

പതിവിലും നീണ്ടു ആ സംവാദം. അസ്ത്രങ്ങൾ ഓരോന്നായി അയാള് പുറത്തെടുത്തു. മുൻപെങ്ങും കാണിച്ചിട്ടില്ലാത്ത, അയാൾ കണ്ടിട്ടില്ലാത്ത ശൌര്യതോടും ലാഘവതോടും അവൾ ആ അസ്ത്രങ്ങൾ തടുത്തു. ഒടുവിൽ ആവനാഴി ഒഴിഞ്ഞപ്പോൾ ‘വേണ്ട എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞില്ലേ?” എന്നുള്ള ആക്രോശത്തോട്‌ കൂടി അയാൾ പുറത്തേക്കിറങ്ങി പോയി.

പെട്ടിയുമായി ഊണുമുറിയിലെത്തിയപ്പോൾ എല്ലാരും ചായ കുടിക്കുന്ന തിരക്കിലായിരുന്നു. അവൾ പെട്ടി ഒരു വശത്തേക്ക് നീക്കി വച്ച്, കസേര വലിച്ചിട്ടിരുന്നു. അവർക്കപരിചിതമായ ലഘവത്തോട് കൂടി, അവൾ അയാളുടെ ചായ തന്റെ അടുത്തേക്ക് നീക്കി. പ്ലേറ്റിലിരുന്ന ബിസ്കറ്റ് എടുത്തു ചായയിൽ മുക്കി ഒരു ഭാവഭേദവുമില്ലാതെ കഴിച്ചു തുടങ്ങി.

“എന്താണ് പെട്ടിയൊക്കെയായിട്ടു?” അയാൾ ഒരു ചിരിയോടു കൂടി ചോദിച്ചു. “പിണങ്ങിയോ എന്റെ ഭാര്യ?”

അവൾ ബിസ്കറ്റ് കൊവുരുന്നതും നോക്കി ചിരിച്ചു.

“നീയകത്തെന്നൊരു ചായ ഇങ്ങെടുത്തേ.”

“സ്വയം എടുത്തൂടെ?”
അയാളുടെ അമ്മയും അച്ഛനും അമ്പരപ്പോടെ നോക്കുന്നത് കണ്കോണിലൂടെ അവൾ കണ്ടു. ചായ കുടി മുഴുമിപ്പിചവളെനീറ്റു. “പിള്ളേരോട് ഞാൻ പറഞ്ഞിട്ടുണ്ട്. പത്തു പതിനഞ്ചു വയസ്സായില്ലേ? ഞാൻ പറഞ്ഞതവർക്ക് മനസ്സിലായി കാണും.”
അവൾ എഴുന്നേറ്റു സാരി നേരെയാക്കുന്നതിന്നിടയിൽ പ്രത്യേകിചാരോടുമല്ലാതെ എന്നവണ്ണം പറഞ്ഞു. “ഞാൻ പോവുകയാണ്, എന്റെ വീട്ടിലേക്ക്. ഒരു ജോലി നോക്കണം. ജീവിതത്തിൽ ഒരിക്കലെങ്കിലും സ്വന്തം കാലിൽ നില്ക്കണം.”
“അതല്ലല്ലോ…” അയാളുടെ അച്ഛന്റെ വാക്യം മുഴുമിപ്പിച്ചു കൊണ്ടവൾ തുടർന്നു “നാട്ടുനടപ്പ്, അല്ലെ? നാട്ടുനടപ്പന്വേഷിക്കാൻ ഇപ്പോൾ സമയമില്ല. എന്റെ വീടും മാതാപിതാക്കളും അന്തസ്സും ഒക്കെ മറ്റുള്ളവരുടെ മുന്നിൽ വെറും വിലയില്ലാത്ത ഘടകങ്ങൾ ആണെങ്കിൽ, അവയ്ക്ക് നിങ്ങളുടെയെല്ലാം വിചാരങ്ങൾക്കും അഭിലാഷങ്ങൾക്കും മുന്നിൽ അവസാനത്തെ സ്ഥാനമാണെങ്കിൽ ആ നാട്ടുനടപ്പ് എനിക്ക് വേണ്ട. ഭ്രഷ്ടായിക്കോട്ടേ!”
അടിക്കാനെന്നവണ്ണം അയാൾ ചാടി എഴുന്നേറ്റു. അവൾ ഒരടി പോലും പിന്നോട്ട് മാറാതെ നിന്നടുത്തു തന്നെ നിന്നു.
“വെറുതെ ചാടിയുളുക്കി അമ്മയ്ക്ക് പണിയുണ്ടാക്കണ്ട”
പെട്ടിയുമെടുത്ത് അവൾ പുറത്തേക്കു നടന്നു. “അപ്പോൾ ഞാനിറങ്ങട്ടെ”
“നിന്നെ ഞാൻ വന്നു കൂട്ടിക്കൊണ്ടു വരുമെന്ന് നീ വിചാരിക്കണ്ട.” അയാൾ അവളുടെ പിറകിൽ  നിന്നും വിളിച്ചു പറഞ്ഞു.”മേലാൽ ഇനി ഈ പടി ചവിട്ടരുത്”
“അത് തന്നെയാണ് എന്റെ ആഗ്രഹവും”
“വെളിവുണ്ടാവും. അന്ന് നീ വിളിക്ക്”
“അത് തന്നെയാണ് എനിക്കും പറയാനുള്ളത്. വെളിവുണ്ടാവുമെങ്കിൽ വിളിക്കു. ഇപ്പൊ ഞാൻ പോട്ടെ”അവസാനമായി ഒരിക്കൽ കൂടി തിരിഞ്ഞവൾ എല്ലാവരോടുമായി യാത്ര ചോദിച്ചു. “ചായ ഇയാൾക്കുണ്ടല്ലോ, അല്ലെ?”

