Monday, July 23, 2012

Trapped in the body


From childhood every little Bengali girl is made to memorize the rhyme “bor asbe ekhuni niye jabe takhuni” (The groom will come and take you away in a while) while the little boy is encouraged to explore an imaginative and intellectual ‘brave new world’ through careless expeditions and adventurous errands. The absurd discrimination is apparent in the rhymes taught by parents and teachers. The girl is preoccupied with protecting her ‘chastity’ and ‘honour’ by observing ‘proper’ dress code and performing a mute role in the tightrope of religion to maintain her ‘balance and calm’. She can be defined by cautious movements as a limp seeking a crutch to hang on some ‘perpetual guard’ at any cost -- the only condition which earns her the ‘good girl’ image. Or some considerate fellows among them announce ‘Save the girl child first because we need them ‘behind our bikes’, we can save tigers later’.
Women’s potential is basically in her flawless womb which produces healthy male children. There are countless reasons including safety, security of a girl child but most importantly the financial and religious advantages that a boy child brings into the family; which includes economic security in old age as the girl is 'socially appropriated' to desert her parents after marriage and gradually it extends to embrace the world beyond death. In Bengali families the rituals which begin with birth and continue upto death exclusively prefer a male child. From Rakhi, Bhaiphonta (wishing well for a brother by applying ), jamai sasthi (where the mother-in-law fasts and cooks every (im)possible stuff for the son-in-law, Upanayan (thread ceremony) which is reserved for a Brahmin male child, leading to the last rituals following the funeral of his parents (along with that it calls for a sadistic situation when the ‘grievous’ assembly gorges on delicacies after ensuring the rigorous life of a widow with their ‘sincere condolences’ by ‘chivalrously’ wiping off the ‘priceless’ ‘ek chutki sindoor’ from the wife’s parting to signify the absence of all colours. How pathetic is that!). Marriage needs mutual respect not a marital stigma to symbolize that she is not a ‘virgin maiden’ anymore and it visually works as a warning for other stray men, signaling not to fall for ‘another man’s property’ till he is alive! why women only need to prove themselves faithful by adorning signs and symbols.
My uncle used to invite me on some occasions (as a privileged father of a male child) to help us out in such ‘crucial circumstances’ where a brother is unavoidably needed to fulfill ritualistic demands. I defied these traditions and tied Rakhi on my sister’s wrist, fought for wearing jeans, played cricket and carom for a long time in a male dominated zone, went for inter-school sports and yoga competitions. I reviewed all marital rites from websites but can only find to my amazement that it is full of nonsense like Kanyadan, lajahoma (offering puffed rice into the fire to confirm that the parental tie is broken) etc under the hegemony of ‘self-proclaimed upper caste’ Brahmins. Interestingly no boy should go through these rituals as it is his ‘success story’ where he enters like a prince and yet some men grumble that marriage ends their freedom. Marriage is one of the most important decisions of my life where I shared the responsibility of taking initiative. My husband is my best friend whom I married simply by signing the special marriage act without rituals or unreasonable expenditure.
I am radical, right? Let it be. If the society has no shame in systematically subjugating their women, why should I be shy?

Monday, March 9, 2009

a girl like a whirlwind blows over d mountains

when harrowing shadows shudder overpowering my existence...i sometimes relent... but d struggle with my own shadow continues to unravel d true essence...sometimes i donot surrender... golden vistas beacon...these glimpses are rare...rare are the epiphanic revelations...no hiding under d wings...pangs and angst are laid bare like an unhealed sore...open wound is the only recognisable insignia of a rotten carcass...my putrid flesh yearns for salvation...i glide...doors of escape r closed...replica in d mirror remonstrates..."face, face d truth"...unknown even to myself i wore a mask...d mask has seeped into the soul...engulfed my entity...now tearing d mask means to bleed without bar...profusely and copiously...to soak my soul in the redeeming red...but no gothic scar to repell...
thus often i throw sparse pebbles in my scttered past...to see d circle of water sizzle...d ripples widen as d core of it simmers and palpitates...my body laid on d pyre burns leaving d ashes of all smokey years...bygone days were a facade...to keep me away from myself...though d stranger me was also tantalizing...and there was also happiness in d way i was...embittered today cant leave a scratch on the transparent glassdoor of antiquity...d swivel door of memory remains swinging...words fluttereing...and all oscillations unsettled...
where can i get my restless spirit's stay...tears are dried long ago...eyes ensnared by d cobweb of flimsy fancy search for d lost horizon...languishing for an alluring rainbow...
nibbled moon retains the trace of memory...foamy white leaves a trail...

Thursday, December 4, 2008

wishing to be the slipping sand

The desire that lurks within me in its manifold hues creates a mosaic. Varied visions of scattered visuals perforate my existence and i scream for outlet in vain, helpless like a eunuch struggling against time's irrestible jaw widened to swallow my entirety. To release myself from its firm grip I gasp, pine, shriek and sob quite oblivious of their futility. Sometimes numbness is the best defense to escape annihilating agony. Lying stretched beneath the yellowing ether i count my days and nights petrified by the golden touch.