Letter to ‘Mr.Right’ From ‘The Modern Indian Woman’

Hey fellas! Here's another one, as published on women's web! See it there with many other awesome articles at http://www.womensweb.in/2013/05/letter-to-mr-right-from-modern-indian-woman/ !

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Dear ‘Mr.Right’

This note to you is all about some demands and requests that have come from many hopes, expectations and experiences; this letter is for you, so that you don’t get surprised by my expectations later in life, and so that you remind me of when I’m neglecting my own rules, because this note is for both you and me, for the ‘us’ to work without wearing out.

I know everything may seem just perfect in the initial stages of love. I may look like the most beautiful thing to us, the most perfect, and ideal. But time is not so kind for we may have to gradually witness terrible shades of each other revealed, those ugly truths that may emerge from the inside and outside. Tough situations may remove the illusion of love, but I hope you’ll still accept me. These tests will run every day for us; right from waking with messed up hair and groggy eyes in the morning, which is not a most aesthetically pleasing sight- which is well when we may come to realize the harsh truth, even ‘the right one’ can be imperfect.

There are some things I’d like to let you know. I feel it’s important to reinforce this because there will be so many stones to tumble upon in the way of our ‘perfect’ relationship.

I’m a modern woman.

The first thing is that I will not change who I am, not for you or anyone. Only after loving myself enough will I have the strength to love you, because I believe dignity is most important. I am also an independent woman. This, you may be unfamiliar with, as many are in sexist India(which is sluggishly but definitely trying to change), but you must get used to it. I will respect you as an individual, and I hope that’d be reciprocated. We do not own each other; we are complimentary, yet free.

I don’t follow what others do. There could be a thousand ‘inescapable’ trends, but you’ll find me fight many of them. I don’t care what path the others may choose, but I’ll take that one which will suit me best, a way that’s may be different from yours. But I ask that you hold my hand to support me even as we experience our the different adventures that come along our own way, and not try to push me over the stumbling blocks or hope that I’d never dare venture individually, myself. I wish that you will care for me and protect me, and also accept when I may do the same to you.

We belong to the same species- Homo sapiens – which means that you are in no way superior; neither am I. I expect that you take equal responsibility in every stage of our life together- housework, child upbringing, because these and a thousand other Indian misconceptions are not equal to ‘woman-work’; because actually, they are ‘human-work’.

I may seem tough but I have my fragile points, and hazy times, just as you. I hope our arms will be open to comfort one another when we’re low.

We may get frustrated a thousand times. The voyage of love does not come easy.  There may be frustrating times when the relationship feels unbearable, broken, times when love turns to hatred and anger, when the future looks bleak and dark, but know that, with optimism, courage, trust, and the power of both of us, we’ll somehow manage to light a candle. Please don’t ever lose hope or faith in me. True love, I know will never die. Please remind me when I forget, that silly fights, vague outsiders, stupid situations, none of these, nothing, is worth our precious bond.

I hope you’ll see right through all my defenses and understand me. I hope you’ll confide in me, and listen to me when I’m low. I hope you will be not just a lover to me, but a best-friend, a protective father, and a complimenting brother.

Most of all, I want you to recognize me as a unique personality with flaws and pluses, and love me for just that.

Yours,

The modern Indian woman

Rumors

Rumors-

flourish like wild fire,

Fuelling Some-

 But

                  Burning many.

Timeline of an illiterate girl

There are so many girl children in India who are uneducated. The real question is: What are we doing to help fight illiteracy? As published on women's web: http://www.womensweb.in/2013/11/an-illiterate-girl-in-india/

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As I was taken out of my laboring mother’s womb, my grandmother was the first to look at me. And she started crying even before I did. Her shrill screech of horror resonated across the room louder than my mother’s pain: “oh no…it has happened…. it’s a GIRL!” She had expected a productive ‘heir’ to the family, a man, a protector who could earn and help the family prosper; not this useless dummy-piece of the girl was later going to be sold with dowry that the family wouldn’t be able to afford. Soon, my father retired to one corner with his head in his hands. That was how I received my welcome, on the very first day I dawned- I was looked at like I was not an infant, but a harmful stone that had been removed from mom’s womb. Later that day, some of my relatives suggested that I be killed or dumped to rot somewhere, disposable as I was. But dear dad took pity on me, and so I have lived long enough to come to this state.