“ഇല്ലെങ്കിൽ ഇട്ടു കുടിചോളും” എല്ലാം കണ്ടു കൊണ്ടിരുന്ന കിളവി ഇരുന്നിടത്ത് നിന്നും എണീക്കാതെ പറഞ്ഞു.”അവസാനം ബുദ്ധി തെളിഞ്ഞു, ഇല്ലേ?പുഛമായിരുന്നല്ലോ എന്നെ?”
“നിങ്ങള്കെന്താ കിളവി വട്ടാണോ?” അയാളുടെ അമ്മ അവരെ ശകാരിക്കുന്നതും കേട്ടവൾ പുറത്തേക്കു നടന്നു. വീടിന്റെ ഗേറ്റ് തുറന്നു പുറത്തോട്ടിറന്ഗുമ്പോഴും കിളവിയുടെ ചിരി അവൾക്കു കേൾക്കാമായിരുന്നു. അതിന്റെ പ്രതിച്ഛായ എന്നവണ്ണം അവളുടെ മുഖത്തും ഒരു ചിരി വിടര്ന്നു നിന്നിരുന്നു

 

Shape shifters

Shape shifters, snakes of light

through the iron grille Windows

fall among the clustered desks

and draw transient patterns across the floor;

AND they;

slither around;

across the white plastered walls,

And the chalk dusted black board.

With the light worms, something  moves!

And writhing memories of  fond adolescence

Tumble into my consciousness’ grooves

And in an instant sets the clock backwards

To bygones where it had seemed sweeter

Even the tear drops most bitter!

സ്ത്രീയുടെ സ്വയം പര്യാപ്തതയും ‘ചില’ മലയാളീ സഹോദരങ്ങളും – ഒരു facebook ചരിതം

“സ്ത്രീകൾ സ്വന്തം കാലിൽ നിൽക്കണം.”

ക്ഷമിക്കണം, പറഞ്ഞതാരാനെന്നോ, പത്രം ഏതാണെന്നോ എനിക്കൊർമയില്ല. എന്തായാലും അന്നത്തെ ആ വാർത്ത പോസ്റ്റിൽ കമന്റ്സ് ഒരുപാടായിരുന്നു. അതിൽ ഒരു സഹോദരന്റെ അഭിപ്രായം, അതാണ്‌ ഈ ബ്ലോഗ്ഗിനുള്ള പ്രചോദനം. അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ ഹൃദയസ്പർശിയായ വാക്കുക്കൾ ഇതാ:

“ഇതിന്റെ കുറവേയുള്ളൂ. ഇവൾക്കൊക്കെ ജോലി കിട്ടി കഴിയുമ്പോഴാണ് എന്തുമാവാം എന്നൊരു തോന്നൽ വരുന്നത്. അല്ലെങ്കിൽ അടങ്ങിയൊതുങ്ങി വീട്ടിൽ കിടന്നോളും.”

കേരളത്തിലെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം കൂടിപ്പോയ കുറച്ചു സഹോദരന്മാർക്ക് ആ കമെന്റങ്ങ് നന്നേ ബോധിച്ചു. ആണ്കൊയ്മയുടെ മസീഹ ലൈക്ക്കളാൽ വാഴ്തപെട്ടു. അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ അഭിപ്രായത്തെ മാനിച്ചു കൊണ്ട് സഹോദരന്മാർ ഒരുപാട് കാര്യങ്ങൾ അവിടെ ചർച്ച ചെയ്യുകയുണ്ടായി – അവരുടെ ഭാര്യമാരെക്കുരിച്ചും, അവർ വിവാഹം കഴിക്കാൻ ആഗ്രഹിക്കുന്ന പെണ്‍കുട്ടികളെ കുറിച്ചുമൊക്കെ. ഇപ്പറഞ്ഞ സഹോദരന്മാരക്ക് വേണ്ടി അവർ പറഞ്ഞ കാര്യങ്ങൾ ഉള്പെടുത്തി ഞാനൊരു വിവാഹപരസ്യം തയ്യാറാക്കി. അത് താഴെ ചേർക്കുന്നു.

