Grief

It is that day of the year again. The day the reminds me of what I have lost.

Not that it needs reminding. I remember it every day. And yet, yet, I have managed to live on. I have managed to smile and laugh and dream. There is not a day when I don't grieve, but I have coped, have moved on.

Have I really?

I remember the time when I lost. I felt as if my being was shattered in thousand pieces, with each sinew of mine shredded. As if every nerve of mine sat up on its haunches and let out a piercing yell of pain. And then, sat down with its head down and wept and wept and wept. And then, when the flood of tears abated, I came back to consciousness, and saw that I was still whole. My fingers were intact, my hair was still in place, my stomach still growled with hunger - all of this while the sinews inside were still facing the skies and continuing to bawl with a deafening sound. My hurt self was angry, sad, desolate and in throes of despair, but my living self wanted to move, eat, defecate and yes, even smile. I hated myself that day. Hated myself for being a part of my living self, and hated being a part of my hurt self.

And then came the others. Others who came because they heard of my loss, and wanted to comfort me. I looked at them, and told them about my yelling and screaming sinews. But they wanted me to think about food, about what to wear for the funeral, about how I wanted to dress her. They wanted me to be one with them. But I wanted to go with her. I wasn't for the world. My world was gone, did they not know that? And yet, they persisted. They put food in front of me. My stomach growled and kicked me. I gave in, and ate a morsel of food, and then another, and then another and then a whole meal. My stomach smiled. The others who brought me food smiled too. The sound from my sinews raised its level, and wanted to be heard again. I started to tell the others, but they hurried on, not meeting my eyes, and distracting me by telling me about the funeral. I realized then, they don't want me to tell them about my anger and hurt and desolation.

I remember saying that I wanted to see her. They said I could not. She was taken away to the mortuary, they said. They then pushed me home. Home to where her bed was, her clothes, her pillows and her toys. And the pain returned thousand fold. I could not bear it. I wanted to die as I yelled again. There was no one to hear me. They could not bear to be with me, I think. They could not even look at me in the face, afraid to see the hurt bawling out. They were not with me. Would never be. They perhaps had hurts of their own, and my hurt and loss reminded them of their own.

Days passed and I was left with myself. The hurt self and the self that was living. The only way the living self could live was by ignoring the other self. By letting her cry, letting her beat her head against the wall, letting her tear herself down. I hated myself being the living self on days. Those days I would starve the living self. And on other days, my hurt self would come out and bawl. She would take me near railway tracks and invite me to try coming between the wheels and the tracks. She would make me want to drown myself in the sea and make me walk along the shore for hours, waiting for the tide to come in and claim me. How can you live and eat without her, she would ask me. I had no answers. Often times I agreed with her. The others cheered the living one, and ignored the hurt one. I began to hide the hurt one from others, she really had no other companion than me, so why bother having her out with others, I reasoned.

Its been years now. My hurt self lies crumpled within me, lurking behind every smile of mine. I have chosen to hide her, but she is a huge part of me. She comes out and stares at me from mirrors, and when watching a very young baby, thwacks her head against the wall.

But on days like today, I let her come out in the open, and grieve and be angry. Angry at the so called Gods, angry at doctors, angry at everyone who could have helped her baby, but did not. And sad for her baby, who got nothing, nothing from the world. Nothing but pain and illness. On days like today, I allow myself the luxury of becoming one with my hurt self, and suspend living for a while.

Tomorrow, however, is another day. She will have to hide again. No one, not even myself, can bear to be with her. She needs care and comfort, but I can't give it to her - I simply don't have the amount she needs.

Entitled to a Woman

(Image from the Internet)

Over the past weeks, I have met several young people of both genders, none of them married. I met some of them with their parents, who worry incessantly about finding the right life partner for their offspring. This is so typically Indian. Education, marriage and sometimes even a home, Indian parents want to do it all for their children, sometimes even at the cost of their own well-being and material pleasure.

I understand where these parents come from, though I do not like it. Afterall, I am one of them too. However, this note is not from the viewpoint of the parents, but from the young people's.

Young girls really really chafe about the fact that the men they would marry, as arranged by their parents, would be on the basis of the young man's education, the economic status of their home, the status in the society and so on. Not on the basis of whether they find these men attractive, like minded-ness etc, and sometimes even without these two qualities. The way the girl feels about the boy she would sleep with, and spend the rest of her life with, is expected to evolve - positively - post marriage.

On the other hand, young men feel no such trepidation. Young men, if they have been lucky enough to be born to affluent parents who have managed to give them good education and a good home, feel almost entitled to any girl their parents line up for them. It does not even OCCUR to them that the young girl, who is trading in her life, may not like him. And he does not care. He assumes that she would like him, and in most cases, love him. However, he would make no effort whatsoever to be worthy of her love. The reason for this is the fact that young boys in India have no clue how to behave with a girl. Also, this mechanism of parents arranging for the girls, makes it very convenient to ignore this touchy feelie territory. So, he sits back, and either chooses/rejects the girls his parents line up for him. He is entitled to his wife. Afterall, he is a male.

The arranged marriage relationship, no wonder, seems so awful to most young girls. The girls of the current generation - and truth be told, even the previous ones - do not like men who feel "entitled" to them. They would like to be woo-ed, won over, charmed and all the romantic things that their sensuous nature demands.

The Indian society, however, is not equipped to create such boys/men. And indian women have no alternative other than indian men in their geographies. No wonder, the indian marriage events are so huge, with parents creating a big smoke cover, to hide the inconvenient truth from the bride. Once married, the great indian system also provides no real exits for the girl. She is the one who will carry the burden of making the marriage work, ensuring all the needs of her husband are taken care of, his relationships are in place, and so is his house and children. The indian male focusses on being the provider, and nothing else. In case she fails to make the marriage work, she would be ostracized forever by the society. It really does not matter that her husband is a drunkard, or a insensitive lout, or simply someone who she cannot get along with, she is expected to carry the yoke without a murmur, as divorce is a ugly ugly word. The man, on the other hand, stands effortlessly on his impregnable citadel of patriarchy, and enjoys his entitlement of this woman he has married. Without making any effort to be the man of his bride would like him to be, and to treat her the way she would like to be treated. In most cases, the man would not have spared a single brain cycle on thinking about what his wife wants.

This entitlement system sucks.