That kind of a woman

100 years ago, the average woman had fewer than 50 periods during her life. Now, the modern woman could have spent almost 1/2 of her life with monthly periods.

Once upon a time, long long ago, maybe towards the end of the good times or maybe when the bad times had begun, Mother Earth was unable to bear it anymore. The burden of Evil was bothering Her. Her face was looking tired old and haggard. Her very soul was parched. All Her children were mindlessly plundering her, killing each other, bleeding her and yet unhappy. There was much discontent and dissatisfaction on Earth.

At that time, in the Heavens there was a beautiful young goddess- Ganga. She was sprightly, sporty and immensely powerful. The Gods who visited the Earth knew that some balance could be restored on Earth only if Ganga Herself was to descend to the Earth. She alone could help Mother Earth carry the burden of Her troubled children. She could provide the immense unconditional love that the mortal beings needed to act as a balm on their wounds, quench their latent thirst for goodness, offer Her body to be loved, adored, mistreated and scorned.

The destroyer of all evil, Shiva himself was requested to provide the right platform for Her descent to the Earth via Mount Kailasa. She came with Her friends, the playful Bhilangini, Yamuna and all, before She absorbed them all unto Herself. And to this day, She flows on ageless. Her children love her, play with Her, pray to Her, rever Her, mistreat Her, scorn Her and yet She flows on unmindful, with love. One of Her devotee children, a poet singer, asked Her why She flows on ('Bistirna Duparer') - but She flows on without offering any explanation for Her behaviour.

Once when this ageless young lady was strolling along Her banks in Her female human form, there came by a King- Shantanu, young, brave, strong and virile and all that young Kings are. He saw Ganga and was immediately smitten. He implored Her to agree to be his Royal Consort. After much pleading Ganga agreed but only on the condition that he should never ask Her for any explanation for Her actions. This seemed to small a price for the King to pay for the favour of her affection. They got married and lived as happily as they could, which was a lot!

But like all stories, this one too had a twist. Incredibly fertile and fecund Ganga was regularly blessed with babies- whom She bore through the long gestation with lots of love, tenderness and care. Yet each time She delivered a tiny perfectly formed baby, She would carry it off and set it adrift in Her stream of love- to float or more likely to drown. From Her womb to Her flow. The babies would leave no trace except loving ripples in the flow of the mother's bosom.

Each time he saw this happen, the king would be mystified but remembering his promise would keep quiet and ask Her no questions. But when the eighth such baby was born, he could restrain himself no longer and as gently as he could, he asked Her for an explanation. Gathering Her precious bundle, giving the bonny boy all her love in a hug, She handed the baby over to the father and left- never to come back to him. (What happened to young Devavrata and how he was venerated as the Grand Old man of Bharata varsha as Bhishma Pitamaha is another story- which doesn't concern me here)

I recall this story each time I across such nasty rants. Of course modern technology offers an incredible number of options on when and how to end a pregnancy- for each trimester for each stage the options available for medical and surgical terminations of pregnancies as well as for sustaining life as fragile and as light as 750 grams- making Roe vs Wade quite a different type of debate ! But with all these options who makes the choice? If mothers have to fight for their choice of whether to carry a baby or not, where are we? Abortion and motherhood- can these ever be things to be explained to or decided by pompous paternal men? Can there be any standard one-size-fits-all solution ever for such an issue?


Heres a prayer, a celebration of the kind of woman who loved without exception and lived without any explanation for Her body and Her choices for the body!
















PS :

The above post was discussed briefly but intensely with some of my friends who were either too upset or embarrassed to post their comments. Among them was an exemplary father too who felt I had skimmed over some pertinent issues. Among the ones raised were:

1. Not all woman are good and motherly and some are plain bloody evil and will abort a child with cold bloodedness 'especially' educated women. The talk of Ganga creates a picture of benevolence and maternal feeling but the portrayal of all of womanhood as a divine mother is not true. What about a woman, for example, who willfully has an abortion to spite her husband?

Yes I admit I did not specifically state that there are 'evil' women amongst the evil persons in the world. That they may use all the weapons at their disposal to score points against any or all the people who oppose them. In fact what I speak of is choice. A woman has the choice to bear her child or not - how good a mother she would make may actually be one of the many factors to help her make that choice.

2. Maternal feelings are not the exclusive preserve of women.

While parenting is a joint responsibility, a father may be a better parent than the biological mother who bears the baby. But parenting and maternity are distinct. These should and cannot be used interchangeably.