വിവരം സാധാരണയിലും കുറവാണെങ്കിലും വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം ആവശ്യത്തിലും കൂടുതലുണ്ട്.എന്നാൽ പ്രോഡക്ടിനു അത്ര വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം ഇല്ലെങ്കിലും കുഴപ്പമില്ല. എന്നാൽ ഒരുപാട് കുറയണ്ട. പന്ത്രണ്ടാം ക്ലാസ്സ്‌ ധാരാളം. കൂടിയാലും പ്രശ്നമില്ല. പക്ഷെ പഠിത്തം കൂടുംബോൾ ജോലി കിട്ടാനും ജോലിക്ക് പോകാനുമുള്ള സാധ്യത കൂടുതലായതിനാൽ അത്തരത്തിലുള്ള പ്രോടക്ട്സ് പ്രിഫർ ചെയ്യുന്നില്ല. വിവാഹത്തിന് ശേഷം ഭർത്താവിനെ അനുസരിക്കുകയും അഹങ്കാരം, തന്റേടം എന്നിവ പൂര്ണമായും ഉപേക്ഷിക്കുകയും വേണം. ഇപ്പറഞ്ഞ സാധനങ്ങൾ വളർത്തുന്നത് ഒരു ജോലിയുണ്ട് എന്ന തോന്നലായത് കൊണ്ട് പ്രോഡക്റ്റ് ജോലിക്ക് പോകുന്നത് നിർബന്ധമായും നിരോധിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നു. താത്പര്യമുള്ളവർ താഴെ കൊടുത്തിരിക്കുന്ന കരാർ വായിചൊപ്പിഡേൻടതാണ്.

നിശ്ചയ പത്രം:

പത്തിരുപതു കൊല്ലം സ്വതന്ത്രമായ മനസ്സും ശരീരവുമായി വളർന്ന ഞാൻ എന്റെ വിവാഹം കഴിയുന്ന ദിവസം എന്റെ സ്വതന്ത്രചിത്തം, സാമാന്യ ബുദ്ധി, ചിന്തിക്കാനുള്ള കഴിവ് എന്നിവ വീട്ടിൽ നടക്കുന്ന ഹോമത്തിൽ മണ്ണെണ്ണയൊഴിച്ചു കത്തിക്കുമെന്നും ഇനിമേൽ എന്റെ ശരീരത്തിന്റെയും മനസ്സിന്റെയും ഉടമസ്ഥാവകാശം എന്റെ ഭർത്താവിനും, ഭർത്താവിന്റെ വീട്ടുകാർക്കുമുള്ളതാനെന്നും അംഗീകരിക്കുന്നു. കല്യാണശേഷം ഭർത്താവിന്റെ വീട്ടില് മാത്രമേ നിൽക്കാവു എന്നും , എന്റെ സ്വന്തം വീട്ടിൽ പോകുന്നത് കൊടും പാതകമാണെന്നും ഞാൻ മനസ്സിലാക്കുന്നു. വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം ഉണ്ടെങ്കിലും ഇല്ലെങ്കിലും ഞാൻ ജോലിക്ക് പോവുകയോ ജോലിയെക്കുറിച്ച് സംസാരിക്കുകയോ ഇല്ല. വീട്ടുജോലിയും, പ്രസവവും, കുഞ്ഞുങ്ങളെ നൊക്കലുമാനു എന്റെ തൊഴിൽ എന്ന് ഞാൻ അംഗീകരിക്കുന്നു. വീട്ടിലെ തക്കാളി, മാർക്കറ്റ്ഇലെ മത്തി, സാരിയുടെ മെറ്റീരിയൽ, സീരിയലിലെ ഗതിവിഗതികൾ ഇവയെക്കുറിച്ചല്ലാതെ രാഷ്ട്രീയം, ശ്രേഷ്ട്ടസാഹിത്യം സിനിമ എന്നിവയെക്കുറിച്ചോ, കുടുംബത്തിന്റെ സാമ്പത്തിക കാര്യങ്ങളിലോ ഞാൻ അഭിപ്രായം പറയുകയില്ലെന്നും, ഇടപെടുകയില്ലെനും ഇത് വഴി ഉറപ്പു നല്കുന്നു. എന്റെ ഭർത്താവിന്റെ  ഒരടി പുറകിലെ ഞാൻ നടക്കുകയുള്ളു എന്നും, അദ്ദേഹത്തിനെതിരെ ഒന്നും പറയുകയില്ലെന്നും, അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്റെ ഏതു അഭിപ്രായത്തോടും യോജിക്കുമെന്നും, അവഹേളിക്കപെട്ടാലും അപമാനിക്കപ്പെട്ടാലും പരാതി പറയുകയില്ല എന്നും. നന്ദിയുള്ളവളായിരിക്കുമെന്നും ഞാൻ ഉറപ്പു നല്കുന്നു.

എന്റെ ഭർത്താവിന്റെ കാലടിയിലാണ് സ്വർഗം എന്ന് ഞാൻ വിശ്വസിക്കുന്നു.

