HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS ...

Marriage does strange things to you. It not only takes you out out of your familiar surroundings and circle of acquaintances, it also gives you a new home and if lucky, a whole new family. But it is not to talk of the happier side of marriage that I sit today, but of its sad, sombre, sobering aspects.

I’ve just come from my former home to my present one. This is the nth time I’ve done the same and yet, I don’t know why, I feel like I’m doing something wrong. There’s this overwhelming sense of wistfulness and aching sorrow welling up within me every time I cross the same threshold to head for another one, 20 mins’ away by road. I don’t have a brother. I only have my younger sister, Moitreyee (aka Mitu), who wanted me to stop till later in the day and go watch ‘Wake Up Sid’ with her. I turned her down and her expectant smile changed into one of confused hurt. She asked me why I couldn’t return to my shoshurbari (in-laws’ place) later in the day. I’m not employed right now after all. I channelised the conversation into a different direction. There really was no reason why I couldn’t have gone back much later in the day. I could. Except maybe, the more I stay, the more difficult it is to persuade myself to go away. The more I feel I have to go, the more I feel like putting it off for the morrow. The more I know this was once my only home, the more I cry inside, knowing that this is no longer my only home. That I am emotionally committed to going back home. To what I need to fashion into a home. To what shall some day, when I have my own children and no living parents, be my only home.


I comprehend Mitu’s perplexity. Maybe she was thinking of what fun we had had the night before when the three of us (K, herself, I) had sit in what was once my bedroom, playing ‘Calling Bray’ late into the night, me laughing my guts out each time Mitu lost a card and looked absurdly crestfallen or won a card and looked gleefully exultant. Or how we traced our collective way back through the memories of our childhood as we helped K through our old and dusty photo albums. Or how Mitu and I had sauntered through our neighbourhhod park as we returned from the confectionary shop with 500 gm of lal doi (sweet curd) which I had had the audacity to question the increased price of, quoting in the process an ancient rate of Rs 70 for a kg of the same, causing the shopkeeper to sarcastically ask me how long ago I’d made such a curious purchase. Or how we made our slow way through the park, checking every sandy corner for the newborn puppies we’d spotted a few days ago, which we finally distinguished in the darkness and Mitu meowed to, causing me much hilarity. And well, so much and so many more things that recalling would only cause more hurt, more sorrow, lay many more crosses on my already scarred soul.

And let me not even begin to enumerate how I feel when I leave my mother and father behind, lest I cannot sleep for many nights and days, relentlessly wondering why society is so obstinately patriarchal and why girls need at all leave their parents and siblings to adopt another family when there was no lack in the older one. Yes, in my case, there have been and are differences galore with my parents and sometimes, they almost seem ridiculous to me for their want of actual substance. There have been days before my marriage when I went to office hungry but unable to eat at home because of the grim hush that hovered over the household after a quarrel with my parents over the issue of my marriage which, as the day neared, became a foreboding reality to them, not because of any financial troubles but due to its emotional implications. That their gaining a son by marriage was more a cliché than an event since the son would not live with them but rather take their daughter away from them. My parents have become teenagers once again since then, behaving illogically when it comes to awkwardly trying to show that they are still my parents and that although they try, they really can’t help not feeling possessive about me, when it comes to their reaction to my divided loyalties to both households. Even this morning, Ma shoved 4 apples and a packet of biscuits into my bag at the last moment and unlike previous occasions, I didn’t resist, knowing she would be content thinking she'd contributed her bit to my evening snacks. I understand now, after a year of living alone in the USA and singlehandedly donning the mantle of mother, wife and daughter to K, the true implication of her gestures, the material manifestation of a self-effacing love that only a mother can bestow.

Dimma (my maternal grandmother) is a few days or maybe weeks from death, in her 80s, having suffered several consecutive falls, the last probably having led to a clot in her brain. She doesn’t open her eyes, cannot sleep on a proper bed any longer, has bed sores all over from the floor bed she lies in, cannot brush or sanitise herself any longer without total dependence on my mejomashi (middle aunt), whose residence she has been living in, for a long time now. Her own sons, my two mamas (maternal uncles), are a worthless duo, too occupied with their own petty regards and resentments to pay their maybe very last respects to Dimma. I went and managed the household at Salt Lake a couple of weeks ago while Ma went to visit her. Dimma couldn’t even recognize Ma and kept mixing up her grandchildren with her own children. Ma came back in tears. I kept telling Ma that she needed to strengthen herself mentally, prepare herself for the departure that was bound to take place, sooner or later. But this morning, as I was returning home, I wondered whether I myself could ever practice what I had been preaching. One’s family is a habit one may never get over, after all.