3. Why talk of the US? - Let us talk of India

I mentioned the US as it has a lot of very vocal and active debates on this issue. That can at best serve as a background to the choices here in India- even if they be very different. The dissimilarity is stark so the image used is a quintessential Indian image of Ganga. The irony of a Ganga who is venerated as the fertile Mother of Bharata varsha being the one who chose to not bring up seven of Her children and even abandoned the surviving eighth! Is the myth totally wasted on us?

The talk of choice is particularly pertinent to India- where abortion or the 'Medical Termination of Pregnancy' is one of the officially recognised forms of birth control. Where unwanted pregnancies, mishaps, rapes, abound. Where the societal mores and codes of honour do not accept unwed mothers in spite of legends such as Kunti. Where the reproductive life of a woman is so long. Where the sex of the fetus determines whether it survives or not. Where maternal and neonatal health facilities are woefully inadequate. Where the burden of repeated child bearing or that of repeated abortions takes its toll on the health of the woman AND her family. The choice of bearing a child or not, to vest in the woman, is all the more relevant, in India.

PPS: How could I leave this out? Bah! but I get wordy :(

Diverse

Its been a long week!

So many things happening- kids' exams, work rearing its nasty head every so often, Shakespeare and Company first anniversary celebrations at Bangalore (some pictures here), the notable common thread being that I've been dining out all week. And that I'll have to work out extra hard to rid myself of all those surplus calories. Just when I thought I could get some appreciation for all my efforts in the gym, I've been told by my trainer to go up to 200 crunches a day! :((

But enough of my gripe. Whats with all this talk of divorce surrounding me everywhere I look- first it was at Teri's. Then at Priya. The other morning, when I had started the coffee going but did not get around to pouring it out as I lay down back exhausted, dh did the dutiful thing (as in once in blue moon) and got me my coffee in bed with the papers and a big smile!!! Apart from the other sensational headlines this week regarding offices of profit, that particular day, the papers screamed Divorce.

The Supreme Court has been making observations on the Hindu Marriage Act and suggesting more legal grounds for divorce. Law is an ass maybe, but looking for a legal way to annul a marriage and can't show evidence of the legally acceptable grounds, people are hard placed to seek their freedom from the marital yoke. The hindi saying 'miya biwi raazi to kya karega kaazi' is usually used to denote a willingness of two 'parties' to come together in marriage- but ain't it equally applicable to the un-yoking, the freeing? What could be the relevance of law or society in keeping an otherwise dead marriage alive? But no, marriage is much more than two people agreeing to live together. It is this social, religious, legal contract which once made cannot be broken. It endures even long after the parties cease to exist. There is a maxim of sorts in my native telugu which says that marriage is a harvest for 100 years!~

The ugliness of having living together long after the magic if any, passed and the painful process of breaking free by painting the other as an ogre... Maybe all this was what led to my penning this set of Instructions between parting couples. It has been inspired in a perversely diametrically opposite way from that epic celebration of conjugal(?) love, Donne's A Valediction forbidding Mourning and also somehow by that Jagjit Singh song where the poet forbids his former lover from speaking of him or their relationship - Baat niklegi to door talak jayegi).

Instructions (Forbidding Mourning)

As estranged couples go legally apart
And all their possessions do formally divide
Their excited-sad friends often play a large part
'All this his. And these- she brought as a bride.'

Not so let us part. But, without a scene

No recriminations, no floods of tears
No remorse over what may have been
No traces of the vicious jeers.

Holy matrimony does often bring
In its wake, many unholy spirits
We grappled with some, sparring
While others were at our necks, devouring

Loony, honeymoon-ey delights gave way
To the harsher realities of every day
Our spark did flicker, flutter and got tired, faded
Passions were replaced by emotions more jaded

How could we, so fine, have turned so gross
To have discovered this ugly side of our selves?
Bickered over things that mattered not- were ridiculously crass
Dragged to expensive heights, spats spiraled by our legal helps

But now, as we retrace our steps, Up ahead
Let us take a fresh new vow
Undo the knots, yet not cut our thread
We?ll meet in future, but without a row

No screeching, screaming, grimacing, ignoring
The points we make, the form shall be pleasing
No threats, no shouts, no regrets, no demands
We'll be good parents and, er, uncles and aunts

With time your beauty may yet again bloom
Give it a chance, learn a dance, try a new tune
Go out, drive, fly, flirt, don't live in a tomb
And thankfully money has been a boon

Both of you, in summer break, I'll take
To exciting lands and pleasant climes

So I implore you, my has- been
Let us part without a scene

Holi High!

When I first met glittering Garnet, the particular thing I noticed was how he remembered the Holi festival from the brief time he spent in New Delhi as a diplomat kid. So this one is dedicated to you Garnet- may you relive your childhood festivities and have a colourful musical Holi!