എന്ന്,
ഒപ്പ്

ഈ ചർച്ചകൾക്കിടയിലെവിടെയോ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസതോടൊപ്പം ഒരല്പം വിവരവുമുള്ള ആണുങ്ങളുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. എല്ലാരും പറഞ്ഞതോർമയില്ല. എന്നാലും കണ്നുടക്കിയ ഒരു കമന്റ്‌ താഴെ ചേർക്കുന്നു

” ഇക്കാലത്തും ഈ വർത്തമാനം പറയുന്നത് കഷ്ടം. രണ്ടു പേരും ജോലി ചെയ്താൽ ജീവിക്കാം. അല്ലാതെ വീട്ടിൽ മേശക്കപ്പുറവും ഇപ്പുറവും ഇരുന്നു മുഖത്ത് നോക്കിയിരുന്നാൽ ചിലവു നടക്കില്ല. “

പഴഞ്ചൻ ചിന്തകൾ മാറ്റണമെന്നും, പെണ്ണുങ്ങൾ ആരുടേയും അടിമകളോ തറവാട് സ്വത്തോ അല്ലന്നും, നിന്റെ പെങ്ങമ്മാരെയും പഠിക്കാൻ വിടുന്നില്ലേഡാ എന്നുമൊക്കെ വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം കുറഞ്ഞതും കൂടിയതുമായ വിവരമുള്ള ആണുങ്ങൾ പറഞ്ഞു. ഇവനൊന്നും ആണല്ല എന്നും നട്ടെല്ലില്ലാത്ത പെങ്കോന്തന്മാരാനെന്നുമാണ് നിശ്ചയ പത്രം എഴുതിയുണ്ടാക്കിയ സഹോദരന്മാരുടെയും,പിന്നെ പെണ്ണ് തന്നെയാണോ എന്നെനിക്കു സംശയിക്കേണ്ടി വന്ന ചില സഹോദരിമാരുടെയും നിഗമനം.

പ്രിയ സഹോദരാ,

വിവാഹം കഴിക്കുക എന്നതല്ല പെണ്‍കുട്ടികളുടെ ജീവിതാഭിലാഷം. എന്റെ ചിന്ത, സ്വപ്നം, അഭിപ്രായം, കുടുംബം  ഇതെല്ലാം എന്റെ വ്യക്തിത്വത്തിന്റെ ഭാഗങ്ങളാണ്. ആത്മാഭിമാനമുള്ള ഒരു പെണ്ണും സ്വന്തം വ്യക്തിത്വം, വിവാഹ കംബോളത്തിൽ വില്പനയ്ക്ക് വയ്ക്കാൻ താത്പര്യപെടുന്നില്ല. വയ്ക്കുകയുമില്ല. ഇത് തന്റേടമായി പറഞ്ഞുവല്ലോ. അഹങ്കാരമെന്നും വിളിച്ചു. ഒന്ന് പറഞ്ഞോട്ടെ, കൂടെ കൂട്ടുന്ന പെണ്ണിന് തന്റേടമുന്ടെങ്കിൽ അത് ജീവിതത്തിൽ ഒരു മുതൽക്കൂട്ടാവും. ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ പോർക്കളത്തിൽ ഒറ്റയ്ക്ക് പോരാടേണ്ടി വരില്ല. അതോർത്താൽ സഹോദരന് നല്ലത്.

എന്ന് ഒരു തന്റേടി സഹോദരി

The Beauty of Pregnancy

My not – yet – pregnant – friend beams

At my 36 week old baby bump

And from what she has heard, she says

It’s the most beautiful of all things known.

She mentions the glowing skin,

And the lustrous fuller denser mane,

And of course –

the wonder and magic of life within life.

I asked her what in the world she was talking about

I would’ve glowed if there was time and energy to

If the black patches on my skin would let it through.

My eyes now have permanent dark circles,

My face brings the puffer fish to shame.

Spider veins scurry under my blotchy skin,

Stretch marks, scars and dark lines creep in.

Hormones rage and darned emotions play –

I cry without reason and spend nights in depression.

Darned Fatigue and those blasted Hicks

makes me contemplate on death and beyond.

And the ‘bundle of joy’ –

the bundle of joy pokes and jabs at my ribs.

Makes my bladder his teddy and pillow,

when he is bored, he loves to play –

‘Karate Kicks’ and ‘Poke until it hurts’.

Lounging in his  premium sauna and spa

He then cranks up momma’s central heater

And orders a cocktail to sip on and relax.

He sleeps through the morning – silent and calm

stays up through the night and squirms around.

And I lie on my bed, in pitch black darkness

staring at the ceiling that I  obviously can’t see.

I tell her that the beauty’s not in the glow or the bump-

but in the pink line that  draws itself on the strip,

In the first flutter and the first ultrasound

In those little jabs, pokes, squirms and  hiccups,

There’s beauty in anticipation as well –

Anticipation of holding him, feeding him, and seeing him grow

But of all, the true beauty is in that moment

When I see him for the first time – a little creature

that has been born of my flesh and my blood!

When the teacher was taught a lesson by her students

Everyone has an experience in their life which makes them reconsider their career choice, or decide that this is what they want to do. And for me, it happened during the first few months of my first job.

When I stepped into the classroom of second graders, on the first day, as their class in charge, I was wondering ‘What the hell I was doing teaching a bunch of hyperactive second graders who obviously were going to get on my nerves’. And within the first month, I understood and agreed to the general and popular opinion among the teachers, that among the three classes I taught, two of them – a grade 2 class and a grade 4 class were notorious and unruly, while the third class was the most well disciplined of all, perhaps of all school and I agree without further arguments. The kids of this class were quiet, attentive and scored well in all their tests and assessments. But it was in those two infamous classes, the classes that teachers despised and considered bothersome that I had found a bunch of kids who changed my life around and made me realize the true meaning, joy and glory of being a teacher.