I never felt I’d say this, but now I must be true to myself and confess. I sometimes feel I’d have liked to have a brother to bring back his wife to my mother to take my place when I married and left the fold. But on second thoughts, if my brother was like any one of my mamas, I’d rather we sisters took over their roles. But would we be able to do as much as a son would ? I wonder. The phantom of patriarchy remains to haunt my dreams.

V-Day etcetera

I'm still to recover from the surprise gift showers on our Registry Anniversary and V-Day...I just have to admit it : K took me totally by surprise !


Registry Anniversary gift (leather-suede tote bag):


V-Day gifts (Russell Stover chocolates, perfume, hairbrush) :

Although poor K had to go to office on V-Day, we made up for it with a sumptuous dinner at Shalimar, Edison (biriyani and the works), along with Madhav & Shilpa...

That reminds me, the mithai counter at Shalimar was a visual delight. Check it out :

Shilpa and I drooled over the confectionery almost to the extent the boys did over the goat curry !

Reminiscing Marriage

On the 28th of Feb, 2009, it shall be a year since we've exchanged vows to love, cherish and respect each other. When I reflect on the marriage rituals, I realise they really didn't imply much then (I cursed myself for prefering Hindi to Sanskrit as Third Language at school), although I recall being extremely alert during the whole process, trying to participate consciously in everything pertaining to it. My mind has rarely been so active and vigilant, not only noticing whether every single person who wanted but was wary of trying to draw my attention (since I was 'busy' getting married) was being accorded the necessary polite responses but also objectively attempting to comprehend the meaning of all actions that K and I were being asked by the priest to perform. I've often heard other brides recalling how their marriage passed in a trancelike state, their beings half-caught up in the wonder of it all. So it's surprising when I consider my extreme and even heightened awareness of the prolonged period of marriage that drew forth from my innermost recesses every shade of emotion known to existence. It was, without doubt, the most eventful phase of my life till then.

I might have struck terror in the heart of my limited number of readers with this sombre start. Fine. Let's move on to lighter episodes !

Some of the actual events of my marriage itself might perhaps interest readers of this obscurely narcissistic blog : (please click on photos to view enlarged versions)

For instance, how the bride sat down to her 'aiburobhaat' almost ravenous, a victim of what my male parent diagnosed as 'nervous diarrhoea', and eyed the lavish spread mournfully, finally eating a miniscule amount of it in the form of shukto-bhaat-payesh, while the maachh, the alubhaja and begunbhaja, the mooger daal, the chatni, mishti and the doi remained unscathed. And almost unfed throughout the next day, except the regulation ritual chnire-shondesh early in the morning. That naturally resulted in an extreme distaste on my part for anything edible late at midnight, after almost every guest had been bidden farewell and the immediate family sat down to the remains of the catered dinner.

Two days later, that extreme metabolic dysfunction precipitated horror on the face of the parlour personnel who were to 'make up' my person for the reception. Apparently, every single time they applied a layer of foundation and sprayed water over it to give it hold, my skin absorbed the water lightning-fast, telltale signs of extreme dehydration. Chumki Boudi finally handed me a bottle of glucose water and loomed large over me until I surrendered and downed the entire draught in one quick gulp. I still can't believe I received so many basketfuls of compliments relating to my beauty and poise at the event. I must have done much to prevent myself from looking visibly mystified.

Talking of make up, K had to spent a considerable part of his phuloshojya night patiently plucking hairpins from my hair. He un-haired almost 80. After applying hairspray to the entire hair, all possible paraphernalia and accessories had been employed to shape it into a retro updo. Apparently my hairspa sessions had done such wonders for the quality of the hair that its being so smooth and silky impaired all efforts to style it without the aid of chemical products designed to give it hold. Every female guest expended considerable energy and enthusiasm on hailing my hairdo. Poor K however was evidently at the receiving end. I spent an hour the morning after the reception in the shower, shampooing out all the mess and valiantly trying to retrieve what would have once been my hair.

There were too few people left to occasion a memorable bashor raat. Dhrubo, Babai, Bumba were the brave few that were determined to see it through, all the same. Most of my friends left for their respective residences, citing work next day. To be fair, one can't expect to have much fun if one insists on getting married on a Thursday. The bleak scenario dissuaded us from testing the patience of the worthy bystanders. We dispatched them summarily. The rest of the night was spent by K and Appa Dada at our Salt Lake residence, warding off the assaults (quite literally) of my worthy sibling and mamato cousin, Mohua, who refused to return his wallet, watch and mobile until he made a verbal commitment to gift (!) them a considerable amount for their trying to engage us all in a productive bashor. (Shudder.) Appa dada was dismissed as a traitor for attempting to side with the poor, solitary bridegroom, despite being the bride's cousin.
This rigmarole, it seems, had lasted till 3.30 pm, when everyone submitted to a state of deadlock. The exhausted bride, btw, had been fast asleep since 2.30 pm. Several were left wondering at the bridegroom's acidity (literally and medically) next morning. The bride's father, a doctor, fortunately resolved the problem in time with some medicine. Mitu began to cry so much in anticipation of my departure that K, downright scared, promptly handed over 3K to pacify her. Unfortunately, she persevered.

