Berlin is in the news for more than one reason these days. While Germans and the international community got together to celebrate 20 years of the end of the Cold War at the city’s most significant symbol, the Brandenburg Gate, history of a sexier sort was being written in the streets and on the screens of Berlin.
A few days before this much publicised socio-political event, another revolution – of a more feminine sort – took place at the Berlin Pornography Festival. A prize for ‘feminist porn’ was given out for the first time, and more than half the entries were of porn films made by women for women. That means fake breasts and dubbed moaning are out, and focus on women’s orgasms is in.
Europe is no stranger to addressing female sexual needs. A visit to Berlin’s Museum of Erotica is any woman’s delight. From lingerie of all shapes and contraptions (plus-sizes aplenty) to vibrating dildos that are made with material that is ‘easy on your insides’, to mild, clever packaging that does not mention the word ‘sex toy’ anywhere – every concern is addressed. The staff are all women, and so are a majority of the customers, going through porn CDs and vibrating ‘eggs’ as if through grocery shelves, comparing prices, sizes and functions. Once in a while a young giggle goes up through an aisle of gels, anal balls and spiky condoms, but on the whole, it’s any other mundane store in Berlin.
So the fact that women are the fastest growing segment of sex-toys consumers comes as no surprise. But that women’s needs are being more directly addressed through a hitherto entirely male terrain – video pornography – is a tantalizing trend. Laura Meritt, owner of a sex store for women in Berlin, has initiated a ‘PorYes’ label (like a regulatory mark) on all porn films that show women as active subjects and not passive objects of the process. The PorYes label will also signal “proper working conditions” for actresses, more women in the director’s chair and priority given to safe sex, she says. (Meritt is also responsible for the oyster shape of the Feminist Porn trophy.)
It’s definitely a long step from the hilarious, if unsexy, Porn for Women book series, which had pictures of good-looking hunks doing housework, looking after babies and actually reading instructions before setting up a DVD player. While it does make you laugh, you can’t call it pornography in the real sense. On the other hand, what turns women on is not necessarily sentimental tosh either. "Porn made by a woman, for women, does not mean it will be boring," Meritt asserts.
Having women in the filmmaking seat may be a sign of better things for women porn lovers – naked men masturbating (as available on most ‘porn for women’ websites) is not really every woman’s sexual fantasy. Give us realistic, passionate couples instead. Thankfully, if Berlin 2009 is anything to go by, it’s going to quite a turn-on ahead.
Nov 17, 2009
Oct 4, 2009
Coffee shop story 4
With two shopping bags in each hand, and her handbag on one shoulder, Neera could just about navigate the wet, crowded market on her way back to the car. Her mind whirled with a hundred things to do, and she didn't notice Manju saying hi as she walked towards her.
"Hey, long time! It's good to see you, you're looking so hassled though," laughed Manju, offering a hand with the bags.
"Hi Manju, yea, sorry, was doing the usual round of the stores. Am just so tired, you know how it is..." Neera grimaced. "So you're doing your daily shopping too?"
"Yes but I'm also looking for a silver payal for my colleague who's leaving. There's a little shop here that keeps stuff like that. Hey, it's been so long since we caught up, shall we have a coffee? Are you in a rush?" Manju tilted her head towards the cafe nearby.
Neera took just a moment to agree. She badly needed to put her feet up a bit.
Minutes later, they were discussing mothers-in-law woes and family duties. "It doesn't matter, you know, whether it's your mom or your mom-in-law," said Manju. "When you live with someone of another generation, there's bound to be a gap somewhere."
Neera was still all worked up from the events of her day and couldn't be comforted. "She knows I have so many things to do in a day but she just won't lend a hand. Yesterday no one was home when Aryan came back from school. Both my husband and his mom were out, and I was at work -- and they didn't even let me know of their plans. Only when I reached home did I find out he'd been sitting in the neighbour's flat all afternoon. Why must all the household and childcare duties fall on me? I work too! It's so unfair. Being a working woman, you have absolutely no support in our society."
Manju nodded her head. "It seems like a hard life. I live with my parents and trust me, it's no easier. They can be so difficult at this age."
"You're lucky you don't have kids," said Neera, glancing at her watch.
"Well, that's one way of looking at it," smiled Manju. "But being single in my 30s has made me very fixed in some ways, and my parents are getting more rigid and bitter day by day. It's hard for me to have friends over or stay out late nights. They have all these 'ideas' of how women should behave. Especially since my divorce..." her voice trailed off.