Little Pip was in grade 2 and most of the teachers told me that he had some sort of behavioural problem. So, I too entered the class with this prejudiced view that made me judge him through the preprogrammed eye. He never completed his work, wrote nothing on his book and whatever he wrote was rubbish, shabby and illegible. He just would not sit still and bothered everyone around him. His grades dangled at C and D and it wasn’t as if he cared.  Everyday, I walked into the staffroom and was greeted with complaints about him. I barged into the class with these on mind and with the slightest provocation screamed at him. Little Pip was comfortable being shouted at and he soon would go back to his old ways as if nothing had happened.

And then came the first open house. On that day I met the parents of Little Pip, and Tom who was in grade 4. Tom’s mother couldn’t speak English and she asked me whether there was anything I could do to help him out. I knew Tom as a child who always disturbed the class and went on talking. His grades were not that good either. There was another boy Tintin who always failed his tests and his spellings were horrible. The teachers and students told me that he had some problem although I still have no idea what it was. His parents met me as well and they seemed desperate for a solution. And as I went over their concerns at home, I wondered whether I was doing enough for these students . I reevaluated myself as a teacher, and my prejudice against these kids and decided that it was worth a try to go back into those classes with a clean slate. The next day, I walked into each class, determined about what I was going to do. And I knew what I was going to do.

I was going to scrap the lesson plan and the injected views about these kids.

I rearranged the classes and made an arrangement in a such a way that all the slow learners and students with other difficulties were around me. The brighter ones copied down the notes while I sat with those who needed help, helping them to write, often erasing out the mistakes I noticed and making them work again. Those who finished with the notes, went around helping others with their work. I handed out compliments every time someone got something right, even if that meant a curve of a letter they couldn’t properly form earlier. It was tedious but I wasn’t going to back out anyway. 

I did exactly the same with the my fourth grade Tintins and Toms. Those who could do the workbook on their own did it and those who needed help sat around me and worked. Every time they got stuck, I would help them, sometimes even going through a concept quickly. As the assessment week came nearer, I prepared revision sheets for students. I corrected them in class and for those who could not make it, I recycled the questions until they got the hang of it. Yes, it was not easy and needed a lot of energy and enthusiasm. 

When the kids saw that the teacher was there for them, it was as if they were more eager to work than ever before. Tintin was happy every time he nailed a question. I sent a note to his parents asking them make him practise at home, especially the spellings, and promised them that I would take care of the rest. It was not a one man show. There were kids in my classes like Mary, Sam and Harold who offered help to these kids during lunch hours or class hours and updated me on the status.

When the assessment results came, Little Pip and Tintin had aced while Tom made it to a B. That day I walked into the classes, and asked them to guess the grades. The kids guessed D and C, and was finally at awe when I told them the real grades. Let me tell you that, I had in no way adjusted or made the marking liberal for them. Those kids had worked for it and their classmates and parents had supported.

The moment I stood there watching those kids beam with joy, I knew I was proud of what they had achieved. That moment felt more fulfilling than anything in my life. That was the moment I realized that a teacher’s true achievements are the achievements of her students.

Sometime during that month, despite some protests, I gave the student of the week title to little Pip. In the days that followed, Little Pip changed. He enjoyed the attention that I gave him . His behavior and handwriting improved so much that it surprised me. One day, as I was writing something on my pad, he brought his book to me and showed his work. It was very neat and I gave him the pencil I had with me at that time. The complaints about him soon ceased and the teachers started to notice the change in him as well. There was even a teacher who taught the same class of mine who claimed to be the reason for his change. I didn’t mind. His mother told me during the next open house that he had improved a lot, and that he talks about me a lot. I received a note from Tom’s parents thanking me for the effort I had taken. Tintin, even after I left the school runs to me and meets me, wishes me and says thank you every time he sees me.

Soon after the end of that academic year, I left the school for another job. Let me tell you that there were many people in that school who really loved me, that soon after I left, criticisms about my teaching and disciplinary methods started flooding in from those who have not even seen a single class of mine. I have not tried to set the record straight. And none of these stories or experiences are there on my PD file. They are just personal memories that I’ve taken with me.

Those were the kids who taught me that lesson plans and blue books aren’t everything. It’s all about the strong feeling that you give them, the feeling that your teacher would be there for you when you need her, that she would not label them or let a label define them,that she would be able to see past those labels, and that she would not forsake them.  And for me the greatest achievements are and will be those students who come to me even after several years telling me that they remember me and would remember me as one of the  teachers who made a mark in some manner, and their achievements of which they consider me a part of.

On a road trip with apple maps

So I dropped Khalid off at his school and on my way back, lost my way and ended up at what looked like ‘the middle of nowhere’. After some failed trials and an hour later, I decided to use whatever data that was left on my mobile to guide me home. That was when I realized that I had not downloaded google maps after my recent phone switch and that I’m left with apple’s maps. I had heard a lot about apple maps, but internet always exaggerates, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

So I decided to use the apple maps and here is our conversation.