The bride hardly shed any tears at the bidaai. This unprecedented proof of heartlessness secretly owed much to the bridegroom, who had earlier expressed his extreme fear of being made to feel like an abductionist on the aforementioned occasion. The anticlimax came much later, when he actually enquired of the bride what had caused her lachrymal ducts to dry up so unexpectedly. He hasn't heard the end of that, ever since.




I was supposed to be exhausted after the whole marriage event and encouraged by my in-laws to retire early on kaal raatri, so that I would feel quite myself on the day of the reception. I shared a bed with Titai (my beloved sister-in-law) and Muniya, a friend, and we exhanged the raunchiest anecdotes we knew of till about 2 am, several times nearly rolling off the bed with laughter. So much for the cause of slumber.

Poor K was accused of stealing longing looks in my direction everytime his eyes happened to be in any direction except straight. Indignant, he left for Titai-Abir's place, a 10 mins' walk from our place, to spend kal raatri . Apparently he and Abir shared a bed. I don't think that contributed much to Titai and the latter's marital felicity. I myself overheard Abir grumbling at the injustice of it all. After all, it was only 3 months that they had been married. One couldn't possibly find fault with his wanting to share his bedroom only with his wife.

There are several such small and funny incidents related to our marriage. More of that some other day. I myself am too tickled at this moment to continue, even if you insist.

To Rashi, With Love...

The Art Of A Good Marriage

Happiness in marriage is not something that just happens. A good marriage must be created.
In marriage the little things are the big things.
It is never being too old to hold hands.
It is remembering to say "I love you" at least once a day.
It is never going to sleep angry.
It is at no time taking the other for granted; the courtship should not end with the honeymoon, it should continue through the years.
It is having a mutual sense of values and common objectives.
It is standing together facing the world.
It is forming a circle of love that gathers the whole family.
It is doing things for each other, not in the attitude of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy.
It is speaking words of appreciation and demonstrating gratitude in thoughtful ways.
It is not looking for perfection in each other.
It is cultivating flexibility, patience, understanding and a sense of humour.
It is having the capacity to forgive and forget.
It is giving each other an atmosphere in which each can grow old.
It is a common search for the good and the beautiful.
It is establishing a relationship in which the independence is equal, dependence is mutual and the obligation is reciprocal.
It is not only marrying the right partner, it is being the right partner.

Wilferd Arlan Peterson

Of speaking up. It helps.

I'm not a feminist per se, but I do invest a lot in terms of emotion and interest in what may very broadly be termed human rights. So, when I came across the following video on a blog I regularly follow, I couldn't help but ask permission to use the link on my own blog. The owners were kind enough to grant permission and here it is:

This public service ad, directed by Pooja Das Sarkar, Nandita Mary Thomas and Subuhi Jiwani, tries to raise awareness about 10920, a government-run helpline for women. The directors are Master's-level students in Media and Cultural Studies at the Centre for Media and Cultural Studies, Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai. Speak Up was made as an assignment for a video class on social communication in January 2008.



I have always felt strongly about the topic since a very young age, when we had maids not turning up on certain days and my mother would look sad instead of angry at having to shoulder all her household responsibilities herself. Much later, I understood the reason why. Some of these girl-women were simply not educated enough to realise that walking away from a bad marriage was better than having to overhear relatively better-off (maritally) women offering sympathetic stares and commiserating candour on their own variations of domestic strife. Even after my own marriage, I was a helpless witness to Mangala, the domestic help at my shoshurbari, who didn't turn up for several consecutive days and then left with her salary one evening. Mamoni later told me that her husband had beaten her up so severely that she looked and felt too scarred to make any sort of public appearance whatever. This from a woman whose husband probably earned only as much as she did and yet, had the audacity to distrust her movements ouside home and the company she kept, coercing her to finally give way and lead the routine housewife's life once again, washing and cleaning and cooking etc. I, who had known her since my pre-marriage days and had become accustomed to her greeting me with a smile and a cup of hot tea on most mornings after marriage, couldn't imagine her spirited personality constrained by physical abuse and emotional blackmail. But I had no idea what I could do to make any difference in her position. She had made a decision, she told Mamoni, and would try to live upto it. Mamoni respected it. But did she respect it herself after all?

