The Author as a Sculptor

Your skillful male hands

knead the mud

to shape me

as you may

in a set mould

of humble clay

since centuries

the same cast,

a million women

repeat and relive

a future of past

broad forehead

to bring you 

lines of fortune

lotus-eyes to bring 

compassion and wrath, 

or when you say

doom- doom !

only love 

and endearment

her lips allowed 

to smile and sing

the tongue that drinks

your adversary's blood

and never utters

a single word

the perfect curves

to be the mother

in her endless womb

your dreams to nurture

the thighs strong

to bear you sons

fight your wars

defeat your demons

the embellishments, perfect all

to show your prosperity

and the burial in water

the final downfall

the ritual carving

of a mortal mother

every year

you dear man

her author

her sculptor !

Nothing is Forever

This story was first published as a winning post in Muse of the Month August, 2016 here at Women's Web.

Image Courtesy : Women's Web

Tashi Chodron was a symbol of peaceful resistance, women’s empowerment and brilliant literature from conflict.

She was born in McLeodganj, her parents had moved there from Tibet a few years ago. Her father started a school and provided her and her siblings good education and a comfortable life. As soon as she was in high school, proposals for marriage came pouring in and like all traditional parents the best prospect was soon arranged for her.

The first few months were stuff that dreams were made of. He was an upcoming writer, traveled a lot, was used to fans and publicity, but soon she realized he was also used to something else - violence. It was the kind of vicious violence that happened in the closed confines of bedrooms. The scars of which are too personal to reveal and too hurtful to ignore.

Still she carried on for three long years because “abandoned” women were not honorable in their culture. It was another “episode” as he would call them later, when he pushed her so forcefully against the wooden railing that she knew he had killed their third baby instantly. She walked out, blood running down her cotton trousers, straight to the police station.

Four days later as she lay in the hospital, she saw her mother sitting by her bedside. She knew the same rehearsed lines would now pour at her about tradition, marriage, and hope. Her father and brothers were waiting for her to gain consciousness so that she could withdraw her complaint and not ‘disgrace ‘the family. She didn’t. Hers became the first case from their community about marital rape and violence in Himachal Pradesh High Court.

The most expensive case for her, it took away everything- her home, her marriage, her social status and most importantly her family. She was disowned and all ties were severed, so much so that even relatives or former friends looked away when they saw her somewhere in the town.

Tashi took refuge in books. She read Buddhist literature and every book she could lay her hands on. In the next three years she survived on charity by tourists and odd jobs but completed her graduation and teacher’s training via correspondence courses.

She stared writing a blog and small assignments for local magazines and newspapers. A year later she was teaching in a monastery’s school and also working with an NGO for women. She now realized she had to let go of her family and unborn children to find a much larger family of distressed like herself.

Today the auditorium was bustling with literature enthusiasts, critics and Buddhist monks. One of their own would be here later for an event for her much-acclaimed poetry book.

Tashi walked onto the podium to read her favorite piece. Her voice faltered a little in the beginning, as she remembered the “no” that she could never say to her father when she was married off young, or the ‘enough’ she should have said to her husband.

She read:

Look out

At the cages

Ties of blood and race

Family and society

And then look in

Towards freedom

Find the peaceful place

That says and repeats

‘Nothing is permanent’

Be your own Buddha.

Amidst applause Tashi saw faces of women from her NGO, her students, and in the last row her ex-husband holding a copy of her book. The dedication of that book read – To Buddha, who said “nothing is forever.”

Mother - Daughter - Mother

  


She was born in the Himachal hills, the nearest school was about five kilometers from her house, where in addition to homework and play she also had to look after two younger sisters when their mother worked in the orchards. So mummy's childhood was an all too common childhood for rural girls in India six decades ago.


I had a very different childhood, in a city, going to a good school , with plenty of assistance at home and practically no choices barred because so many decades ago my mother had chosen to fight for her education with her parents, her right to work with her in-laws and the world in general for the rights of girls.

She wanted to become a teacher and became one and  my achievements make her as proud as the achievements of so many of her students who give her so much credit for being a special teacher.
The voice in me that speaks for girls and against every discrimination against them is HER VOICE . I tell her that she was my first ever feminism expert and she tells me she doesn't know what Feminism is but yes no human being must be put down because of her gender.

Today as she shares her childhood anecdotes with my daughter I know there is no one else who can teach her feminism better.