————————————————————————————————————————————————–

apple: I can’t find your location.

Me: *Turns location services on*

apple: okay, where are you….hmmm…. yeah… guess you are here 😐 . Where do you want to go?

Me: M – U – S

apple: Musaffah police station / musaffah?

Me:

Musaffah!

apple: Sorry, Can’t find the place

Me:

then why did you ask?

apple:

Me: Fine, Musaffah police station

apple: Okay, here you go… this is the route

Me: Ok, start routing

apple: can’t do. There is no road nearby

Me* What!! I’m on a road. I’m on a fricking road apple. I’m on one of those grey ash things that you call a road. THIS IS A ROAD. Show me the way you stupid app

Apple:

Me: *tries google app download, but it doesnt download. So I go on web and use the search. It gives the route but unfortunately it is not hands free.

Me: Apple, please show me the way

Apple: from your location, right?

Me – Uh – huh *sob*

Apple: to where?

Me: Musaffah police station

Apple : dont know – where is that place?

Me:

And since my 3G was still stubborn on not downloading google maps, I pulled over and asked a man who was nice enough to lead me to the Musaffah exit. Sometimes the old fashioned way is much much better!

And you apple, it should be illegal for you to make maps!

The Sneerwell Chronicles – The facebook, child care and piercing edition.

Have you heard of Lady Sneerwell? Met her and her sly sidekick Snake?

If you have read Sheridan’s ‘School of Scandal’, chances are that you already know them both. It doesn’t matter even if you haven’t. In my stories, Lady Sneerwell is that woman who can be anyone from my mother to that nameless woman whom I met at the coffeeshop, who thinks it is her duty and responsibility to poke her hooked, straight or flat nose into someone else’s business, and if possible provide a manual on how to look and live -‘The Sneer manual of appropriate living, appearance and existence’.  Snake solves the question of gender equality by being the male version of this very respectable (according to Sneerwell standards) woman.

So in the years that I have existed in this beautiful world (if you slough off the cankerous human kind, it really is  beautiful – the people and the world), I’ve met and continue to meet a lot of Sneerwells and Snakes that it is impossible to talk about all of them in a single post. (Please do not be misled by my doodle. Sneerwells come in all sizes and shapes) However, I will inaugurate the Sneerwell chronicles with this story of an April night (or was it July?)

Well, Mrs. Sneerwell paid us a visit at our family home that night with her daughter and grand daughter. She looked radiant as always and greeted me with “Have you gained weight again?” I smiled politely and told her that there might be a problem with her vision considering the fact that I had lost almost 10 kilos at that time. That’s when she noticed the subtle glint of a little diamond on my right nostril. Sneer well gasped and pointed at it.

“No one pierces their right nostril”

I glanced left and right, and tried to recollect all the faces I’ve seen that has had a little pin stuck on to their many shaped noses. I couldn’t recollect any. I calmed myself and said “Depends, North Indians pierce the right side, South Indians get the left pierced and other countries don’t even care which side. In my case, I happen to have a right nostril that is a bit more defined than the left. Meri marzi (My wish)”

The woman pointed her chin up and tried snubbing “Well, I have never heard of – ”

I didn’t hear the rest of it as i made sure whatever she was telling me now was well received by my ass.

Since we Indians believe in the much unwanted “Athithidevo Bhava” which apparently put us under Colonial rule for a long time (but we never learn, do we?); someone brought the usual sorts of munchies and chais and soon she settled down comfortably at the front porch with her little grand daughter who was eight months old at that time. As she bounced her up and down on her knees, she turned to my three year old son who was saying something and unleashed her wisdom

“Your child can’t talk properly yet. It is not clear.Show him to a doctor.” Not a bad advice, considering his speech was not that clear at that time as he was a late talker. She continued “Had you spent half the time you spent on facebook with him, he would have talked fluently by now”

And that. was. it.

I straightened up, smiled and told her this:

“Well, you know what. Your grand child is eight months and you are still bouncing her on your knees, telling me that your poor daughter needs help to look after a child and that’s why you moved in with them. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but before you judge me, you should know that I was back in that flat of mine in UAE with a three month old, without any help, and clueless as to how to look after him. I cooked, cleaned, looked after my child – bathed him, fed him and played with him. Days on stretch, he would not go to sleep and I’ve stayed awake with him. There were nights he would bawl continuously when he was sick or just cannot sleep. Those days, I stayed with him throughout the night, all the while exhausted and tired. I couldn’t call my mother over to bounce him on her knees so that I could take a nap. She was too far away. I’ve had days when my house was a mess and I would sleep with my baby, unconcerned about the thrown around clothes and uncooked food. There were days and nights when I have cried, finding all of it over whelming. And yes, I am proud of it – I’m proud of the fact that my child and I had learnt together our new roles in life. I’m proud that I did it all alone when most new mothers sought the help of their mothers. And yes, whenever I get time, I face book. I don’t watch television at all. When others spend their time before the screen, I catch up with my friends, relatives and connect to a world outside the four walls and find my ‘Me time’  on internet. When my baby wakes up, we play, we sing and we talk.”

