My gender experience in Kolkata

The intellectual, well-read Bengali needs to wake up to the fact that all the revolutionary ideas that they have read while growing up, are not to be taken merely in a cerebral manner, but is also to be implemented in day-to-day life.

I came to Kolkata a year back. Been in Delhi for 15 years (2005-2015). Delhi was love. Delhi taught me how to stand up on my two feet, to stand up for myself and to stand up for others. And no matter what we do in Delhi, for better or for worse, it gets highlighted. Delhi gave me the opportunity to understand the corporate world and professionalism, it allowed me to mix with the political clout - the AAP, the Ministers and Bureaucracy of the ruling parties in State and Center. My career also allowed me to rub shoulders with the who's who of the industry - the C-suite of the top business houses, and the media. 

On the streets of Delhi, I have seen pride walks, slut walks, campaigns against rape laws, I have seen the presence and absence of police and administration. I have seen rowdy neighbours, but I have also had the delight to be with neighbors who were like a network and did not hesitate to knock on my door and send me soup and medicine, even as a contagious pandemic raged outside. In corporate houses, I have seen talks on gender, diversity & inclusion. I have sat through hours of meetings choking on an ominous smog trying to understand how to build a sustainable environment.

But in Kolkata, I am having a very different experience. I see how a lot of things that people elsewhere are revolutionizing is still normalised here. It may not be for everyone and everytime. But more or less, I am observing a few things in disturbia -

1. 1. In marriage, while on papers it is a shared responsibility, in practical life you are still expected to behave in a certain way, and naturally undertake certain responsibilities
2. 2. Working/career in many cases is an option. You may be expected to be a homemaker before anything else.
3. 3. Social circle and social interaction may have a divide. Men sit with men, women with women.
4. 4. Much less women drive
5. 5. A lot more people are homophobic - LGBTQ to them is a Western concept. Especially a lot of the men here think gays are abominable
6. 6. The word "rape" or rape-jokes are sometimes loosely used in a humorous way, whereas in Delhi many people have risen to the fact that this is not alright, and rather offensive
7. 7. Plastic usage is very heavy, waste segregation is poor
8. 8. Beating their children is a thing. Cognizance of child abuse and child psychology is low
9. 9. Divorce is a stigma. By having a divorce, the belief is you break the family. So you keep holding on to bad marriages for sake of society
10. 10. Neighbourhood is interfering most of the time and want a piece of your personal life. But are not useful when you really need them in sickness etc. 

While not all of the above may not be true for every household of every locality, but I have highlighted at best an approximation of my observation. 

#jaagoBengalijaago

The empath is the womb through which a new universe will always emerge

What hurts you, blesses you

Dear Empaths, 

This planet is made up of two kinds of people - one who gives and one who takes from it. Healers, lovers, sufis, travellers, environmentalists comprise the empaths - people born with their cups filled with love that they have to offer to the world so that the world can heal from its incessant pain and abuse. These are the gems of humanity who can put the pain and the sufferings of others ahead of themselves. These are the people the world needs but do not want - the people who make the world go round while they bear the cross.

The journey of the empaths is one of the most difficult ones. It is one of constant pain and pealing and experiences. It is how it is meant to be. An empath is meant to be broken up, cut to pieces with shards of terrible experiences. "A wound is the place through which light enters you". I never understood this until late in my life when my heart had been broken so many times that there was nothing left to be broken. I stopped judging the world or myself completely. What was left of me was love and acceptance, and deep surrender to the energies around me. My recluse became my little hut in my heart and I was able to hold other people's hands when they needed some respite. I realize the value of the pain I was put through, some of it I inadvertently chose, when people started to stop at my little hut got a bit of placebo from my experiences, and got the energy to move on.

