Sunday, 8th March, 2009
They want me to speak. It’s Women’s Day. They are celebrating womanhood. Good. How do I feel? Not sure. But I am sure I am neither proud nor ashamed to be a woman. Why should I be when I had no role in choosing my gender? Why should I be when I know only a minuscule percentage of women are empowered in the true sense and a huge lot simply struggling to live with some dignity, some food in the belly and a safe and proper ( or even not so proper roof over their heads).
I look in the mirror. And it speaks. To me.
Black, bitter, beautiful
A daughter, a mother, a stranger
Home, streets or in Power Places
Don’t go by my faces
I am many, I am one
I am woman
I stand on the world’s stage
I sing to you
Match my heart and my words
I speak of Life and Nature
I bleed myself every month
I give birth
A daughter, a son, a hope
But hear; forget not, there’s more
It’s also about my body, my womb, my dream
It’s also about my choice, my freedom, and my survival.
I get up and go to the window. A pall of dust hangs outside. I don’t know what is more parched and dry. The weather of Guwahati or my soul...
Sad we are. The Earth and me. But can Man really love a woman when they have forgotten how to touch the Earth?
Monday, 12th January, 2009
So, tomorrow I will go through the heart operation. My second one. So you see I am an experienced one. And hence I am not afraid. But I do let my thoughts stray. It keeps your mind away from the medical procedure and anyway I am a weakling when it concerns my thoughts. So what do they weave now? Where do they want me to take?
They want me to rest.
In mother’s womb, in the warmth of her full breasts. In the rocking cradle embraced with smell of milk and Johnson’s baby oil. In the creaking bed, in the sensuous rapture of a man. On the soft mattress with the velvety arm of a child around the neck. On the green field behind the hills. On the bare earth. On the rough-palm-mat. On the green bamboo bier lifted by four men. On the dried dung cake and woods at the burning ghat next to a murky river, in liberating fire. In the six feet earth in the ethereal plain, in eternal peace. SLEEP.
Tuesday, 13th January, 2009
My heart beats. My pulse, pressures are fine and I will do fine. The doctors say so. And I like to believe them. But I am immobile for some time. And that is bad. In a common ward I could have watched people. People watching and bird watching interests me though I am better in the former. But in a special private room you are alone. I watch TV and after a while Satyam Scam on every channel with their every “breaking news” detail bore me. I have my rescue team though. Freshly bought books. More than I can manage to read in some months. I can read books from the start to the end in one go that is if they deserve that, even postponing brushing, bathing, working...
But when I think about work, I realise I simply like working but not when you shape it like a proper job. Taking orders from the same people, giving orders to the same people, doing the same things, going to the same place five to six times a week and that too going at the same time and coming back at the same time is not my cup of tea. Make me do that and I will quit. Rather I like to work like an ant with no time, space limits for a few days and then simply relax like a sloth bear or follow a passion- can be travelling or simply cutting myself off from everyone and being at home. You can call me eclectic and eccentric, if you please; I call myself a free spirit. A gypsy.
They want me to speak. It’s Women’s Day. They are celebrating womanhood. Good. How do I feel? Not sure. But I am sure I am neither proud nor ashamed to be a woman. Why should I be when I had no role in choosing my gender? Why should I be when I know only a minuscule percentage of women are empowered in the true sense and a huge lot simply struggling to live with some dignity, some food in the belly and a safe and proper ( or even not so proper roof over their heads).
I look in the mirror. And it speaks. To me.
Black, bitter, beautiful
A daughter, a mother, a stranger
Home, streets or in Power Places
Don’t go by my faces
I am many, I am one
I am woman
I stand on the world’s stage
I sing to you
Match my heart and my words
I speak of Life and Nature
I bleed myself every month
I give birth
A daughter, a son, a hope
But hear; forget not, there’s more
It’s also about my body, my womb, my dream
It’s also about my choice, my freedom, and my survival.
I get up and go to the window. A pall of dust hangs outside. I don’t know what is more parched and dry. The weather of Guwahati or my soul...
Sad we are. The Earth and me. But can Man really love a woman when they have forgotten how to touch the Earth?
Monday, 12th January, 2009
So, tomorrow I will go through the heart operation. My second one. So you see I am an experienced one. And hence I am not afraid. But I do let my thoughts stray. It keeps your mind away from the medical procedure and anyway I am a weakling when it concerns my thoughts. So what do they weave now? Where do they want me to take?
They want me to rest.
In mother’s womb, in the warmth of her full breasts. In the rocking cradle embraced with smell of milk and Johnson’s baby oil. In the creaking bed, in the sensuous rapture of a man. On the soft mattress with the velvety arm of a child around the neck. On the green field behind the hills. On the bare earth. On the rough-palm-mat. On the green bamboo bier lifted by four men. On the dried dung cake and woods at the burning ghat next to a murky river, in liberating fire. In the six feet earth in the ethereal plain, in eternal peace. SLEEP.
Tuesday, 13th January, 2009
My heart beats. My pulse, pressures are fine and I will do fine. The doctors say so. And I like to believe them. But I am immobile for some time. And that is bad. In a common ward I could have watched people. People watching and bird watching interests me though I am better in the former. But in a special private room you are alone. I watch TV and after a while Satyam Scam on every channel with their every “breaking news” detail bore me. I have my rescue team though. Freshly bought books. More than I can manage to read in some months. I can read books from the start to the end in one go that is if they deserve that, even postponing brushing, bathing, working...
But when I think about work, I realise I simply like working but not when you shape it like a proper job. Taking orders from the same people, giving orders to the same people, doing the same things, going to the same place five to six times a week and that too going at the same time and coming back at the same time is not my cup of tea. Make me do that and I will quit. Rather I like to work like an ant with no time, space limits for a few days and then simply relax like a sloth bear or follow a passion- can be travelling or simply cutting myself off from everyone and being at home. You can call me eclectic and eccentric, if you please; I call myself a free spirit. A gypsy.