Neera looked at her with new interest. "So how do you handle it?"
"I don't, I suffer in silence. I have all this guilt on my head anyway."
"But it wasn't your fault your husband left you!" exclaimed Neera.
"Yes, but maybe it was... at a karmic level you know. I must be paying for past deeds," sighed Manju. "And now the cycle is still not complete. He left me, and my parents now reject me. They're so critical all the time. I can't do anything right in their eyes. I'm their imperfect daughter."
Neera grew indignant. "What are you saying? Your karma isn't just your past, it's also your present and your future. You can't change what's happened but you have the power to change what's going to happen. Stop giving others the power to judge you or criticise you."
"Yea, I do it enough myself anyway," Manju said wryly.
"So stop doing it," Neera instinctively clutched Manju's hands on the table and squeezed them tight. A burst of life energy rushed through their palms as their warmth connected. Manju looked up at Neera in surprise, unknowing of the vibrant red energy Neera was wilfully blessing her with. "You have to be aware of your strengths, the preciousness of your life!" said Neera passionately.
Manju's mouth broke into a smile, and then rushed into a shy giggle. "Yes, thank you, you're such a darling," she said, and pulled her hand away. Neera broke out of her spell and smiled too, sitting back. It was time for the bill.
That night Neera had a huge fight with her husband for not keeping track of the home loan payments especially since her cheque had bounced the previous month. Must she be responsible for everything? she screamed, picking up her pillow to go sleep with her seven-year-old in his room, her mother-in-law listening anxiously through the walls.
That night Manju decided to move out.
"Hey, long time! It's good to see you, you're looking so hassled though," laughed Manju, offering a hand with the bags.
"Hi Manju, yea, sorry, was doing the usual round of the stores. Am just so tired, you know how it is..." Neera grimaced. "So you're doing your daily shopping too?"
"Yes but I'm also looking for a silver payal for my colleague who's leaving. There's a little shop here that keeps stuff like that. Hey, it's been so long since we caught up, shall we have a coffee? Are you in a rush?" Manju tilted her head towards the cafe nearby.
Neera took just a moment to agree. She badly needed to put her feet up a bit.
Minutes later, they were discussing mothers-in-law woes and family duties. "It doesn't matter, you know, whether it's your mom or your mom-in-law," said Manju. "When you live with someone of another generation, there's bound to be a gap somewhere."
Neera was still all worked up from the events of her day and couldn't be comforted. "She knows I have so many things to do in a day but she just won't lend a hand. Yesterday no one was home when Aryan came back from school. Both my husband and his mom were out, and I was at work -- and they didn't even let me know of their plans. Only when I reached home did I find out he'd been sitting in the neighbour's flat all afternoon. Why must all the household and childcare duties fall on me? I work too! It's so unfair. Being a working woman, you have absolutely no support in our society."
Manju nodded her head. "It seems like a hard life. I live with my parents and trust me, it's no easier. They can be so difficult at this age."
"You're lucky you don't have kids," said Neera, glancing at her watch.
"Well, that's one way of looking at it," smiled Manju. "But being single in my 30s has made me very fixed in some ways, and my parents are getting more rigid and bitter day by day. It's hard for me to have friends over or stay out late nights. They have all these 'ideas' of how women should behave. Especially since my divorce..." her voice trailed off.
Neera looked at her with new interest. "So how do you handle it?"
"I don't, I suffer in silence. I have all this guilt on my head anyway."
"But it wasn't your fault your husband left you!" exclaimed Neera.
"Yes, but maybe it was... at a karmic level you know. I must be paying for past deeds," sighed Manju. "And now the cycle is still not complete. He left me, and my parents now reject me. They're so critical all the time. I can't do anything right in their eyes. I'm their imperfect daughter."
Neera grew indignant. "What are you saying? Your karma isn't just your past, it's also your present and your future. You can't change what's happened but you have the power to change what's going to happen. Stop giving others the power to judge you or criticise you."
"Yea, I do it enough myself anyway," Manju said wryly.
"So stop doing it," Neera instinctively clutched Manju's hands on the table and squeezed them tight. A burst of life energy rushed through their palms as their warmth connected. Manju looked up at Neera in surprise, unknowing of the vibrant red energy Neera was wilfully blessing her with. "You have to be aware of your strengths, the preciousness of your life!" said Neera passionately.