As a child I recall a lot of happy Holis spent with friends when one rushed out early in the mornings and made as long a morning of it as possible. In fact, the lead up to Holi started weeks ahead with all kinds of strategies being planned, bucketfuls of balloons filled with coloured water and strategic positions being taken on terraces to take aim and drop those balloons on unwary passers by. Invariably these groups got divided among gender lines and eventually there would be girls' groups to do battle with boys' groups.

Then, de Beauvoir and a lot of other 'learning' happened- and I realized the gender implications of the sexist celebration of Holi - how it was a mere excuse to indulge in normally aberrant behaviour, how under the guise of festivities inhibitions and a lot else were dropped, how every right thinking woman should take a stand and make it known, how Holi equals only hooliganism, how to hate Holi! The occasion of Holi is a celebration along gender lines, used to indulge in a lot of 'eve-teasing' (as it is euphemistically called). Still there are gender positions being taken and the sexual undertones are apparent in playful festivities. Yes, for all of this it is right to dislike Holi.

But was that the celebration which was popularized in folk lore- in the stories, horis, geets and raas-leelas of Krishna in Brindavan? A celebration of 'eve-teasing'? More abandoned and wild those festivities were, but also more playful and kind. A celebration of sexuality in a different age
- a celebration child like and natural where the woman would say mohe pichkari maro na, both as an instruction as well as a plea, the na and its tone being the operative part. One would wish not return to those times as a post-modern liberated woman, yet the fleeting appeal of such play can not be denied.

When the streets look crazily romantic with flowers of all hues, can we not momentarily drop our inhibitions like those trees shed their leaves and go with the flow?

Heres hoping that we women (and the men too) would learn to be more comfortable with our sexuality to be able to participate in such festivitites as equal partners without the present gender polarisation.

And yes, a side note...

There can't be Holi without sweets - but this pack here brought me memories which had been filed away in the recesses. Crazy memories of a mad month spent in Nagpur, at a place quite appropriately called Pagal-khana chowk! Ridiculously hot January days, after the snowy cold of Shimla, with days of sleepy stupor relieved by those scrumptious meals (at least for the Shimla starvers) and nights of long celebrations. Of the daily evening visits to Sitabuldi, which was the closest commercial street Nagpur had to offer to us, who missed our Shimla mall. Of Haldirams of Nagpur vying for top-slot with Baljees of Shimla. Of Nagpuri santra burfees competing with the hot gulab jamuns and pastries of the Mall. Of a crazy group of giggling girls piling into 'Rekha Beauty Parlour' and storming that establishment. Of movies being watched late into the nights. And yes, those long waits for snatching a precious few minutes of telephonic communion with spouse in distant Delhi. Ah those days of no GPRS!

Happy Holi again!

My precious pearls

Betty knows best- she says. Don't we all? Yet we feel so pressurised by a society which wants us to conform and worse, wants kids to conform to set behavioural patterns.

If ds was THE test I had to take as a mother, then dd was obviously the top grades I got before the test itself! She was perfection personified to me! She was the baby of my dreams- all I hoped for and more. I could go on and on... Yet, if there was only one aspect of her which was underdeveloped, it was her social skills. The door bell would ring and she'd rush off trying to hide herself in the laundry basket or something. My sweet smart sensitive angelic baby, didn't want to be exposeed to all and sundry. And all around me people harped on that aspect of her alone because far from conforming- she actually outshone the rest in every other way!

Ds, he was born with a lot of problems - a very shaky start which did dog him into the first few years of his life. I worked hard with him to help me overcome the obstacles that had been placed for us to make our lives more challenging. Worked with medical and non-medical professionals who made dire pronouncements but always showed hope if only we would try. These were the people who first bonded with my son, before turning to me and talking to me. They gave him the comfort and joy that a child is entitled to.

But then there were the others- who in their limited way sought to label us. He is 'quite normal'! And this for a kid who had been through some of the most traumatic tortures that are around and was still up and smiling at the end of it all. Wouldn't you like him to join a 'special' school where he can learn at his own pace? You bet I didn't opt for that school- not because of the labels at all but for the o so superior smug talking down attitude of those dim-witted folk. Who judge all people and especially kids by their own limited yardsticks of mediocrity.

When I came home that day- for the first time I howled, never when I'd heard the bleakest prognosis had my heart faltered as that day, when I realised that I had cast my precious pearls at such swine.

Noisome noise

Old wounds do have a tendency to show up. Especially if it was a searing gash which could never quite fill and heal. Not even with time, in spite of all those aphorisms.

So when Priyanka posted this, the wound, its pain, and memories of hatred, anger, shame and pain did kind of surface.

I somehow think I've mellowed down, moved on, yet something like this makes me lose it totally.