“And if you have not known, kids develop differently. We have already taken him to a doctor. He says the child is fine. He will pick up eventually. People around me in UAE tell me that children there start talking late and if the doctor says it’s fine; it’s fine. ”

Thanks to those good souls, the burns from the the fire Mrs. Sneerwell had set upon on  my mind was soothed. Some of them shared their experiences and told me that their kids too were late talkers. The second one picks up early since they have an elder sibling. It’s because they don’t see many people and don’t have the opportunity to interact with others of their own age. And no matter what we do as adults, sit and talk or show them videos, they pick up language easier when they are with their own kind. My son started talking fluently and singing rhymes when he was two and a half, thanks to my neighbour girls who always took him around to play with.

If your child has not started talking by the age of two, consult a doctor. If he says it’s ok, put him in a play group. And ignore Mrs. Sneerwell and her theories of her own making.

When he was four, one of my colleagues told me that it’s fascinating that he talks beautiful Malayalam. Last year, when I was doing my CELTA course, my trainer came in, a native English speaker and after talking to my boy who was seven at that time told us that he might be a good test subject for us to practice on as his English is quite good. I don’t know why but Mrs. Sneerwell flashed through my mind’s eye on both instances and all I could do was smile.

Something about a woman and a fort.

She walked into the middle of the forest

Measured a piece of land as her own 

With a spell erected forts of solitude

And closed the iron gates of her fort. 

Swift return to the centre of the plot,

With thoughts  that made a twisted knot,

She sat cross legged and mumbled on. 

The wax figures around her melted on

The colours combined to a dirty brown

And the muddy murkiness curdled on

And into oblivion her mind walked on. 

She sat there

And the world melted on

Leaving her and her forts of solitude. 

The fort tomorrow may come down

Until then the world around her curdles on!

A letter to my boys about being a man, and not a chauvinist.

Dear boys,

All my life, I grew up listening to the elders around me say how difficult and anxiety ridden it is to bring up a daughter. I’ve heard every parent with a daughter say “Don’t squander! you have a daughter to marry off” or “I am so worried when she is out alone” or “you can’t go for that trip”  or “Why can’t you put the duppatta properly?”  or my mother (just like any other Indian mother) concluding the long drawn arguments with the overused punchline “you will only understand when you become a mother to a girl child”

So yes, I was conditioned to believe that having a boy is a good thing. See my dears, I don’t have to worry as I don’t have to marry you off with huge dowries; in fact you are expected to bring it in by marrying a wealthy girl. And your only chance to do that is  if you are an engineer or a doctor; not a rock star. That’s another story and I will tell you about it another time. With you, I don’t have to worry about misplaced duppattas or you wearing jeans and t – shirts. Obviously you are allowed to wear whatever you want to. You can even walk around in your Jockeys, but if you were a girl, I will have to send you swimming in burqas and salwar kameezes. I don’t have to worry about you being ambitious or spontaneous. I don’t have to worry when you stay out late or go to nightclubs or bars or down two drinks. I don’t have to worry when you decide to back pack and hike your way up the lonely hills of Himachal Pradesh or trek the unknown tracts of Brazilian rainforests. I don’t have to worry when you push your limits. Because that’s okay! That’s okay when you are a boy.

Today when I write this, you – my elder darling is seven and my younger sweet heart – you are still in the womb. I think I am too young to be writing this, and you two – well, ridiculously young to understand it.But, on the day when you do understand, I hope this will mean something to you. Around me are stories of innumerous rapes with sometimes shocking accounts of fathers and brothers violating their daughters and sisters. When the news came to me that I am going to have another boy, it struck me that raising a son perhaps is much more tougher than raising a girl.The more I thought of it, the more I think girls are pushed further and further inside the ridiculously small boundaries because of your kind. Every time I see those rapists, those woman- blaming hypocrites, the men who take women to be sex dolls – I am scared. It scares me to think that you would grow up to be one of them. I don’t want you to, and I honestly don’t know how I would teach you both to be better men when you grow up.

The first advice to me as I hit puberty came as  a story. The story of the leaf and the thorn! My mother told me that every woman was like a leaf and every man a thorn. It did not matter whether the thorn fell on the leaf, or the leaf fell on the thorn; it was the leaf who always had to suffer the consequences. In simpler words, consensual or rape – the blame – darling is always on the woman! After all, there has never been a virginity test for men, Was there? Every woman grew up hearing this story. But I don’t remember any anecdote that was passed on as puberty advice to men. It’s sad that we still pass it on to the daughters. I want you to know that there is no way the leaf has to take the blame if the thorn tore it into pieces. No leaf goes around looking for the thorn. If I had a girl, I would ask her to look out for herself, be aware of the dangers that are around her, But I will never ask her to take the blame for a man’s violations.