Manju's mouth broke into a smile, and then rushed into a shy giggle. "Yes, thank you, you're such a darling," she said, and pulled her hand away. Neera broke out of her spell and smiled too, sitting back. It was time for the bill.
That night Neera had a huge fight with her husband for not keeping track of the home loan payments especially since her cheque had bounced the previous month. Must she be responsible for everything? she screamed, picking up her pillow to go sleep with her seven-year-old in his room, her mother-in-law listening anxiously through the walls.
That night Manju decided to move out.
Oct 1, 2009
Coffee shop story 3
It was a little after 4 p.m. when Payal and Amrita stepped into the coffee shop near their office, a much-needed respite from work. Over cold coffee (with whipped cream and sprinkles), they shared tales of their weekends.
“We had a parent-teacher meeting at my daughter’s school,” started Amrita. “I just die of total rock-bottom self-esteem levels every time I have to go for those.”
“Why?” inquired Payal, opening up the single-cookie packet and dividing it into two.
“Those women are all so pahunchi-hui types – so accomplished and all that. Someone’s from the Gandhi-Nehru clan, someone owns a million-dollar IT firm, someone’s a famous fashion designer. I mean, I feel great my daughter is mingling with the kids of all these people, but I personally feel very little among them,” Amrita grimaced, taking the half of Payal’s cookie.
“They’re probably as insecure as you are,” comforted Payal. “The more pahuncha hua they are, the more they have to worry about keeping up the appearance of being so.”
“Yes, but I can never compete with them, can I?” Amrita made a sad face, looking into her drink.
“I know how you feel,” said Payal sympathetically. “I feel that way whenever my husband’s friends come over. Trust me, it’s easier to be among those Page-Three people and retain your own identity. It’s harder when the ‘competition’ is all in the head, and not social standing.”
“What do you mean?”
“My husband and his friends are all intellectuals. They talk of politics and literature and world events and art. And I am the little nobody, sitting quietly in a corner, with nothing of significance to contribute to any conversation,” Payal shrugged, defensively.
“But you are so bright yourself!” exclaimed Amrita. “Why should making conversation be hard for you?”
“Because I’m not as brainy as they are. Because I’m just a silly woman with a low-IQ job in a small-time HR company. Because I’d rather talk of ‘lighter’ issues like our children and preserving the environment. I’m not in their league. They have bigger things on their minds. It’s a competition I lost years ago.”
It was Amrita’s turn to smile sympathetically. “If you ask me, I think you’re very intelligent and dedicated, and you have a lot to offer even the most intellectual of intellectuals. I learn so much from you whenever we talk.”
“Well, maybe you do – but that’s because you learn from everyone. And by the way, you should feel confident in front of all those women at your daughter’s school. You aren’t famous like them but you have your own set of strengths and talent and experiences, which they don’t,” stated Payal with finality. Their cold coffees down to the last burst of foam, they fidgeted in their seats, knowing it was time to go back to office.
“I guess we are all blessed in some way,” mused Amrita as they finally left the cafe. “I guess we need to crib less, and count our blessings more often.”
“Yes, at least we have someone to crib to, and to help us count those blessings,” replied Payal. They looked knowingly at one another and smiled.
Smiles which would warm their hearts and keep them silent company for many future parent-teacher meetings and family parties later.
“We had a parent-teacher meeting at my daughter’s school,” started Amrita. “I just die of total rock-bottom self-esteem levels every time I have to go for those.”
“Why?” inquired Payal, opening up the single-cookie packet and dividing it into two.
“Those women are all so pahunchi-hui types – so accomplished and all that. Someone’s from the Gandhi-Nehru clan, someone owns a million-dollar IT firm, someone’s a famous fashion designer. I mean, I feel great my daughter is mingling with the kids of all these people, but I personally feel very little among them,” Amrita grimaced, taking the half of Payal’s cookie.
“They’re probably as insecure as you are,” comforted Payal. “The more pahuncha hua they are, the more they have to worry about keeping up the appearance of being so.”
“Yes, but I can never compete with them, can I?” Amrita made a sad face, looking into her drink.
“I know how you feel,” said Payal sympathetically. “I feel that way whenever my husband’s friends come over. Trust me, it’s easier to be among those Page-Three people and retain your own identity. It’s harder when the ‘competition’ is all in the head, and not social standing.”
“What do you mean?”