Lit-tle link

When Jon posted his link on the S and C network, little did I realise the significance of it.

All my adult life and earlier too, I've been reading. Reading in my 'mother' tongue, English. All kinds of stuff (and nonsense, too). All through the years when I have read prose, essays, plays and more, there has always been the poetic side too. Whether it be Christina Rossetti, Emily Dickinson, Blake, Tennyson, Keats, Yeats, Dryden, Donne, Marvell, Hopkins, Coleridge, Pound, Eliot, Browning, even Milton, through it all I have had a steady companion. Whenever the mood struck, I did not have to go a-seeking the poet, for my companion always came to my rescue in searching for and enjoying the right poem for the mood. Today for the first time, even after using the world wide web for so many years, I felt that Palgraves had a competitor, finally! The added pleasure of reading and hearing poetry.

Ah! for the pleasure of hearing Sir Richard Burton chiding the old lazy fool sun, talking of Eagles and doves, the hemispheres, hearing Yeats himself recite the Isle of Innisfree, listening to Dylan Thomas about his childhood, Tennyson, Eliot, ah the pleasures are too many. And Jon promises that it is still WIP :-)

So I spent the entire day today at Jon's site roaming among his various links and guess thats where I'd head back! While I do lurk at many blogs with faithful regularity, I never sought to blog-roll them, but this one here- I might as well not have a blog presence if I don't offer a link to this. Enjoy the feast there...



*Warning* : This is NOT a site for those who consider the writings of Danielle Steele and Arundhati Roy to be the epitome of English literature.

Driven through

While 'the most powerful man in the world' was in India, I went for a drive. Was it the cynical non-response of a global netizen bombarded by all that self-righteous anti-Bush propaganda or was it the remnants of a idealistic teenager who had congregated in an Woodstock-ian protest turned picnic all those eons ago at the Narora Atomic Power Plant? Whatever the reason be, I gave the visit a go bye.

I went on a long drive. Away from city sensibilities and positions, I just was. There were miles on miles of ribbony roads which meandered much like a young stream- loopy and long. And then it was night. No stars, low moon. No one by my side as I blankly stared out- absorbing the sights, smells and the road rush as a dry clean sponge.

Journeys end in lovers meeting- or so they say. Mine, it took me to a neck in the woods where my arrival was anxiously but officially awaited. Where were you held up, Madam? Well, I just had to stop at a few places, met a few people, tried a few things and have got here too. Tired already of the reception party, I wanted to be done with dinner. The window with me was brief and their petitions very persistent. Over payasam and poppadom I presided, tackling the issues with all my waning appetite. Satisfied at last at with my interventions, small audience bid adieu.

Finally in a room alone. A clean loo and all the mod-cons too, there was even cell phone coverage. But typically for me the cell phone could not be charged- a flat plug pin does not fit into the round plug point- what an electric metaphor for me!

A call home gave me the rather ambiguous reassurance of being a redundant mum- well, at least for short stretches. The night promised to stretch long. There was the wretched document to be gone through- no disturbances either, should be spending the night at the laptop. Page 39 of the 113 page document engrosses me with its challenging charm and voila, life switches off. There is absolute pitch darkness.

The heart of my darkness - it is something I can try and remedy, surely? There is somewhere close to me a large box of safety matches, which even my fumbling fingers shouldn't really miss. And the big white candles in the burnished brass candelabra. Do I light up and let the flickering flame assist me to finish at least a part of my work till the battery of the laptop lasts? But the darkness like death is very inviting. I choose to lie back and surrender myself to the mosquitoes and assorted bugs which come into their own in their darkness.

Morning is not heralded by any crack of dawn. It is the communal chirp of the feathered jewels of Coorg which announces morning and the fact that I chose death but am alive. I pad around carefully to avoid any giveaway snap or crunch under my foot in the abundant broad deciduous leaf litter. I needn't bother as the birds high above are too lost in their morning madness to bother about lowly things afoot. They flutter from branch to branch even as the leaves keep flying down. I lose myself as the magical morning hours pass in the well orchestrated symphony of the birds- the tree pies sawing away the bee-eaters, the robins, the insistent babblers, the parakeets, the steady beat of the woodpeckers, it was great birding.

Another long call home, about 20 minutes of carefully saved battery and I feel good about being away from the frantic early morning chaos at home. Amidst the cacophonous birds, the buzzing insects, listening to Tahira Syed singing Lo Phir Basant Ayi. Hope springs...?

The morning reverie ends as the mazdoors start their trek towards the morning muster. They lead a train of toddlers. One very young man is curiouser than the others. We keep turning back to look at each other. And smile.

Namaskara. Chennagidira?