Couldn't Mangala have dared to tarnish her good name in her community by deciding to rebel and regulate her own life? Maybe, like most of us, her spirit was willing but her flesh was weak? We do so want our marriages to work after all. Whatever social stratum we hail from us. Each of us women. Educated or not. Bold and beautiful. The neither bold nor beautiful. All of us are slaves to what we think is love. To the silence that is actually not any solace at all.

REFLECTING ON 'MR & MRS IYER'...AN OLD ARTICLE

MUCH ADO ABOUT MARRIAGE

All marriages do not start off with love as the unifying bond. One of the many banes of a traditionally inclined Indian mindset is the notion of arranged marriages. However, Indian women, being one of the most malleable of the female species on earth, adapt. Until, like the unfortunate Meenakshi, a stranger sweeps them off their feet. And they live on, resigned to the reality of their essential predicament. That marriage itself is a convenience for everybody except the two most closely concerned with it. That to satisfy everyone, one must brutally dissatisfy oneself. It is this moment of realization that the film ‘Mr & Mrs Iyer’ arrests with a crystal clear epiphany.

“What does your husband do?’ Raja casually asks. “Why, don’t you know? He’s a wildlife photographer !” is Meenakshi’s retort. It is meant to sound like a joke and both laugh dutifully. It is a joke that also underscores subtly the peculiar nameless bond between them. The husband is, in social parlance, the man the wife is supposed to love. In this exception, one of many perhaps, the man Meenakshi falls in love with poses as her husband at a critical point in the narrative. The irony is only too evident. Raja, in an oddly reflective tone, observes, “In general, the husband gives his name to the wife. Here, a wife is giving her name to the husband !” Curious indeed. But on further contemplation, perhaps it is not so surprising, after all. In a moment of crisis, assuming the name of ‘Mr Iyer’ saves Raja’s life. The ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’ are social tags. One needn’t necessarily identify them as integral to one’s basic identity in a relationship. After all, we love a person and not a mere name. ‘Mr Iyer’ thus comes to represent to an objective onlooker the man Mrs Iyer might have loved, had she been allowed to make her own choices in life. The man with whom she might have spent beautiful moments of her life. In a tree house. In a guest house tucked away somewhere in the unchartered depths of a forest. On a moonlit night. In darkness, with only their quiet breathing for company. In moments of self exploration.

The past, however, cannot be blotted out. Neither can an uncertain future hold out of a promise of happiness. Thus, the only compensation one can effect is by living in and for the present, with the past for occasional stoic company.

If this interested you, you might not mind having a look at a rather well-penned contemporary review of the film...

http://hinduism.about.com/library/weekly/aa040103a.htm

Open Letter to K

Every time we meet, the first question that occurs to me is why, on such a short acquaintance, it seems that I have known you all my life. That you are much more familiar to me that I myself am and definitely dearer. There are points of time when I hate certain aspects of myself and wish to escape from them. But I care so much for you that even when I’m disappointed with you, hurt or angry at something you unintentionally said or did, (for I know you would never hurt a fly, you who are so gentle, kind and sympathetic to one and all), I am divided against myself, one part of me always ready to defend you against the other me who has, in a momentary lapse, put ego above love. You are my greatest strength, my biggest weakness. If you ever think you’ve found someone who cares for you more than I do, believe me, I shall give you up that very day to that lady without a word, a question, a tear. Not because I believe in feminism or martyrdom but simply because if my love means nothing to you at any point of time, what am I to do with the legal rights that marriage should endow me with? Believe me, darling, I love you too much to ever force you to love me.

Chauvinism et al

Jamai Shashthi. Just another name for chauvinism at its worst. Even my company encourages it. Pampers the jamais actually. Singling them out for a lavish treat that just drives home once again the Great Wall of China divide between men and women. As if marriage topped their list of achievements in life.Big deal. No wonder that all the marriage jokes (PJs actually, each and every one of them) somehow sound suspiciously pro-male. I only wonder who the hell finds them funny. Certainly not any of the married women constituting my own list of acquaintances. Nor for that matter any of the sensible and gender-neutral male friends I possess (who, I'm glad to hear, are no longer an endangered species, thanks to proper education and media outrage at any extant non-conformist MCPs) .So....I guess the jokes are on the 'stronger sex' at the end of the day. They actually have to be coaxed into downing the bitter taste of medicine they secretly feel matrimony is by all these juvenile jests that seem to celebrate marriage as an institution.