“My husband and his friends are all intellectuals. They talk of politics and literature and world events and art. And I am the little nobody, sitting quietly in a corner, with nothing of significance to contribute to any conversation,” Payal shrugged, defensively.
“But you are so bright yourself!” exclaimed Amrita. “Why should making conversation be hard for you?”
“Because I’m not as brainy as they are. Because I’m just a silly woman with a low-IQ job in a small-time HR company. Because I’d rather talk of ‘lighter’ issues like our children and preserving the environment. I’m not in their league. They have bigger things on their minds. It’s a competition I lost years ago.”
It was Amrita’s turn to smile sympathetically. “If you ask me, I think you’re very intelligent and dedicated, and you have a lot to offer even the most intellectual of intellectuals. I learn so much from you whenever we talk.”
“Well, maybe you do – but that’s because you learn from everyone. And by the way, you should feel confident in front of all those women at your daughter’s school. You aren’t famous like them but you have your own set of strengths and talent and experiences, which they don’t,” stated Payal with finality. Their cold coffees down to the last burst of foam, they fidgeted in their seats, knowing it was time to go back to office.
“I guess we are all blessed in some way,” mused Amrita as they finally left the cafe. “I guess we need to crib less, and count our blessings more often.”
“Yes, at least we have someone to crib to, and to help us count those blessings,” replied Payal. They looked knowingly at one another and smiled.
Smiles which would warm their hearts and keep them silent company for many future parent-teacher meetings and family parties later.
Sep 27, 2009
Coffee shop story 2
Vijeta fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes, keeping an eye out for Suni's arrival. She wouldn't be able to smoke indoors, so she was waiting outside the cafe. The sun was close to setting into the horizon, but surrounded by buildings, Vijeta had no way of knowing exactly where that confluence would happen. Just as she lit up and took a drag, Suni came to view, waving shyly, walking slowly towards her. Damn, thought Vijeta, hastily stubbing out. That was a total waste of perfectly good ciggie.
"Hey Suni, hi!" she beamed. "So good to see you here." The two women hugged and walked into the coffee bar. They placed their orders before they sat at a two-seater right in the centre, surrounded by noisy corporates just off from work. "So, how've you been doing?" began Vijeta, once they were settled. "It's been, what, three months since you arrived in Delhi?"
And so they discussed Suni's new job as a dentist in Max, her move from Hyderabad, and how her sister had put her in touch with Vijeta, to 'make friends with' in the big bad metro. Soon, as happens when women meet, the topic veered to men. "You're married, my sister told me," asked Suni, hesitantly. "I was," said Vijeta, not batting an eyelid. "Twice. Now I'm exploring other arrangements. What about you? You're single? Married? Seeing someone?"
Suni's eyes were wide open as she responded, "I'm single. No I've never been married. No I'm not seeing anyone. I never did." For a few moments both women looked at each other in equivalent surprise. "How old are you again?" frowned Vijeta.
"Forty."
"You're older than I am! And you've never been in a relationship, EVER?"
"No." Their eyes still locked, Vijeta's eyebrows shot up at Suni's slow response. "Why not?" she commanded, incredulous.
"Because I never found the right guy," offered Suni doubtfully, like she knew it was the wrong answer in a maths quiz.
"Honey, there IS no right guy," Vijeta let out a sigh and sat back. "You just have to make do with the wrong ones. Gosh. A virgin at forty!" She shook her head. She'd never encountered something like this before. A perfectly decent-looking woman too. Accomplished and brainy and all that. What was she thinking? The right guy? Yeah right.
Suni felt vaguely shameful. "What about you?" she asked the silence that had suddenly broken upon them. "Are you currently seeing someone?"
"Well, I have a friend with benefits at the moment. But no I'm not seeing anyone, not in the sense you mean."
Again silence, as Suni absorbed this. Seeing her squirm, Vijeta continued. "I was married eight years to the same guy once, and then two years to the next one. I'm trying to keep it simple now, you know. Focus on my work and my art and all that. Men are on the side, when the need arises."
Suni's next question popped out like a burp. "Where do you find all these men?" She was embarrassed immediately. But she looked at Vijeta's face expectantly, with savage curiosity, for a reaction.
"They're all over," dismissed Vijeta. "There's no shortage of them. If you have even the slightest need, they come crawling out of the woodwork. You're probably too focused on finding that 'perfect person' and all that. That's why you aren't considering the rest. Loosen up you know."