This is the journey of the empath. A loving and feeling person initially is like a child - innocent and loves everyone with all his or her heart. They come from a place of seeking love in return as well. But life takes its own course. Universal love is not about one person or fulfillment of one or a few relationships around you - it is about your capacity to love the entire world without losing yourself. The child-like empath needs to learn to grow through the pain, the rejection, and the guilt. They eventually learn that they are as beautiful as is the rest of the world. They learn to look out for themselves, to express with some gumption what they need and what they don't like. This the art and science of an authentic life, where you don't put yourself behind everyone else nor trample over the lives of others. You come to a place in your heart where you find that pot of gold - it was always there inside of you. But for this journey, you must first take care of yourself. The pain, the bad relationships only are a reminder that you belong to yourself first. Once you learn that you need to take care of yourself first, you will not give anything to others with the hope of love in return - you will then love life the way it is, you will love all connections around you and you will be able to become the nurturing force of this world that an empath is meant to be.

I know that I may sound eccentric to most people. But I certainly hope that some tired traveler finds this chalice when needed, drinks from it, and is able to trust again the journey that he is on. Everything is in divine order. The very hand that rocks the boat also nurtures the flowers. Life is everywhere around you - in your solitude with yourself and in the people around you. Breathe with it, sing with it, dance with it. And I hope that you are blessed with enormous amounts of love from the universe. so that your cup is never empty.

Peace and love!

The Pygmalion Child

There is no scope of expressing yourself with him. He wants everything to run like clockwork upon his wishes. 

I know that you do not have a way to talk about your displeasure. Instead of understanding the reason behind what made you upset, and like a healthy parent discussing a solution, his fragile ego takes any contention to be his failure - you must know that already, my five-year-old.

He wants you to smile at his stunts because it is a trophy for him, one that validates him. His life is a true social-media con – glittering smiles, twinning and winning, sparkling festivals, bunch of friends wooing Johnny Bravo. And you must fall in line, finding comfort in every Christmas tree he brings home, every Lego he imports from somewhere to be able to show the world that he is giving you the best. The best of dresses, ribbon on your tresses, colour for your books, piano lessons, ballet shoes or football. He will give you everything that you want, but never the attention that you seek. Between what you seek and what you get, he will always leave some gap. And you will learn rather quickly that you must chase after that mirage that will never be.

You will also have a few more lessons – you will be taught that expressing your displeasure is a punishable offence. Punishment includes withholding of affection and availability, the silent treatment if you will, the long face and hollow look. 

You better listen to him – your mum will teach you how! She knows the rules. The boardgame was supposed to be theirs together. But she is all but a pawn now. He throws a six, she moves six places. He throws two, she takes two steps. He overturns the board – she waits on the floor to be picked up when he starts a new game. The game is completely his!

So, she knows the rules. She has been played long enough – she is used to it clearly that playing by his rules comes naturally to her. You must worship the hands that roll the dice. Else, she will tell you off for being too demanding. Your grandma will put on your five-year-old shoulders the responsibility of holding together their marriage. “Hush child! You must not speak a word about it outside” – they will tell you. “Get cute with your father, swish your dress like a doll; that’s how their marriage will be saved, else…. (it’s all your fault!)”

Your father will make mistakes – and yet you must count on him and treat him like an alpha. We know that he is afraid of being called out. He has a fragile ego. He is a broken child inside. Perhaps he was told off for being “a weak sissy”. And that was when he decided that strength meant not expressing yourself loud.

And you will get treated the same way, child. This abuse will feel familiar, it will be normalized by the archaic societal templates. And then one day when you grow up, you may learn to revolt, to hold your ground. But do not worry since you will have a crush – insanely, stupidly - on a knight who will come galloping to your doorstep brandishing his sweet new narcissism. And it will feel so familiar – this alpha thing, the love-drama, the gallantry! 

Not before long will you notice that you will have fallen in love with your father’s shadow all over again!

The Paperweight

And one fine morning, you will wake up and you will not disbelieve in anything anymore. You will look at your life playing out in divine order. You will feel every emotion, every energy, and smile. Even if there is that residual sadness, it will sit quietly inside you and not gnaw at your heart anymore. You will be able to look at its beautiful crystalline form twirling under your joyful fingers – like a beautiful crystalline paperweight on your desk that once held down sheets of paper, but now you use like a spinning top during an engaging conversation – as if it were a happy, weightless object under its master’s divine hand.