You might already know that a pair of jeans with a casual tee is the most comfortable way to go around. I love it too. I will sleep in it if I had to! When I am at the Abu Dhabi airport, I often forget what I’m wearing. I feel myself at ease. But when I reach the Trivandrum International airport,  I feel stark naked even if I pull a jacket over. It feels as if my breasts and butt just appeared out of nowhere. If reading this makes you cringe, imagine how uncomfortable it makes a woman to go through it. You’re a man and being attracted to women is natural.But there is a difference darling, between ‘stripping someone off their clothes with your eyes’ and checking out. There is a point where it becomes lecherous. I hope you would grow up to understand that if a woman’s dress slips, it’s not something for you take advantage of. I hope you know when to avert your gaze and respect her privacy.

If you like someone, do ask her out for a coffee but please don’t act as if she is just a body that you find attractive. Just because she accepted your request doesn’t mean she is there to make out either. It just means she likes you and probably wants to know you better. And being an English teacher myself, let me tell you that there are adjectives that you can use to let her know that you like her, and ‘hot’,  ‘sexy’, and ‘something about her ass’ are definitely not among them. ‘Beautiful’, my sons, will always be a good compliment.

When I wear a dress, all I think of is how good it makes me look. I make sure that the dress flatters my skin tone, my body size and shape. Well, I bet that’s what you think of too when choosing something to wear. I want people to look at me and see that I’m pretty. When I wear a red lipstick, that is because I love red, and I think it looks nice on me, not because I am a slut. I might get my hair coloured, my body tattooed or pierced, because I like it. When I wear a knee length skirt or a sleeveless blouse, it is because I like it. May be she likes wine. May be she loves hanging out with male friends or going to night clubs. It means she likes having fun. None of these my darling, is in anyway an invitation to sex.  Your mind is your own – I hope you are it’s master and you would understand that nothing she wears or does says she wants sex unless she herself says it. If something she does, doesn’t appeal to you, Move on! You guys don’t click, that’s all. It doesn’t mean her way of life is wrong.It’s not your job to judge or dictate someone’s life. I’m not saying that there are no women who lounge in the depressing ditch, there are. Just the way there are men who lounge in the same ditch of degradation. Do not judge an entire sex by the few.

The first time I heard of those bastards in the bus was when I was in college. One of my friends came crying and told us that she was groped as she was getting on to the bus. She yelled at him, but no one responded and the man just walked on through the busiest bus station in the city – unconcerned, unquestioned. We were in a bus another day when a man kept on bothering a woman who finally responded. But she soon became the victim as everyone around her (including the shameless me) did nothing, but watch her being insulted by the man who called her a liar. Then came another time, when I jumped off a bus teary eyed, too scared to respond. Three or four college boys got off the bus with me. All they said was “If you had said something- anything, We would have put the bastard in place” I was in college back then, but I guess that was the last time I responded with tears. I knew it was better to open my mouth and say something. After all, as people would rather believe, it is not our fault. I want you to be one of those men who respond. If you see a woman being harassed, I don’t want you to turn your head away. I want you to react. I want you to step up-to him in any way you can and not leave it alone.

From a very early age, the society that I grew up in asked to keep my dreams small and contained. Although, I’ve broken off the constraints in my growing years, I can’t say that I am completely free of them. When you my dear, once commented that, it was the mother’s job to cook and stay at home, and that women didn’t do much, I felt myself die a little. I wondered whether I’ve in some way given you the wrong idea of what women can do. But then, your father had corrected you saying that there was nothing of that sort and women can do anything they want. When I left my job during my pregnancy, you said that you loved your mother – the working mother. Every time, you asked me where I was going to work next, I felt as if you had bigger dreams about your mother’s career plans, than me myself.

I want you to know that we have a mind of our own and in that mind we have dreams of our own. I want you to remember that a girl has her own perspectives, opinions, aspirations, ideologies and life style. If someone says that these things do not count in our culture, then tell them that their culture of gender inequality is not yours. If someone says that something cannot be done by a woman, don’t listen to them. A woman can do anything as long as she believes in herself. The problem is that the society teaches her to not believe in herself from the moment she is born. It tells her that she is weaker, helpless and incapable of pushing the limits. I want you to know that there are women who will beat you at soccer and pull you out of sticky situations which you cannot handle, and debate with you on politics and culture. There will be times when she will be the stronger one of you two, even helping you stand straight up in times you cannot. I want you to learn to see them as your equals and not some’thing‘ inferior to you.

“Don’t talk to a man like that. You are a woman” Another classic! If you can talk like that, so can she. If you disrespect her, so can she. Respect is mutual, darlings. If you don’t give it, don’t expect any. Respect her opinion. Respect her privacy. Respect her. When you have a girl friend, or if you fall in love or if you get married – remember that she is still a person. She has her own likes and dislikes. Don’t expect her to give it all up – who she was, her memories, her beliefs, her habits, her likes, her dislikes, her priorities, her dreams and aspirations. If you can’t, probably she can’t too!

I hope when you are reading this, you are living in a different world from mine. I hope the streets are safer for women and they are not discriminated. But if it still hasn’t changed, I want you to remember that being a man doesn’t give you the right to be a dictator. It is you who can make it a better place for the women. If that means you have to stand alone from the rest of the masses, so be it! I hope you two would grow up to be men, whom a woman would not be scared of being with alone, even if it is in a dark, deserted alley. I hope you would be a man whom a woman would love to spend her life with, for the one reason, that you let her be!

Love