"I can't. I have all these moral issues," Suni said after a few thoughtful moments. "I've been brought up in a conservative way, focusing on my studies and then my medical practice. I kept thinking I'd only settle for the man who was equally qualified. And the next thing I knew, time had gone by and now I'm called a spinster. I don't like being here. It's lonely. I feel like I've missed on a lot. I pray every day for companionship."
Vijeta had a horrible urge to light up again, but she couldn't. "We're all lonely, darling," she said, and leaned across to look deeper into Suni's eyes. "Finding a man won't make you less lonely. It'll only distract you for a while before the devil strikes again. But even so, I'd rather keep myself open, you know. Morals shouldn't stop you from tasting all the different cuisines out there. Options. Possibilities. I like those words." She sat back again, and they stared at each other until the bill came.
They never met again. The new city swallowed Suni up in a whirlwind of patients and travel and timings. Vijeta went back to her day job, her men, her painting. But something changed after that day at the coffee shop. A string of each one's life force somehow connected to the heart of the other. Those few moments of soul-gazing gave them each a peek of the other side, a silent, humbling, exhilarating view of the unknown. It was like stepping to the edge of the precipice and pulling back. From what she'd never considered. What she'd never dreamt of.
From what she could have been.
"Hey Suni, hi!" she beamed. "So good to see you here." The two women hugged and walked into the coffee bar. They placed their orders before they sat at a two-seater right in the centre, surrounded by noisy corporates just off from work. "So, how've you been doing?" began Vijeta, once they were settled. "It's been, what, three months since you arrived in Delhi?"
And so they discussed Suni's new job as a dentist in Max, her move from Hyderabad, and how her sister had put her in touch with Vijeta, to 'make friends with' in the big bad metro. Soon, as happens when women meet, the topic veered to men. "You're married, my sister told me," asked Suni, hesitantly. "I was," said Vijeta, not batting an eyelid. "Twice. Now I'm exploring other arrangements. What about you? You're single? Married? Seeing someone?"
Suni's eyes were wide open as she responded, "I'm single. No I've never been married. No I'm not seeing anyone. I never did." For a few moments both women looked at each other in equivalent surprise. "How old are you again?" frowned Vijeta.
"Forty."
"You're older than I am! And you've never been in a relationship, EVER?"
"No." Their eyes still locked, Vijeta's eyebrows shot up at Suni's slow response. "Why not?" she commanded, incredulous.
"Because I never found the right guy," offered Suni doubtfully, like she knew it was the wrong answer in a maths quiz.
"Honey, there IS no right guy," Vijeta let out a sigh and sat back. "You just have to make do with the wrong ones. Gosh. A virgin at forty!" She shook her head. She'd never encountered something like this before. A perfectly decent-looking woman too. Accomplished and brainy and all that. What was she thinking? The right guy? Yeah right.
Suni felt vaguely shameful. "What about you?" she asked the silence that had suddenly broken upon them. "Are you currently seeing someone?"
"Well, I have a friend with benefits at the moment. But no I'm not seeing anyone, not in the sense you mean."
Again silence, as Suni absorbed this. Seeing her squirm, Vijeta continued. "I was married eight years to the same guy once, and then two years to the next one. I'm trying to keep it simple now, you know. Focus on my work and my art and all that. Men are on the side, when the need arises."
Suni's next question popped out like a burp. "Where do you find all these men?" She was embarrassed immediately. But she looked at Vijeta's face expectantly, with savage curiosity, for a reaction.
"They're all over," dismissed Vijeta. "There's no shortage of them. If you have even the slightest need, they come crawling out of the woodwork. You're probably too focused on finding that 'perfect person' and all that. That's why you aren't considering the rest. Loosen up you know."
"I can't. I have all these moral issues," Suni said after a few thoughtful moments. "I've been brought up in a conservative way, focusing on my studies and then my medical practice. I kept thinking I'd only settle for the man who was equally qualified. And the next thing I knew, time had gone by and now I'm called a spinster. I don't like being here. It's lonely. I feel like I've missed on a lot. I pray every day for companionship."
Vijeta had a horrible urge to light up again, but she couldn't. "We're all lonely, darling," she said, and leaned across to look deeper into Suni's eyes. "Finding a man won't make you less lonely. It'll only distract you for a while before the devil strikes again. But even so, I'd rather keep myself open, you know. Morals shouldn't stop you from tasting all the different cuisines out there. Options. Possibilities. I like those words." She sat back again, and they stared at each other until the bill came.
