Choice

I got a video forwarded on whatsapp today. It’s likely that you’ve seen it. It’s about this fashion store where they replace all their displayed clothes with black t-shirts, all in the same size. Customers come and ask for something they saw on their previous visit to the store, but they are met with the same reply by the staff, that they only have black tees. Some customers ask to see the manager, who, surprisingly, turns out to be a kid. The kid apologizes to the customer and says that when the choice of clothes is taken away from you, you get so agitated, imagine how difficult it must be for me when my parents don’t give me the choice of my career! The video made me cry.

I love my parents. I was a good kid. Loving and compassionate. I never made any irrational demands or threw a tantrum for expensive toys. My parents too did their part by sending me to a good school. I’ll forever be grateful for that. But I never had any choice. This did not hit me till I passed out of school. I had secured good marks in my class 12 boards. Good enough to get admission in a good course in one of the prestigious colleges of Delhi University. I remember the admission forms of these colleges being torn before me. I remember the horror stories of Delhi kids becoming drug addicts. Before I knew it I was in a local college dragging through lectures I didn’t care for.

There’s a cultural night at college, can I go? No. my friend is throwing a birthday party, can I go? No. Wearing jeans? You must be out of your frikkin mind! When you can’t even wear pajamas at home, how can you dream of wearing jeans? Ok, can I at least go out and get a haircut from a good salon? Haha. You must be kidding! Don’t talk too loud. Don’t laugh so hard. Don’t come out when we have guests visiting. Don’t find a job. Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t breathe!

It’s a miracle that I lived through that. Books helped me survive. The world of stories I immersed myself in gave me hope. Books gave me dreams. Possibilities. I started to write. Poems, mostly. It was an outlet so I could feel normal. I took all the angst I felt inside and turned it into words on my laptop screen. Poem after poem, I sent a part of myself out into the world in the form of my blog every now and then. It pulled some awesome people into my life. People who are now my close friends. Who at my most vulnerable time were there to hold my hand and not let me drown. But I digress.

Choice. It seems so simple on the surface. So disgustingly obvious. You always have a choice, they say. I still have difficulty believing that. Was it that I never had a choice or that I didn’t know any better? Or perhaps it was a bit of both. I still can’t say. Getting over my growing up years is one of the toughest things I’ve done. To come to terms with it. To accept it as it was and move on. And most importantly, to forgive my parents for unknowingly scarring me for life. Because scarred I am. Why else would I cry watching that video?       

 

My Story

I was a more creatively-inclined child than an academically-inclined one. I loved to draw and paint and make stuff from waste. And I loved languages. Stories fascinated me. I started reading with the Ladybird books for children. The colorful pictures of fairies and magicians and princes filled my childhood. Even before I was ten, I had submerged myself in the world of Enid Blyton. Then I graduated to Sidney Sheldon, Danielle Steel, and Erich Segal. I remember crying when I read Love Story by Segal. Books were my windows to such diverse universes and I, sitting in my room, had access to it all! Fortunately, one of the best schools in the country happened to be in my city and I was lucky to go there. My best friend in School, Nandini, shared my love for stories. We have read many-a-books together. Gradually we started picking up other books, like books on Palmistry, handwriting analysis, body language – all fascinating stuff. I opted for Humanities in higher secondary. Sociology and Psychology were my favourite. I also enjoyed the Political Science lectures of our very eclectic teacher, Mr. Babu Jose. He always involved the students in the lectures, seeking their views, encouraging them to form opinions. It was all very engaging. In retrospect, I understand what a tremendous influence my teachers have been in shaping my core beliefs. I learned to question notions. To seek answers. To say ‘why not’ to every ‘why’. 

It was all great for me, of course, but my parents, conservative as they were, had a difficult time adjusting to my midset. After I passed out of school I wanted to pursue higher studies from Delhi University. Back in the day, I didn’t know any better, or else I’d have thought of studying literature from an Ivy League. Anyway, my father, of course didn’t allow his daughter to ‘go out’ to study. I was offered admission in a local college in a routine course. But I thought, well, if these are my limited options, why not study computers? Afterall I was good with computers. So I completed BCA followed by an M.Sc. in IT (I thought IT would be more exciting than Computer Applications!). And yet I had no clue as to what I wanted to do career-wise. My peers were getting jobs in different cities but I didn’t want to sit in a cubicle and do coding all my life (not that my father would’ve allowed  me working in another city!), so I gravitated back to what I had always loved the most – words. Writing. Reading. I started freelancing from my laptop at home and surprise, surprise, I started making a lot of money sitting in my room and doing what I loved! I worked only for one company based out of Florida, USA. Within a month, they offered me a promotion and double the salary. For the first time in my life, I felt I was actually good at something. 

In due course, after a lot of prospective groom meetings and unnecessary drama, I was finally engaged to be married. My parents and I were two different generations living under the same roof. They could not convince me on their belief system and I was poor at communicating my dreams and ambitions to them. When there is a communication gap that wide, relationships suffer.