I’m happy that I didn’t understand all this hatred towards me as a girl, when I was little. The truth of my position in life started dawning only later on me. I understood it the first time, as a five year old girl. My cousin brother who was also my age, was to attend school the very first time. “Get him oiled, and bathed, and ready. He must look well groomed! He’s going to the school!” I remember my grandmother say. “What about me? I want to look nice too. Take me with ram! I want to go school!  It will be big and nice and I can play! I know there are nice teachers and books!” I told my grandma, who uncomfortably shifted in her place and exchanged looks with my mother, whose face looked downtrodden upon my innocent words. Of course she knew that I, as a mere girl, wouldn’t be allowed to attend school.

So I never went.  I stayed at home. When I was little, I used to help mom clean the vessels and listen to the gossip of the old ladies on the verandah whenever I got bored.  I used to stare longingly at the beautiful books that ram took to school every day, and envy the way they got bigger every year. Sometimes, I would sit to look at those books, but I wouldn’t understand a word.  Mom soon gave birth again, and to everyone’s delight, to a boy.

In other times, I would look outside at the bus that shuttled back and forth between our village and the town, and wonder how the big, sophisticated town would be like. But I could only go if dad took me, but I was too scared to ask. I knew ram’s school took him on trips to see and observe the town, many a time. He also seemed to be able to easily join in adults’ complex talks of big numbers and cities outside our state, though like me, he was only eight that time. The only news I knew were the local gossip and who fought with whom and which woman has the most marks from domestic abuse. I was terrified because I knew my situation was going to be the same one day.

When I turned twelve, I was sent to work at the construction site of a large house in my village, for a wage of about fifty rupees every day, so that our family could continue to pay for ram’s increasing cost of education as he passed through higher grades and also support the little new arrival of my brother to the family. Ram now sometimes read those enormous paragraphs about money and things on the newspaper. Meanwhile, I learnt to cook a hundred meals to tailor the varied likings of my dad and, then, ram. After working ten hours at the construction site, I would come home and help mom clean up, and then take care of my little brother. At night every day, grandma used to tell me about how I should be when I grew up. She would tell me I’d get married in a couple of years and about duties as a woman. I was a girl, so I had to be humble, I had to be wise enough to rise above my own longings and sacrifice boundlessly. I was a girl, so I should learn to tolerate every sort of treatment, and bear my family’s weight till it crushes me. As a wife, I would have to surrender the utmost god, who my husband, to me, would become. I had to be strong, fully selfless and absolutely tolerant and limitlessly submissive. “Never raise your voice. Don’t give your opinion if it’s not requested for. Don’t have contacts with men, as you are growing older. Otherwise, I’d be an incapable woman worthy of scorn...” and so she would preach. This was my only education.

Then, a disaster befell. Mom got severely ill, and then died.

Dad then told a twelve year old me that I was in charge of all the household duties.  For a couple of years after that, I was the new mother in the family, to my little brother and to my cousins including ram. Doing household chores and taking care of everyone became my life.

Then, just as my grandmother’s words had it, I was married at the age of fifteen. I saw my groom the hour he was to marry me. Following the duties that had been so well etched on my heart, I showed nothing on my face and remained silent. He looked okay, but his manner was disturbing to me. I could, of course do nothing about it. That evening before leaving with him, I went to my mother, and cried. She cried with me.  The groom, she told me, had been dad’s decision. She had tried to convince dad to not accept this man’s proposal, but as he was the only affordable groom with a relatively moderate dowry, dad had to subside.

Soon I joined my village club of abused women, but I was luckier than most. Most of the time, this man acted lovingly.

Soon, I got pregnant. This was the most joyous time of my life, and for a while he was completely gentle. And then my baby, another girl child was born. I accepted her with all my love, though the same reaction didn’t emerge from the rest of my family.

One fine night, when our child was one, my husband left me. Searches were made, and my dad nearly collapsed in terror, women picked hungrily on this fresh topic, and I was stricken with fright and anxiety. But he was not found.

After that, I returned again to my father’s house, to raise my daughter.

Today, several years later, I am helpless. I still do not know the alphabet. My dad has died. My daughter is married. Today, with no literacy, I hover, in midair. With no honor, no source of income. I don’t know who to reach for. I am now, a beggar on the streets, who saw you as you passed by me today.

I am not alone. One in every three girls in India is illiterate. And oh yes, we are in a very good position in life, as you can see. And this is your country, India, just as it is mine. What are you doing about this issue?