So every mother's day I celebrate a lot of women through my mother

My grandmothers and great grandmothers and all women before them
Aunts, teachers, senior colleagues who build other women up
Cousins, friends, colleagues who have each other's back
Nieces, young girls, students who make the fight for gender equality worthwhile
My daughter who is my hope for a better world for girls
Myself - daughter, mother , woman in no particular order, all mixed up !

This post is an entry for mother’s day contest by kreativemommy.

Footprints

 

Derek was brought up by his American foster parents with a lot of love and care. As soon as he was old enough to understand that he was from a different race and not their biological offspring both John & Dina had told him the entire story about their long stay in India and how they came about adopting him from an orphanage in Delhi.

They had two younger children too who loved Derek just like an elder brother should be loved. He had no complaints from life and never wanted to dig his history in India.

Dina & John were into organic farming and were not book people at all, the only reading material their house had was the Bible and the newspaper but Derek grew up as a sensitive boy who had his way with words.

He was now an award-winning writer, but even then had no interest in his own background story. John had passed away a few years ago and two months ago Dina too had breathed her last.

In her will she had left him a locker that he had opened a week ago. It had a few family heirlooms and a parcel from Sister Bridgette from the Orphanage in Delhi. The parcel had a journal in which were scribbled a few English poems in a rough hand.

All the pages were signed Sarla and were dated just a few months before his birth date. It had a small note from Dina & John about why they wanted him to get this only after they were gone and why they would want him to find this only connect with his biological mother.

Derek read the poems again and again, the strong language, the stark imagery, the stunning poetry…

He now knew where his writing skills came from, he was finally walking in his mother's footprints.

 

 

This post was written for Wordy Wednesday at B-A-R.

 

 

Feet of Clay - (in the memory of my late father)

F

 

Blogging from A to Z Challenge [April 2015]

 

 

Had long ago read a poem

about Ozymandias

"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies..."*

 

As I grew year by year

The halos of my parents

did gradually disappear

 

I now saw them whole

as humans with their flaws

their feet of clay**

and all the faux pas

 

Now as a parent

I have to come to terms

with life's full cycle

when my little one

turns around

 

and sees me

as a regular woman

who has her flaws and

is less divine more human

 

 

I forgive you Papa

as you had once said

- "because none of us is perfect

what matters

where we are

we give it our best."

 

* Lines from the poem OZYMANDIAS by Shelley

**Feet of clay is a reference to the interpretation of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, by the prophet Daniel as recounted in the Book of Daniel.The analogy is now commonly used to refer to a weakness or character flaw, especially in people of prominence

 



H for KASHMIR - A Mother's Monologue

Bloodshed is always ominous here
for I know I am being stripped
of another relation
the burnt house
is a pyre
love is a shackle
life is a handcuff

Faiz and his poetry
have long drowned
in Jhelum on
the curfewed nights
that feed on human flesh
Ikwans * and half-widows
and the disappeared
meet in nightmares

Bismil, Ashfaqullah and Paash
are imprisoned in history forever
in books oxymoronically labelled-
Revolutionary Poetry
My young men now
prefer stones

the masks
are lifeless
despite their colors
love, peace, democracy
and the biggest farce of all
FREEDOM

gravestones bear
just numbers
names and people
complicate statistics
so madness is the method
only mad monologues
can bear the truth

like Yorick's skull
the conflict has
dead players
and an active battleground


truth and lies
wear the same shirt
like identical twins
they blur
only the ghosts
have tales to tell

the world is
an interrogation camp
with endless torture

only the gravediggers
can sing
death is a business,
dead, half-dead
mutilated,mad
and the rest
massacred
forced to flee
to nowhere

all end
chutzpah/AFSPA
as the bard said
"The rest is silence"
I am a mother
called Kashmir.

*armed counter-insurgency renegades

HAIL MARY ! For the daughters of India

For the last few years I have always done a daughter's day post, especially because in addition to being my online journal this is my intellectual legacy for my daughter. I hope some day as a  young woman she would come back to this space to know me better, to understand my compulsions and know my answers.

This year I did not do a daughter's day post, because it was a day with mixed feelings and a lot of disillusionment about how this online armchair activism had become plain and empty rhetoric and going by the number of crimes against little girls ,this country did not seem like changing sometime soon for its daughters.

I was in utter despair because just that week a young two and half year old had been sexually abused in her play school in this city that I call home. My little girl also goes to a school here and takes a school bus with many other little kids. Knowing that none of them are safe till each one of these kids is, is sad and disheartening.