They never met again. The new city swallowed Suni up in a whirlwind of patients and travel and timings. Vijeta went back to her day job, her men, her painting. But something changed after that day at the coffee shop. A string of each one's life force somehow connected to the heart of the other. Those few moments of soul-gazing gave them each a peek of the other side, a silent, humbling, exhilarating view of the unknown. It was like stepping to the edge of the precipice and pulling back. From what she'd never considered. What she'd never dreamt of.
From what she could have been.
Sep 25, 2009
Coffee shop story 1
The last time she had crossed the coffee shop on the Malviya Nagar road, she’d been with Nikhil. She’d been gloriously happy about his presence at her side, looking around to see if others had noticed them and hoping they had. They’d held hands, Nikhil hesitantly leading her up the stairs to the café, a shaft of coffee-scented air hitting them as they entered. He’d looked around, then headed for the table by the counter, cramped but cosy. She’d shaken her head, and led him towards the window seat, with lots of room and light, and visible to all from the outside.
They sat there an hour, their single coffees offering moments of stretched, wrung-out time. She’d tried holding his gaze, but he’d keep looking out the window – the window she’d chosen to sit by. Then she’d given up and started looking out herself, occasionally tapping her foot to the music on the jukebox, peppy Bollywood tunes. His phone had rung a few times, putting them miles away across the two-foot table. Twice, she’d reached out and cupped his hands on the table. Twice, he’d smiled at her, but pulled away. Eventually, he’d paid and they’d left.
This time when she crossed the coffee shop, she was alone. Floods of memories rushed through her mind, overturning all truths in their path. He’d called it off because he didn’t want to hurt her. He was a depression patient; he didn’t want her to share his burden. It was alright; she was young and nearly pretty; there would be other men. But two broken engagements in a year was too much of a coincidence. She was obviously jinxed.
She hesitated at the entrance of the coffee shop, then walked in. The boy behind the counter asked her order. “One cappuccino,” she responded, and went to sit by the window at the same table as months ago. Her phone didn’t ring. The jukebox was silent. The window looked out at the same street with the same shops. She sat back in her chair and waited. May as well get used to it now, she thought grimly.
Unknown to her, a breeze lingered above her head, carrying with it dreams and destinations, enchantment and excitement. All she had to do was stand up, and it would hit her with its force, and change the course of her life. It would take her to places she’d never gone before and introduce her to fascinating people and experiences. It would morph her, twisting her thoughts until they looked nothing like her, turning her beliefs on their head.
She didn’t know this, of course, at the time she finished her coffee. It had just been 20 minutes since she'd entered, but the caffeine had cleared her head. She dug into her bag for her face mirror, checked her mouth, paid the bill, and resolved never to feel sorry for herself again. Life was full of possibilities. She’d stop whining and consider herself lucky, not jinxed. Then she stood up.
Swooosh.
And the rest was exactly as it was meant to be.
They sat there an hour, their single coffees offering moments of stretched, wrung-out time. She’d tried holding his gaze, but he’d keep looking out the window – the window she’d chosen to sit by. Then she’d given up and started looking out herself, occasionally tapping her foot to the music on the jukebox, peppy Bollywood tunes. His phone had rung a few times, putting them miles away across the two-foot table. Twice, she’d reached out and cupped his hands on the table. Twice, he’d smiled at her, but pulled away. Eventually, he’d paid and they’d left.
This time when she crossed the coffee shop, she was alone. Floods of memories rushed through her mind, overturning all truths in their path. He’d called it off because he didn’t want to hurt her. He was a depression patient; he didn’t want her to share his burden. It was alright; she was young and nearly pretty; there would be other men. But two broken engagements in a year was too much of a coincidence. She was obviously jinxed.
She hesitated at the entrance of the coffee shop, then walked in. The boy behind the counter asked her order. “One cappuccino,” she responded, and went to sit by the window at the same table as months ago. Her phone didn’t ring. The jukebox was silent. The window looked out at the same street with the same shops. She sat back in her chair and waited. May as well get used to it now, she thought grimly.
Unknown to her, a breeze lingered above her head, carrying with it dreams and destinations, enchantment and excitement. All she had to do was stand up, and it would hit her with its force, and change the course of her life. It would take her to places she’d never gone before and introduce her to fascinating people and experiences. It would morph her, twisting her thoughts until they looked nothing like her, turning her beliefs on their head.