You will know that the grief is only an item in a bright sunny study. It has shrunk from being the mammoth brittle rock occupying the entire room. It once was. But it.

It has metamorphosed. It now shines like diamond, reflecting the sunlight despite itself.

That’s how light sadness will feel today. And every day, from today onwards.

I promise you will reach that day if you are willing to stay committed to finding the purpose of your life. 

Answer, must you?

Facebook asks me "what's on your mind?" It's one question I must never answer. 

What's on my mind should stay there unless it is to spread constructive rejuvenation to mankind. Countries, societies, families are at war with each other, all based on this one suspicion-minting rhetoric "What's on your mind?"

It is a question that does not solicit real answers. The answer to it is, in fact, unknown. Therefore, it is a dangerous question. A question, which if unanswered, will make one man suppose the intention of another; if answered will be lost in translation; if debated, will make us fight one another based on our own conviction. It will start the social media bids for likes, personal attacks, loud arguments. An answer that will make us stick labels on people based on what we make out of their nationality, caste, region, community, religion, gender or anything else that can widen the rift between societies - leftist, rightist, democrat, republican, separatist, nationalist, feminist, sexist, racist, even sadist for God's sake! All are our perception. And if we answer, it will create a non-constructive storm nevertheless.

Yet we love to answer. Answer an unasked question. And let it be known. Because we must subscribe to a narrative. A narrative that we never built in the first place. We only cherry-picked from history written by someone else, a history that chronicles a few events and a few perspectives, but pretends to be complete. We glorify Hitler or Gandhi, whoever feels comfortable, in hindsight though. We have but limited access to either's lifetimes. Limited access, because we didn't live it, did we? We heard through generational Chinese whispers what may have happened back then. And it must have been true, as betold, we assume. What if by subscribing to others narratives we are endorsing Gandhis and Hitlers of today?  Whose Christ, Mohammad or Krishna were they anyway? Who handed them down to us?

We never stop to think of it that way. We never cut some slack to our misgivings for any narrative by asking ourselves one important question "is it possible to know the complete truth? Do we know completely what was on their minds?" That introspection of our own conviction is uncomfortable. We have access to information. We are smart. Smarter is the technology that finishes our sentences for us. As if humans were not doing that already. Combining information used to be knowledge. Now it is an entire narrative, forcefully complete on its own. But what of that information which was left out, which we didn't seek to receive, which we didn't care to listen to, which we trampled over because it did not feed into our narrative?

Your fact is factual. His fact is factual. Her fact is factual too. But we each believe in our facts so hard that we forget that we are still bereft of some of their facts, whom we refused to listen to. And therefore, the truth as we know it, cannot be absolute. So my truth is as incomplete as yours. It is only a set of facts,  surrounded by some perspectives, cemented by my beliefs and assumptions, waiting to be sequenced by my ego.

So much of war could have been saved if only we stopped asking that question - "What's on your mind?" And, instead checked in with ourselves and sought, "Whose Karma am I subscribing to?" Or we disruptively, rebelliously woke up one morning with "What am I going to build today?"

Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I picked up a copy, especially after all the hullabaloo in India when the movie was prevented from releasing, by the censor-board due to its intense sensual flavor. However, beginning to leaf through the pages, was my worst nightmare in literary work ever, so far. Worse than Chetan Bhagat's made-for-movies, hundred-something-rupee, proxy-drama-ridden, unintelligible paperbacks. There is a thrill in reading a piece of work that's subtle, witty and has twisted layers not only in the plot, but also in the choice of words. E.L. James' book is just the opposite! Whenever the female protagonist silently admires the male one, there is a blatant and cyclical"Oh my!" I cannot keep a count on which one I wanted to stick a dagger through my head, and perish! To be fair, and not to give out any spoilers to people who would still like to read this book, my only request is if you feel compelled to buy a copy due to peer-buzz, and yet you decide not to buy the book, consider yourself on a higher intellectual plane than them who are reading the book and even talking about it! Of course, to my Mills & Boons readers, I recommend this M&B digest totally.