And then today this happened MARY KOM WINS ASIAN GOLD IN BOXING

Mary with her youngest son , Photo courtesy: Google images





M C  Mary Kom is a renowned boxer from India but she has now transcended to becoming a symbol for many aspects of the lives of the marginalised in India . Her story is a special story of triumph because:

• She is a WOMAN in a hugely patriarchal system, that either subjugates women or gives them limited powers as collaborators in oppression.
• She hails from the NORTH-EAST state of Manipur, which for years has felt marginalised and suffered political turmoil.
• She is into BOXING ,which isn't exactly as glamorous as men's cricket in this country.
• She is a MOTHER & WIFE who carries the extra psychological burden put on her by tradition to always put her husband and kids first and her career down the list.

Her triumph then becomes the triumph of all of these marginalised sections- the women, the people from north-east and the sportspersons in less popular sports.
She is a personal HERO , who makes her own choices, pays the prices and overcomes all hurdles.

A special part of THE MARY KOM SUCCESS STORY for me is her husband Onler Kon. The man who is secure enough to look after their three kids when the lady steals international limelight, the man who supports her career choices and becomes her backbone.

So Mary's story is also a special message for all Indian men - Just Imagine what all your daughter, mom, wife, female friend, female colleague or any other woman could achieve if you would just let her be , if you take your fair share of responsibilities of the home and the hearth, if you let her be less intimidated and be free of prejudice and cliché.

Mary Kom for me is one of the stories that we need to tell our sons and daughters , as its multiple layers will make each one of them revaluate their choices about gender and about stereotypes.

Hail Mary !!



 

Three of the million lessons from my daughter

This post was a guest post at the official PARLE-G BLOG here.


As I sit to write today about the lessons I have learnt from my child, a slideshow of flashbacks begins in my mind’s eye and I am taken back to the day almost four years ago when for the first time I was alone with her (let’s call her P) in the house.
I remember how I had experienced my strongest bouts of fight or flight that day. I wanted to take the best care of my 15-day-old baby but along with the next change of diaper my resilience would change into exhaustion and frustration and I wanted to just run away. I often wonder how I must have felt alone for the first time with my mom as a baby. Have the fears changed? Are the apprehensions still the same for every mom?

But that day onward with P, I imbibed my first huge lesson for life – keep learning.
The other day a friend’s Facebook status read, ‘I wish life came with an instruction manual.’ And I commented ‘I wish kids too’.
But seriously speaking, thank god that life or kids do not come with an instruction manual. That is how parenting becomes a learning experience like no other. Whether it is how to dress up a doll in 20 different ways, try a new recipe, my work or even my relationships, I believe real value is added only when we keep learning. We keep our heart and mind open. It was because of P I took to blogging and what an experience it has been. It has stretched my horizons to corners I could never even imagine.
Sometimes we will fail, the whole effort would be futile but the experience wouldn’t be useless. The elation after a successful new lesson is unmatched but what is even more precious is the lesson. So as a parent we must keep learning, whether it is singing jumbled up lyrics or dancing completely off the beat, or painting with our fingers. DO it and you will never regret this one.

As a parent most of us have an undercover job too- toy mechanics. Whether it is a broken favourite comb or hair band, or it’s a toy elephant’s trunk or a giraffe’s hind leg, our children believe we have the magic. I was always very keen on craft, used to do a lot of reuse and recycle ever since I was a kid, but with P in the picture now this whole mending and repairing has become almost like my second profession.
So the second lesson is MENDING.
Throwing away, giving up, shoving it under the carpet are the easier options, the tougher and according to me the better choice to make is to mender at least try to mend whatever we break or whatever breaks in the due course of life. How often we give up on long time friends due to one bad incident? How frequently do we use-and-discard things?
The art of cherishing things ,people, moments is being lost because we are constantly looking for the new and deciding to ditch whatever develops a glitch (wow that rhymed effortlessly…a  minor lesson?)
Like disposable plates and cups we have started looking for everything disposable. This has obvious emotional repercussions but see what it does to our homes and our planet. We keep acquiring new stuff and hoarding or throwing the old and with the physical baggage our emotional baggage grows heavy too. On the other hand mending is creative, therapeutic and it keeps your grey cells polished and shining bright.

“LET IT GO.” These three words spoken to a teenager in a remote monastery in Himachal did not mean much then. But my daughter has made them the mantra of my life. Because we must keep learning and trying to mend but several times despite our best efforts things do not work and that is when we must let it go and move on, this is the essence of having a regret-free life.
This is more effective for negative feelings like hatred and anger. We as humans are bound to go through all of these, but when we do not keep their residue within us we live a life more fully. Look at your kids how easily and effortlessly they forget and forgive and move on, how they do not categorise or label people based on one incident or action and thus keep the possibility of a fruitful mutual exchange of ideas and thoughts always open. How an old toy lost or beyond repair gets replaced by some new fascination.
I call my daughter my guru, my co-learner in so many skills and my co-worker on this grand project called LIFE.

