Trial and Error

Trial and error
The same rundown memory lane.
Here I go again!
Looking for the broken mirror
Housing my face from when
I committed my first mistake.
Trials and errors pile
Make me feel like
I've committed myself
To the folly of insane
In various grabs.
Each shard of the broken mirror
Adds to itself a new image
Of innocence lost
Bewilderment and shock
Old exasperation
New born resignation.
One more trial after
May be I will even catch
A glimpse of death
On the cracked surface. 

Kintsukuroi

The fact that nobody is perfect is as old an a stale bread on which molds of indifference have grown. If we were to meet each other, and if we were to become friends, may be even lovers at some point of time, I wouldn't console you by saying how your perfections are perfect to me. I wouldn't lecture you on our imperfections complementing each other. For me, your imperfections will be interesting. Discovering them will be like reveling in the glory of discovering long lost treasure. Knowing that you too have suffered, may be not in the  same way as I have and that you too have scars will not make me afraid of showing you mine. All the wounds, rotting flesh, healed scabs and raw pink skin, everything will be the places we go on dates. We will talk and talk till our mouths go dry and we are short of breath. You wouldn't think I'm ugly because I have scars. I wouldn't think you're an outcast because of your injuries. My fingers will tread upon your sutures, your eyes will travel over my hellholes. In knowing that we both have suffered, we will both be erroneous, slightly out of place and unique. And that is how two very imperfect people will leak into each other, melt into each other. That is how we will live again, become human beings again, in all our mistakes and failings. 

STOP BULLYING

I come from a humble, middle-class family. Mine is not a family of intellectuals or scholars. My granny used to be great story-teller, and that is how my love for stories grew since I was just a toddler. Later on, that love cultivated itself in the habit of reading books and I discovered that literature was something I loved. Therefore, that post high school, my choice of subject for further study would be literature was no surprise. I dreamed of being in one of most renowned academic institutions of the city. As life would have it, after the scheduled admission test, I made it to the department of my dreams.

When you get into a premier institution for pursuing your grads, your hopes are high. So were mine. New people. New environment. New life. Everything was exciting and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. Now that I look back, I do realize how naive I'd been! I thought of all my classmates as nice people who had read a lot more books than I have and had lives which was very different from mine.

I made a few 'friends' in the first 2/3 days. Or, I thought I did. A week into classes, I found out a group of my classmates standing huddled in corner, giggling, pointing fingers and laughing at me. I did not understand what all that was about! After that, I started noticing how this particular group would behave in strange ways around me, mimicking, pointing, making snide remarks about every thing: from the way I dressed to the way I talked. Having faced nothing of this sort before, I felt hurt more than feeling humiliated. Then there were times when they'd stamp the bench where I sat, or refuse to pass on the information regarding tests etc.  It was all very hurtful. I became very conscious of the way I dressed and carried myself. No matter how many times I tried, I still couldn't figure out what was it about me that made them jibe and joke at me. After all, I too had cracked the same admission test they sat for.

Surprisingly, some from this illustrious group of people were in the 'Anti-Ragging' cell of the varsity. I was not the only one victimized by them. There were several others in my class who bore their wrath. This continued for a while and they jeers were the strongest when it came to me. They even went ahead a created a closed group on Facebook to ridicule and crack jokes on me.


Never even in my wildest dreams could I've imagined that this would happen. That too, in an institution which was famed for accepting people just as they were and being versatile enough to accept even those who were different.


I did not know what my fault was! I don't even think I was at fault unless you count being from a different socio-economic background as a deterrent.

I was tagged as 'the blonde dumb' because I'm fair-skinned and conventionally good-looking. Mind you, I did not choose my appearance and never made a bid deal out of it.

Interestingly, these were also the people who shouted slogans against misogyny and gender inequality and everything that most 'intellectuals' shout about.

Bullies aren't born. Being a bully is a choice. In this case, it was an informed choice. No matter how many anti-ragging cells, rules and laws we set up, bullying won't cease to exist unless we uproot it from our elitist mindsets. 

The Untold

Disclaimer: All the characters and incidents in this article are purely fictional (really?).There is no resemblance to anyone, living or dead. (Or, may be not.)


Our story begins on a day when the girl, the heroine of our story was feeling particularly under the weather. It was one of those days when nothing felt right. That day of the winter of that year was particularly chilly and she could feel a strange numbness spreading inside her very bones, shriveling up her insides and chilling her to the core. She thought that some good ol' rum might cheer her up a bit and after the fiery liquid had trickled down her cold insides, she began to feel light-headed. And the first person on her mind was this guy who had befriended her. He was shy and took a lot of time to open up but with her, by his own admission, things had been different. She remembered how he had talked of painful experiences of his past to her, shuddering even at the recollection. He seemed vulnerable and comforting at the same time. She picked up her phone and dialed his number.


Months passed. They now met each other at regular intervals. Even though she could not deny the sparks that flew every time they met, she was more fond of the warm friendship that they shared. But one fine day the boy told her that he has been in love with her for a long time now and whether she felt the same way about him. She confessed that she did. They were happy together. Movies, dinners and long walks followed. 

Every time he made love to her, he  reminded her of how much he loved her, how gentle he was with her and lucky she was to have him. Until one day she felt a sharp twang of pain and saw him slip something inside her. She realized that the boy only pretended to be gentle. He was abusive, stubborn and possessive to the point of not letting her breathe without him. She realized how the bruises on her soul were piling up with each passing day. And so, she told him that this could not be and that they should part ways. She had no idea of what was about to come. 