View all my reviews

With love, from your Maleficent!

My dear little girl. When I imagine your world, I imagine a little fairy in a pink tent, spangled with stars and glitters. I imagine you wielding a sparkling wand and turning everything sunny with your smile. 

I imagine daddy’s little girl doing her doll’s hair, leaning against his leg as he works on his computer. I see you on your daddy’s lap at the steering wheel, delighted that he’s letting you drive. I see a little face with a mischievous smile – fussing over food, negotiating for that ice-cream. I see you picking up puzzles, and paint books, and color pencils from the kids’ corner, with the certainty and a righteous entitlement that daddy won’t mind spoiling you today. I see butterflies on your dress and daisies in your hair. I see little hands reaching out for daddy’s arms in the middle of the night for security and comfort.

My dear little stepdaughter. I am the reluctant witch, the circumstantial stepmom whom you, at some point in your life, will have imagined stealing your father away. Whom you would perhaps know as the woman who crashed your little world. But I wish I could tell you someday how much I had wished your daddy could be with you. And how much it tore your daddy apart to leave his innocent little tinker-bell behind at her mom’s new residence. He could no longer bear to live with your mother. Why? I wish I could tell. These reasons perhaps you will never know about your parents, reasons that adults mostly sweep away under the bed, in closets, diaries or courtrooms; reasons why two married people sometimes painfully conclude their marriage. They wish they could turn back time, mend things and compromise, but they realize that is not to be.

You will perhaps not understand this now. You don’t even understand now when you see your daddy pulling out of the driveway, tearing himself away from your innocent face urging him to stay – that he will never come back to your mother’s house to live. Somewhere your little heart wishes that your fairy godmother will hear your nightly prayers and bring your parents together. And a few years from now you will learn better prayers. 

But, dear child, your parents are both very good people. They would not normally hurt anyone. Just know that something went wrong, something that they could not manage – something that broke their hearts beyond repair. They went through their share of life-changing and life-upsetting experiences, their moments of whirlpools and doldrums. They tried very hard to stay – to compromise for your sake. Don’t let anyone make you believe otherwise. I saw your father weeping for you. I know how his heart was bleeding – because I have been my daddy’s little girl too, and still am. Both your parents tried very hard to forgive themselves for doing this to you, and to their marriage. There’s repentance. There are tears. There’s loathing for the hurts. There’s respect. But there’s no turning back.

But my dear, dear little girl. I promise your daddy will be there for all your birthdays and convocations, graduation. The world is not a bad place. Your daddy will be there for you without even you knowing it – making sure that you receive the best of everything. Your daddy is a good man – he lights up my world – as will the right man light up yours someday. You will come across all kinds of men, the ones who will like you and then hurt you, the ones who you must learn to dump quickly. Learn not to relate these to your parents’ divorce in anyway. It’s a real world, made of real people. We are complex now – we will de-tangle and be better connected someday. Here’s a forty-year-old woman who has had her heart broken by the wrong man! I am speaking to you from the other side of a hardened life, smitten with experiences. Your father and I were friends for a long time – we respected each other. And then when your father moved out from your mom’s life, we fell in love. We were so fiercely similar, madly in love, it was inevitable.

I pray that your mommy, daddy and I are able to act as adults, and parent you well and protect you from believing that relationships don’t last, that men are bad or divorce is unfair. Your father is an exceptional person. So is your mother. They were just not meant to be together, at this point in life. But neither regret having you. Because they both know you will someday fledge into the beautiful woman they imagined you to be the day you were born. 

And perhaps you will understand and forgive me someday. Even if not, I will always watch you over from behind the shadows.