The list of things I have learned from her can run into hundreds but then as she says “MUMMA JUST SMILE!!” sometimes a smile says it all.

A WOMAN AS WONDERFUL AS HER WORK

A government official's speech on his book launch begins with his recollection of his humble childhood who aspired to be someone big. He narrates a few incidents about his hard work  to change the fortunes of his unlettered parents, and then he calls her to the stage- the lady he has dedicated his book to-his school teacher. Her salt pepper hair, through which her small studs peek ,her simple yet elegant cotton salwar-kameez and her smile that reaches her eyes are all memorable.

She never had access to a fancy education and could barely finish her Junior basic teacher's training course before she was married off at 20 without even her formal consent.

Born at the wake of independence in a small hilly village this girl struggled to go to school like her two elder brothers and while they went to the local missionary school and she had to be content with the village government school, 2 kms away.

She started working as a teacher only after her marriage but financial independence did not take away any of the social stigma attached with not having a child soon after marriage.

The child happened 14 years later but throughout she loved her students and her work devotedly, it was her solace, her strength and she was the light of hope for many of her students. She worked as if IT REALLY MADE A DIFFERENCE to the young girls she taught and their families. The kids in school, according to her needed her more, because they came from families with almost no resources and no inclination to send their girls to school. 

There were ugly scenes with families and a couple of times with the police as well to prevent child marriages and allow girls to study further if they so willed. 

Her husband had a good job for a comfortable life even without her salary but she wanted to work- for herself, and more importantly for her belief that a teacher could ignite minds and souls like no one else ever could.

Now she works with several NGOs. Her age does not prevent her from still giving it her all. Her husband and daughter now understand, love and respect her even more for bringing beauty to her work.

Often we keep looking out for inspiration, from biographies of great people, from a biopic about a legend and in the process fail to look at the stellar lives lived by people closer home. These commoners do not have awards on their mantelpiece or public acclaim but their stories are stories of grit, passion and love for their work. It is difficult to look at your own from a distance and narrate their story objectively, but today I have tried.

I am proud that this amazing lady in this story is my mom. It’s a tough call, a huge dilemma, which is more beautiful, my mom or her work.

This post is part of a contest at Women's Web and Mia Tanishq.

Why boys will always be boys ?.

Until my daughter started pre-school and I witnessed her increased interaction with kids from both the genders I also believed as majority does that gender roles and stereotypes and more so gender related violence happens only after the kids are past a certain age,starting from pre-teens to their adult life.

Much to my dismay I conclude that subtle gender violence happens ,is taught, propagated and supported or at best ignored even at ages as young as four or five.

The world is talking about rapes after the horrific rape and killing of a young girl in Delhi in December 2012 and a few other equally violent rapes of young girls as young as five in Delhi and other towns in India.We talk about domestic violence, economic inequality based on gender and so many other discriminatory practices which unfortunately still prevail in India.I wonder why there is so little talk about how we bring up our boys.

Scene in a neighborhood park
My four year old little daughter and another girl are making sand castles, a boy slightly older knocks off their castle twice.His mother sits on the bench across and just smiles.The girls for some strange reason or inbuilt "don't get hurt/molested/raped" syndrome walk away from the scene of confrontation and move to play on a slide.The bully follows them and prevents their play even there.Now as I get up to intervene the mother rushes and sheepishly pulls him away saying," oh! you know how it is ,boys will be boys"
Scene at a family reunion
A few cousins playing together and the boys pulling the girls' hair or throwing toys.The girls go crying to their moms and the mother of the boys or the grandmother say,"Oh  ladke to aise hi hote hain,zyada a shararti hote hain"( boys are like this,they are more naughty.)

Have you ever noticed how Johnny in the popular nursery rhyme Johnny Johnny yes papa ,just laughs ha ha ha when his lie is caught by his father,do we have the same standards for our girls?

When our children sing

Peter Peter pumpkin eater
Had a wife and couldn't keep her
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well!


Imagine the kind of husband -wife equation we are putting forth,where the husband can or cannot"keep" a wife and then lock her at his will.What kind of an ideal is this for young boys,kiss the girls and make them cry?


Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry

Hindi rhymes are no better ,sample a few here.This one is called BANDAR KI SASURAL

Lathi lekar been bajata,

Bandar ja pahuncha sasural.

Mein aaya bandari ko lene,

Kaun banaye roti-daal.

or this one often taught in several variations

Titli udi , ud n saki,
bus me chadi, sit na mili,
sit na mili, rone lagi,
conductor ne kaha, chal mere saath,
Titli boli chal hatt badmaash.



or lessons like this one in Hindi books

Look at the cartoon shows we so happily let our kids watch where girls play the cooperative games and boys are always confrontational.Where pushing,killing,harassing is allowed and made to appear funny.There is no denying that games,rhymes,cartoons all are fun,but we have to be careful about what kind of images and messages are being given to our kids there.

So when I think of Gender violence now and seeking some kind of equality I think I should pledge to ring a bell  in fact ring all my alarm bells every time a parent ,grandparent or a teacher reinforces the stereotypes by saying Oh boys will be boys !

This is not harmful just for our girls but our boys are also getting trapped in stereotypical images of macho men who are crude,violent and destructive,and those who do not fit in again get derogatory labels.

Lets start to tackle gender violence from where it actually starts from the clean slates of our kids' minds,from the roots of the people they grow up to become.

This post is a part of the Indiblogger initiative for Bell Bajao.

माँ - बेटी - नानी

आज फिर यादें
खंगाली हैं
और स्मृति के
स्थिर स्रोतों से
माँ की हज़ार बातें
नयी हो आई हैं

कैसे माँ की आवाज़
बदल जाती
जब तार वाले फ़ोन से
वो अपनी माँ से
बतियाती

अपने गाँव की
दहलीज़ पर
हमेशा माथा टेकती
अपने स्कूल को देखकर
मुस्काती

कभी चपातियाँ
सेकते -सेकते
पहाड़ी गाने गुनगुनाती
और कभी
चाय के साथ
खुद भी गुस्से में उफनती जाती

अब माँ की आवाज़
में वो खनक गुम है
अब उनके जीवन
में आपाधापी नहीं
पर शायद
अकेलापन है

बेटी से हर माँ
की तरह
वो भी कर  लेती है
मुझसे हज़ार बातें

पर बेटी बनकर
माँ से बातें
नहीं कर पाने का
एकाकीपन है

फिर अचानक
फ़ोन पर सुनती हूँ
दो आवाजें
वही खनक ,वही जादू
मेरी माँ से बतियाती मेरी बेटी
कहाँ मेरी नानी से कम है !!

Blogoversary week Special - FIVE

The snapped limbs

of a rag doll,

or a lost toy

the missing piece

of a picture puzzle

or the mislaid

hair clip

from a shiny pair

Her sanguine eyes

look at me

as if I am the

goddess of her small things

However behind

my reassuring smile

I measure my 

fearful fragility

and wait for the inevitable

as she will grow up

to see my

shivering

human inability !

Daughter and Mother

Time flows by
on one bank
I am rooted in my mom

on the other
attempting to stand firm
for her- my daughter

two shores
ages apart

I am the bridge
that creaks and sways
but holds on
because she is the link.

MOTHERS

A Spanish proverb says -An ounce of a mother is worth a ton of a priest.

Ever since I have ben a mom ,I often wonder, about moms of people who made an impact ,be it the great reformers,scientists and artists or the dictators,terrorists and the like.

I often wonder what kind of childhood influence did Hitler's mother have on him to make him so full of hatred and anger.So I researched and found that Klara Hitler was a young victim of cancer and many historians opine that had she lived more Adolf Hitler would have been an artist and not a traitor.His years of misery in Vienna after her death was the time when he formulated many of his ideas on politics and race which had immense consequences in the future.

I strongly believe that any kind of change in individuals or societies has to begin with mothers,simply because they are the vocabulary and the dictionary of a child's thought process.I am my child's encyclopedia ,her window to the world,her reference point to relationships.I am important because I am indeed the key to her future and the difference she might make to the world.If this is so then it is the most empowering role one can ever have.

We really have had enough of sham glorification of motherhood in literature and history,what is needed now is aware motherhood,educated daughters who become empowered wives and moms.

History,literature and  even our own bollywood is full of exaggerations of the greatness of motherhood,what however is really needed is acceptance of motherhood as a job worthy of respect and praise.The requirement is of a society more sensitive towards its women ,a nation that pays some real credit to moms who groom its future.  All moms though don't need to carry the load of making the next Einstein or Picasso,yet all mothers must carry the huge load of responsibility of nurturing responsible and sensitive humans.