After verbally abusing her for breaking up, the guy retorted to dirtier means. He threatened to spill all the pictures they had taken of their intimate moments. He said he'll put them up on porn sites, email them to all his acquaintances unless, unless she slept with him every week. Unless he felt that he had 'punished' her adequately for springing the sudden break up on him. Unless he had 'more of that bombshell body' she 'hid' under baggy clothes. She was devastated. She could not believe her eyes. She could not believe her ears. She was scared. She was at a loss. She did not know what to do, where to go and what was really happening to her. 

Finally, after weeks of psychological abuse, she realized the he was feeding off her fears. She stood up to him. And that was the end of him. And through all her struggles, one of her male friends stood by her, supported her and encouraged her. She realized that abusers didn't have genders. Abusers just were. 


Note:  Till this day, as I am typing away, no one knew her story. I understand it took a lot of courage for her to come out with what she had gone through. As for the disclaimer, think of the words carefully and you will know. 

My body, my rules?

 I want to explore my body. I've always wanted to explore my body. From a very early age, I've often wondered about people who posed for paintings and modeled for pictures.And I have no fear or embarrassment in admitting that I've wanted to be one of them. Period. But the circumstances that I've grown up in has made me feel that exploring your body, 'exposing' your body is a filthy crime only suited to people in the flesh trade. I've seen women getting labelled as 'osobhyo', 'bellela' etc only because they chose to wear sleeveless blouses or show their cleavage. Naive that I was back then, I still couldn't figure out why women who were comfortable in their skins were judged the way they were! The concept of 'noshto meye' was beyond my years. But even then, I found myself attracted to these women who freely expressed themselves through the clothes they wore, the choices  (read smoking cigarettes or not smoking cigarettes for that matter etc) they made and the life ( read going on solo trips, having a 'man's job', not getting or getting married right after graduating college etc) they lead. The exhilaration of being one's true self  while the society aimed constant jibes at you was what intrigued me no end.

During my growing up years, I've read a few odd books here and there and have gained enough confidence, rather, I daresay, bravery to express myself, my wishes, my desires just as they were. I don't want to fear judgment. I don't want to fear getting tagged for what I wish to be. For all that matters, I think we should be the least scared of expressing ourselves. I do want to work as a body artist. I want my body to be someone's canvas, both in the figurative and metaphorical sense of the term. When my friend expresses his wish to capture me in all my moods, to leaf through my expressions, to explore and capture my essence through his lenses, I want to be able to do that without having to feel that I've done something wrong or overstepped my boundaries as a 'bhodro-barir meye'.Why do I have to fear for my parents' reputation and their reaction for something that I want to do? For something I should be quite free to do without having to care for consequences?

I want to tear away the invisible ropes of dilemma that are pulling me back, weighing me down and making me question myself. Why is it that in spite of wanting to be completely, fiercely independent I still have to think twice before doing what I want to? The answer has so far eluded me. But I'm trying break free, I'm trying to break free from this psychological tug of war that is holding me back. It might take some time, but I'll surely get there.Let's just hope that I get there soon, very soon, into a space where I'm free to be myself, free to express myself, free to be who I am!  

                            

Feminism, patriarchy, etc

So, everyday I come across posts that say a lot of things about women: some 'for' women, some 'against' women, some saying 'I support women' and all those things. But most of them are lost on me. They are lost on me for a reason. No, wait. For several reasons.

First things first, the way our society (read a LOT of my acquaintances included) reacts to Feminism is horrifying. When I say this, I mean there is a gross misinterpretation of Feminism by men and women both. For one, Feminism does not and I repeat does not serve the purpose of a synonym for 'I despise everything men do and hate the male fraternity' sentiments. So, it'd be really nice if you understood what Feminism is about before either gloating or blaspheming it.

A lot of crime takes place behind the closed doors in our society. By crime, I do mean all these cases of molestation, rape, abuse, domestic violence and stuff that nightmares are made up of. We, most importantly, a lot of women out there need to realize that we the women are not the only victims here. I know several male friends of mine who have been groped in public transport and molested. We cannot be selectively blind and label the entire male fraternity as the potential rapists. Men get raped too. A criminal does not have a gender.

Moving over, my body is my own. I can be born skinny.Or, curvy. I can choose to be skinny. Or, curvy. Or lean, athletic, muscular, round, square, triangle, rhombus etc. Basically, whatever I want to be. The trend of 'Real Women Are Curvy' is misleading and very biased. Just so you know, there is nothing called 'real' women. We are very much real from the time of our births till the time of our deaths.

We eat, live and survive in the virtual world. There's no denying the fact that social media is as integral a part of our lives as is taking a dump. And it is here that I find women, girls, young and old talking about, sharing stuff that spell misogyny, that stink of sexism. In adhering to the patriarchal standards of the society, are we not feeding the same with our very own hands?

Stop tagging strong woman as 'mardaani'. 

Stop ridiculing men who wear pink. 

Stop using 'bitch', 'cunt', 'sissy' etc as cuss words. 

Stop victimizing all men as 'kutte-kamine'. 

Stop doing nonsensical, illogical, elitist things. 

Stop. Think. Realize. 

May be its time for us all, men and women alike, to think before we speak. May be its time for all of us to act!