She didn’t know this, of course, at the time she finished her coffee. It had just been 20 minutes since she'd entered, but the caffeine had cleared her head. She dug into her bag for her face mirror, checked her mouth, paid the bill, and resolved never to feel sorry for herself again. Life was full of possibilities. She’d stop whining and consider herself lucky, not jinxed. Then she stood up.
Swooosh.
And the rest was exactly as it was meant to be.
Sep 21, 2009
Broken endings
Suddenly, marriages around me are breaking all over the place in bits and bites of hate and disillusionment, and I am sad and queasy. Nothing we ever do is without repercussion. Nothing.
Losing a parent to divorce is not the same as losing a parent to death. Yama fills in for the missing link. As far as the child (or the remaining partner) is concerned, the love is untouched. The person’s presence is missing, but the relationship is not. It will always be alive.
In a divorce, however, your world view itself is shaken up. Emotions take on degrees upon degrees of complexity. The father is no longer a father. The mother is a changed person. The family structure is skewed, one whole section of cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles is removed from your scheme of things (but not from your memory). A spouse becomes an enemy; a parent becomes a stranger. What was once love is proved hollow. What was once commitment and loyalty has dissipated in clouds of blame and abuse. Who belongs to whom? The answer shifts uneasily and turns its face away.
Do the benefits of divorcehood (of peace, personal space, freedom) outweigh the benefits of marriage (of your child having a complete home, social sanction and support, a co-shoulder for day-to-day drudgery)? I don’t know but I’m learning that every day, life throws up new battles. You have traded in some sorrows for some others. You have to constantly rationalize your choice, constantly reassure yourself that you did the right thing. Constantly ask yourself, “If I had to live my life again, would I still walk the same paths?” And constantly, convincingly, reply with a “Yes”.
But if I am honest with myself, there is a tinge of regret. I know what I’ve been through and I don’t recommend it to anyone else. I cannot undo the past, but there is a slight care that now leads my actions. Maybe it is doubt, maybe it is wisdom. Maybe it's all for the best. One thing’s for sure: ‘Been there, done that’ is not necessarily a happy ending.
Losing a parent to divorce is not the same as losing a parent to death. Yama fills in for the missing link. As far as the child (or the remaining partner) is concerned, the love is untouched. The person’s presence is missing, but the relationship is not. It will always be alive.
In a divorce, however, your world view itself is shaken up. Emotions take on degrees upon degrees of complexity. The father is no longer a father. The mother is a changed person. The family structure is skewed, one whole section of cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles is removed from your scheme of things (but not from your memory). A spouse becomes an enemy; a parent becomes a stranger. What was once love is proved hollow. What was once commitment and loyalty has dissipated in clouds of blame and abuse. Who belongs to whom? The answer shifts uneasily and turns its face away.
Do the benefits of divorcehood (of peace, personal space, freedom) outweigh the benefits of marriage (of your child having a complete home, social sanction and support, a co-shoulder for day-to-day drudgery)? I don’t know but I’m learning that every day, life throws up new battles. You have traded in some sorrows for some others. You have to constantly rationalize your choice, constantly reassure yourself that you did the right thing. Constantly ask yourself, “If I had to live my life again, would I still walk the same paths?” And constantly, convincingly, reply with a “Yes”.
But if I am honest with myself, there is a tinge of regret. I know what I’ve been through and I don’t recommend it to anyone else. I cannot undo the past, but there is a slight care that now leads my actions. Maybe it is doubt, maybe it is wisdom. Maybe it's all for the best. One thing’s for sure: ‘Been there, done that’ is not necessarily a happy ending.
Sep 4, 2009
Marital Status
Once, there were only two options for marital status on application forms: Single / Married. They divided the world into the child and the grown up. The free and the bound. How simple things were.
Then, less than a decade ago, society changed. Organisations began giving more options in their forms: Single / Married / Divorced / Widowed. Now there could be grey areas too. You could be the virgin, the never-tasted-headiness ingénue. You could be the righteous householder, with kids perhaps or even if not, having done your dharma and blissfully adopted holy matrimony. You could be the villain in the narrative of a broken marriage, a wicked divorcee. Or a sob story and a victim of fate who’s lost a spouse. In that one instant of reading the form, the reader could figure out all your life values, moral codes, your upbringing and – who knows – what hairstyle your mother must have worn.