Homecoming of a petal

The fresh breeze dances lightly

On the tips of the dangling dewdrop
And slides on smoothly on my
Back. The juicy sun shines on
The edges of my rosy sheath
As I flow down with time through the air
And sway, driven by crowded thoughts
And imaginations invading the air, to
Lazily glide and land on a lush
Green bed that soaks my
Skin with effusive moisture
And love,
So much love.

A beautiful heart

As published on Women's Webhttp://www.womensweb.in/2013/06/story-of-my-grandmother/?preview=true, my article, here! :

I cannot remember passing through a single phase of my life without my granny. Right from the photos in the bedroom that we share, which show her feeding my toothless mouth when I was little, to the fact that she still braids my hair for school every day, reflect the tight bond between us. Though she may look old, fat or short; she is still beautiful.

The number of decades she’s survived through in this harsh world has filled her with so many memories that even after spending all my fifteen years with me, she still has new stories to share; several that she cherishes, and some that are indirectly meant to advise me as teaching lessons. Often, these recollections have to do with her beloved husband, a grandfather I’d never known by person, but always known by character and spirit. That was because of the profound portrait of his personality that my grandma drew in my head with her vibrant, meticulous recollections relating to him.

And sometimes, in the most thoughtful silence, she would reminisce those memories which are closest to her heart- to, many a time end up weeping by the end of her narration. Because these weren’t just touching stories woven to entertain, they had been a range of concrete experiences, some nostalgic, some painful; and my brave Granma, she’d courageously braved them all. She strengthens me with her strength, and reassures me with her love.

I fight with her. I have a countless times, spat “What’s your stupid problem?” and such thoughtlessly cruel phrases, but the fact that no amount of my anger can hold up the yearning to apologize by planting a kiss on her cheek before bed, seems  to repeatedly make an ultimate joke out of any grim argument between us.

It’s remarkable to see her still alive, motile and breathing, after hearing about the number of family members she has lost- her siblings, her parents, her husbands; they’re all gone, her only relatives now are those she has herself produced; while I cannot even imagine letting go of the tiniest bit of my family. But as I told you, I guess that’s just how resilient she is.

When she was young, a photo shows me, my grandma used to be a petite, skinny figure (as she loves to recall) with flourishing, flowing crow-black hair as long as her short stature.  And that skinny figure- oh, it had worked five times its size. Raising four kids in a patriarchal society some fifty years back in a developing country must have been no easy task. Even tougher than herding four mischievous little monsters, I’ve come to understand, was having to take care of my grandfather (her husband) who,  as  a very demanding ‘head of family’ would expect her to randomly conjure up instantaneously just about anything he wished for. He’d just go, “Make me some sweets” and voila, it ought to be there in half an hour. But the tougher part of cooking must have been that water had to be drawn from a well (not many taps) , no electric-gas stove (firewood instead), no ready-made ingredients, no refrigerator, no grinder (mortar and pestle in its place), and an enormous lot of manual cleaning, cutting, chopping, and cooking to do.

Apart from all this my gran had also been a tailor-from-home, stitching up nearly forty tough uniforms for government schools every day, working from morning to night, for which she received a meager (albeit considered princely at that time) sum of five thousand rupees (equaling 90 dollars) or so every year, which was more than what my grandfather earned, the family being a lower middle-class one. Till today, of course, for all her hard work she has been only acknowledged as another ‘house-wife’ and my grandfather as the ‘single head who supported a family of six’

According to me, she doesn’t need acknowledgement to be made worthy; she already is worth infinitely.

As I have grown up to enter from my childhood to adolescence, I have begun to notice that time makes her older too. But both time and life are prejudiced meanies; while I now get to grow taller, stronger, and cleverer with years, my granny, I see is quite decelerating. She can no longer keep up with me during walks in the park, she can no longer hear as well as she used to, she had even to undergo an operation. No, none of these is fair. I know that, with old age often comes physical weakness, and with weakness would tag pain. No, I don’t want my grandmother to go through any more pain; she’s been through enough in her life. Perhaps that’s why she’s been praying more and more recently, talking about heaven and such crazy stuff and visiting more temples than ever- though when I do algebra, she still tells me from heart  (with her remarkable memory power) the formulae I have forgotten.

Now, all I heartily wish and hope for is that I’d be able always see the silly one-tooth-missing-on-the-front grin that she gets on her face whenever someone speaks about any of her family- though I know that in this terribly transient world, that’s perhaps not a practical wish.

But even if my beautiful grandmother does leave me, I have enough treasured memories of her wisdom and presence in my heart, to go on. Most of all, I hope to carry on her legacy as well as she did.