I got married, left freelancing and joined my very first office job in Delhi. It was in the English department of a premier school books publishing house. It took me no time to realize that I was efficient enough to finish my load of work well before time, but I had to abide by the office timings of 5 pm. So I had free time at hand every day. It irked me that I could not go home even though my work was done. I missed my freedom of freelance work. Soon I learned I was going to be a mom, so I had to take some decisions. I could not be bound to office from 9 to 5 if I wanted to give time to my child. I decided to try for a government job which would give me leaves and additional perks, even if at a lower pay. That was when I quit my job and joined Civil Services Coaching. I applied for all good government jobs and started preparing for the entrance exams. It’s funny how we spend so much of our time and energy planning our future when so little is actually in our hands. The exam date for both the state civil services and research services that I’d applied for turned out to be same. One exam in Chandigarh, the other in Delhi. I had to choose. Barely a month after giving birth to my son, I went to Delhi to write the research services exam. As luck would have it, I cleared it while my husband cleared the civil services exam and both our destinies were sealed in the respective fields.

Initially I felt so out-of-place in the Services that I thought of coming back from the training. I thought I was not cut-out for this. That God had made a mistake and I didn’t belong there. Only, God doesn’t make mistakes. It took me almost a decade to understand that whatever you get in life, make the most of it and never fall in the trap of ‘you’re not good enough’. The story we keep telling ourselves becomes our reality. When I changed my story from ‘I was meant to be in publishing’ to ‘I can be a good researcher’, I felt at ease in my duties and responsibilities as a scientist. In the meantime, I had a daughter, completed my Ph.D. coursework while she was an infant, running between classes and home whole day for two years, and I’m on my way to finishing my doctorate in another year or so. Some very helping and learned colleagues of mine have been my friends in the journey so far. I have learned to give my best and leave the rest (to God). A supportive life-partner, two wonderful children and a stable routine - this normal life is such a blessing that not a day goes by when I don’t feel grateful for it!

As I share my story on this Women’s Day, I can’t help but think that every woman’s story is worth sharing. Every woman’s story is inspiring. Like my mom, who was never formally employed but who raised four children and managed the household. It requires some kickass organizational, financial, and management skills to juggle housework, kids, kitchen and the maids. It’s a woman who makes your house a home. She is the one who keeps the family together. She’s usually the last person to go to bed and the first person to wake up. I have grown up listening to all kinds of schools of thoughts surrounding womanhood and how a woman should or shouldn’t behave. I have heard the concepts of empowerment and employment and the inter-connections between the two, and I have seen plenty of employed women who aren’t empowered and vice versa. It’s such a personal thing, womanhood. It’s not a journey out there, but a journey within. It’s about understanding what you’re made of. Realizing your strengths, your resilience. I see inspiring women all around me. They are all women who, be it good or bad, own their life stories.       

Yearning

I want to hug you
with no holds barred
my arms around your neck
my lips kissing your ear
while my right leg wraps around your left,
Your arms around my waist
pulling me close,
oh so close,
that i want to melt
right there
in your warmth.
Hold me like that forever
let time freeze in that moment
of you and me
and me and you
breathing in one rhythm,
heavy
heady
hearts pounding to one beat
lips exploring the taste
of old passion.

Silent treatment

You will win at this game
of egos;
You've always been more head
and I, more heart.

But I wonder
how much more indifference
can I take
till I crack...

You probably think
it's fine,
that I'll come around
and smile at you,
But, baby, you don't realize
that the glue of money
cannot mend broken hearts.

Let me be the second

Have you ever noticed
how sometimes a lone star
is brighter than the moon
on dark nights?

Burning silently
far, far away,
yet shining
through your heart?

I want to be that star
to touch you
with a twinkle
on your dark nights.

You know
how sometimes
words are warmer
than hugs,
and a kiss
more intimate
than a fuck?

I want to be
that second
to your every first,
for all firsts
fade into stories.

Broken

A thousand pieces 

Strewn about 

of my shiny heart.

I gather them carefully

One by one, again,

For another start. 

How is it 

That your eyes dance 

To another tune, 

While I make music 

For you all day 

From July to June? 

A thousand dreams 

Strewn about 

From me to you, 

Please take them all

And give me my love

Back in lieu. 

Busy

You and I together
Make or break our home
Why then make mountains out of molehills
And make me write a poem?


I was irritated
You were rude too
Let's now please bury the hatchet
For we both have work to do!

Together

Under the same sky

You and i

So far away

Yet so close.

You are probably

Looking out the window

of your car

Wearing your sunglasses

Through the bright, sunny day.

And I

Look out the window

of my office

Into the lush, wet greens

of the pouring rain.

Let me send you

Some of this precious rain

And take

Some sun from you

To keep me warm.

Under the same sky

You and i

Brought together

From a time long gone by.

Here I am. After six long years. I feel like a completely different person today. Going through my old posts I wondered how such emotions were felt and documented so easily in the form of verse. I was a simpler, more naive person back then. And perhaps the ability to feel and write like that is the price I have paid to get smarter/wiser ? Or perhaps I still have it in me.

Let's find out.

Once upon a time

There was a time when i used to write

about you and me, about the moon and the sky,
about the wind and the dancing trees.

There was a time when i used to dream

of you and me, of smiles and tears,
of gossamer touch and subtle words.

There was a time when i used to hope

for you and me, for long walks at the beach,
for moon-lit nights and silly fights.

That was the time when i was more alive

with you,
with me.

Unwitten

I wrote this
a long time back
in my mind.

Before we even spoke
or touched each-other
with our thoughts.

I wrote of the flight of you
to my heart,
the music of me
in your words.

Today when i looked
through my archives
i found it faded,
slightly.

But i could still pick
the unwritten
from its memory,
and here it is.

Can you read it still?