Now there are even more options: Being simply ‘single’ is passe. You have choose between Never Married / Divorced / Widowed. Married could be Married or Separated, and often asks who has custody of the kids. Suddenly filling out a simple form has become intrusive. It’s the reader’s overt right to moralise, judge and mark you as per their own beliefs. If your reader is conservative, she will read your being separated as someone who didn’t work hard enough to make things work but it’s alright because you’ve still kept the ‘marriage’ tag. If the reader is open-minded, he will read ‘divorced’ as a sign of freedom from the past. Who you are suddenly becomes dependant on who’s counting the tick marks in a form. School admissions and Mahindra Club Holidays have been declined for less.
But what about the subtext underlying these options: What if you are single and have adopted a child? Or married but unhappy – can you tick 'single' because you feel alone in your head? What if you are divorced not out of choice, but because your husband had an affair and left you? Or separated not because you are ineffectual but because the court case is taking so long? What if you are married twice, or thrice or four times – are you still the humble, dutiful householder that falls under category two? What if you are recently married but have never lived with your partner because he’s a green-card holder and hasn’t managed to get you a US visa yet – do you mark ‘married’ or ‘separated’? Or what if your husband lives in Chandigarh and you in Delhi because your kids go to school here and it was too much of a bother to move? What if you’ve been divorced but start living with your husband again so that your 30-something daughter can finally get married? What if you murdered your partner – are you a victim of fate? What if you were drugged on the day of your wedding, and ran away a week later? What if the man you loved faithfully for 27 years over phone calls and letters and emails died – can you call yourself his widow?
How do you fit all those options on a form?
It is the nature of Life to evolve towards complexity, and social structures are bound to follow the code. We can no longer just have two options for marital status on a form, we agree on that. But we also then need to stop judging a person based on what they tick. Until that happens, we’ll lose precious opportunities of discovering bright new worlds in a deceptive cloud of blame and praise.
Then, less than a decade ago, society changed. Organisations began giving more options in their forms: Single / Married / Divorced / Widowed. Now there could be grey areas too. You could be the virgin, the never-tasted-headiness ingénue. You could be the righteous householder, with kids perhaps or even if not, having done your dharma and blissfully adopted holy matrimony. You could be the villain in the narrative of a broken marriage, a wicked divorcee. Or a sob story and a victim of fate who’s lost a spouse. In that one instant of reading the form, the reader could figure out all your life values, moral codes, your upbringing and – who knows – what hairstyle your mother must have worn.
Now there are even more options: Being simply ‘single’ is passe. You have choose between Never Married / Divorced / Widowed. Married could be Married or Separated, and often asks who has custody of the kids. Suddenly filling out a simple form has become intrusive. It’s the reader’s overt right to moralise, judge and mark you as per their own beliefs. If your reader is conservative, she will read your being separated as someone who didn’t work hard enough to make things work but it’s alright because you’ve still kept the ‘marriage’ tag. If the reader is open-minded, he will read ‘divorced’ as a sign of freedom from the past. Who you are suddenly becomes dependant on who’s counting the tick marks in a form. School admissions and Mahindra Club Holidays have been declined for less.
But what about the subtext underlying these options: What if you are single and have adopted a child? Or married but unhappy – can you tick 'single' because you feel alone in your head? What if you are divorced not out of choice, but because your husband had an affair and left you? Or separated not because you are ineffectual but because the court case is taking so long? What if you are married twice, or thrice or four times – are you still the humble, dutiful householder that falls under category two? What if you are recently married but have never lived with your partner because he’s a green-card holder and hasn’t managed to get you a US visa yet – do you mark ‘married’ or ‘separated’? Or what if your husband lives in Chandigarh and you in Delhi because your kids go to school here and it was too much of a bother to move? What if you’ve been divorced but start living with your husband again so that your 30-something daughter can finally get married? What if you murdered your partner – are you a victim of fate? What if you were drugged on the day of your wedding, and ran away a week later? What if the man you loved faithfully for 27 years over phone calls and letters and emails died – can you call yourself his widow?
How do you fit all those options on a form?
It is the nature of Life to evolve towards complexity, and social structures are bound to follow the code. We can no longer just have two options for marital status on a form, we agree on that. But we also then need to stop judging a person based on what they tick. Until that happens, we’ll lose precious opportunities of discovering bright new worlds in a deceptive cloud of blame and praise.
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