Empowering less fortunate children- a beautiful experience

Hola guys!

This is one recent article I published in The women's web (http://www.womensweb.in/2013/04/working-with-poor-school-india/)  about my amazing experience in a couple of schools in India. Tell me what you think, okay? :D

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Ever since I remember, I have been visiting India  my homeland, for my yearly summer vacations. I have lived in many places, but wherever I studied, the ritual of visiting my relations back home wouldn’t be missed. As I grew up, I gradually began taking more and more notice of the profound differences between India, and Dubai.  Every visit would have me saddened at how much children like me were missing in terms of luxury, education, and resources, or at how so many poor begged in the streets, the same streets as the ones in which the rich, who completely disregarded them, lived.

A few weeks before last year’s vacations, I found myself dreading the visit to India- not only was it going to be boring, but it was also going to be painful-  seeing again  the children who deserve to enjoy as much as I have.

It suddenly struck me that I should, instead of feeling sad , try to make a difference.  I pooled all the money I had, and saved up determinedly the next few weeks, and started drawing elaborate plans for my initiative. When I’d collected enough, I shopped for all sorts of incentives  I could use as a motivation for the kids with my pocket money, watches, calculators, earrings, pens etc. to give away.

My idea was to approach schools – starting with the one in which I’d briefly learnt in when I was little- to deliver a leadership program to poorer kids aged nine or ten. This was inspired by a Sallyann Della Casa -founder of non-profit Growing Leaders Foundation who delivered similar programs to many well-off schools in Dubai on a professional level.

Poor schools in India, I knew, won’t be able to afford air conditioning in summer, let alone such a professional motivation, so I adopted her guidelines, and principals and improvised on them. My father suggested that I might want to prepare a summary of my program to persuade schools of its benefits, so I did. The entire process seemed extraordinarily simple when I was still in Dubai, but on reaching Chennai, it was anything but that.

There were numerous challenges. It was only when my cousins asked dubiously, “Do you think they’d even allow a 14 year old  student to enter the school premises, let alone speak to the principal?”, that I realized that there were many issues to be addressed. But I wasn’t going to give up.

I went forth anyway, starting with my small ex- primary school down the street. It taught many poor students, including the kids of my house-helper, for a brief time I had myself learnt there during a long vacation in Chennai- it was an amazing school.

I dressed acceptably (at the suggestion of my parents who felt that no school would permit a young wild-looking stranger in an outlandish outfit) and rehearsed what I was going to say to the principal.

The gate-keeper wouldn’t let me in. At least, not till I peeped through the gate and grinned my widest at the vice-principal sitting in the open room inside, who signaled bemusedly that the door be opened. I had to then explain my intentions to the vice-principal; she skeptically smiled at me all the way through, perhaps because she also had a daughter of about my age. And then she asked if this was a school project. When I replied not, I was allowed to meet the principal to re-explain my plan. I was finally allowed one hour with grade four and five kids on a Saturday- which was all I needed.

The session itself was delightful and educative both for me and the kids. First, the kids, about hundred here, were unwilling to reply to a stranger’s questions and return the smiles I gave them. But then they gave up the apathy surprisingly fast and enthusiastically interacted with me, shooting questions, agreeing with some, and responding. While in the beginning, not many kids raised their hands when I asked them “how many of you think you are leaders?”- By the end of the session, not one of them doubted their leadership capabilities; the success in getting my message through overwhelmed me.

The greatest joy was to see the most silent and withdrawn kids interact with zest; to see the warmth of happiness from every kid when they’re told they’re beautiful. The talk was meant to motivate their self-confidence, emphasize their specialty, about leadership, on breaking social barriers, on daring to try new things, and standing up against wrong practices like alcoholism (still very prevalent among the poor in India), among many other subjects. I ended the program with a story and a poem in English- this was meant to boost their language skills, but it ended up enriching mine too. While I asked them to guess meanings of certain English words, they taught me many new Tamil words as well. In the end, everyone was groping for my hands, and I couldn’t stop grinning as all of them chanted, “thirimbi va akka” (come again, sister). Finally I gave them the gifts I’d bought before leaving, and they looked as happy as I was feeling; it was a great experience.

Empowered by this, and armed with a letter of recommendation by the principal of this school, I repeated a similar session in another government school. These kids, about seventy of them, were even poorer, and tough it was harder to deliver my message; it meant more – hardly anyone else would let them know of their powerful leadership capabilities or give them new gifts, that made all the difference to me.

The third school  being a bigger one, turned me down without consideration, because of my age and perhaps because I simply had no reputation or qualification.

After that, sadly, the vacation ended, but I am sure that the help I can do, is by no means, over. I have held on to every dime I can collect this year also, and am looking forward to improve upon and deliver even more effective programs or volunteer to make a bigger difference when I come to India this year.

Many schools might, like they did, turn me down because of my teenage and ongoing education, but I’d keep trying, for this program is not about me- it’s about doing something to empower other kids in the little way I can. I will keep going to draw smiles on the faces that deserve to be happy- it satisfies me.

An incredible message this experience has taught me is how much a little act that may not mean anything to us, can massively impact a less fortunate person’s life. Moreover, the process of dong something to improve and motivate others isn’t exerting, it’s exhilarating, enjoyable and rewarding. It’s the best way of showing gratitude for everything we are lucky enough to have and experience. 

On Taboos: A Letter To Indian Parents

Hey guys!

This is the latest article addressing all the issues kids in India either feel embarrassed, ashamed or scared to address their parents about. And negligence of these important issues is prevalent to some extent, in nearly every place in the world.

My 2nd for Women's web-->

Tell me what you think!

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There are a number of issues that Indian parents don’t address their children about and even more realities that they simply can’t digest. You can’t believe that your teens talk of crushes, alcohol, drugs, and other more unbelievable topics, but wake up, it is happening.

1. The most prevalent problem is, parents want marks. They want marks in exams, an all-rounder kid, which is of course with a good intention of securing their children a good position in life, but often, the pressure becomes excessive. Children are of varying capacities, you can’t expect your child to get full marks in all subjects and still get gold medals in sports just because your neighbor’s kid does so. Your neighbor’s kid is a different individual from yours.

If a children is dim or average in studies everyone says that it’s only because she didn’t study well enough, this is always cited as the reason. Study harder, I don’t know what you’ll do, I need the marks. Still no improvement? Go for tuitions. Still no marks? Something’s wrong with you, is the standard mantra.

The sad truth is that if your child isn’t naturally gifted enough in studies, no amount of hard work will be able to achieve the results you expect. This doesn’t spell that your kid is a total zero and has no future though, like many assume.

Aren’t there other professions, other talents? Every child is naturally gifted in something. May not be in studies, but may in art, music, sports or something else. All these can be pursued as professions too; parents mostly don’t seem to understand that there are other careers than your standard doctor, teacher and engineer.

I am in grade ten. When people want to know about my future plans, first of all, they don’t speak to me. They ask my parents, like it’s them who’s going to live my life. And their question will usually go, “So, what is your daughter going to become- a doctor, or CA?” When my parents say neither, they’ll go knowingly, “Oh, so she’s going be an engineer. Wonderful!”

Huh?

There are so many friends in India that I know of, who want to pursue their own interests. Sadly these are repressed merely because they are not conventional. Parents need to broaden their perspectives and accept their child’s passion, not force something they don’t like upon them.

2. Then are those who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender. Most of the adult public is aware of at least one of these groups. But they surely don’t show it. Put your nose up and it’ll go away, is it? People with different sexual inclinations do exist, they live normally, they breathe the same way as we do. There are quite some children who grow up falling into one of these categories. After facing insecurity, unacceptability, and fear, when they finally do pick up the courage to let their parents know of their inclinations, things only get worse. They are disowned, their parents look on them as if they were untouchable, and try to suppress their personality and coax them into ‘normality’- none of which is a solution.

Another terrified question would be posed, “how would the society react?” Yeah, that’s one worth pondering on, because I’ve only seen adults themselves, mocking at transgender/bisexual groups, and movies ridiculing them. It is a shame that in India, these classes, to which any one of us might have by chance belonged to, are made fun of like a public circus show. Anyone or anyone’s child could easily belong to this category; it’s not an outlandish possibility. So we Indians face an inevitable question, “Would you accept your kid or any other co-member of your society if they were a LGB or T?”

Stop neglecting this topic. Try to answer it.

3. Next comes the ‘love’ versus the religiously right ‘arranged’ marriage. What is arranged marriage? A system in which parents fall in love with each other’s money, or with each other’s sarees, properties, behavior, or caste, and so expect that their children should fall in love too? Absurd.

While I don’t say this system of marriage is completely flawed, because it often does become a success, and it’s a ‘fun’ activity for the parents and relatives to undertake, logging on....see the entire article on women's web itself! here's the link:http://www.womensweb.in/2013/04/a-letter-to-indian-parents/