I AM A BLOODY WOMAN

I am a late bloomer of sorts. I entered puberty much after my classmates did, got married after most of them had had their first child; I unexpectedly became an author and children’s coach long after I graduated, and I became a motherly figure to a number of children long after the normal child-bearing age. As a 14-year-old, when most of my friends indulged in suggestive talks about the change in their lives with code words and mischievous giggles, I remained not only clueless, but also felt a little chagrined at being left out of their secret world. There was so much I didn’t know and there was no one to throw light on my ignorance. But life taught me facts by and by; picking up tidbits from here and there, some from experience, some from hearsay and some by watching life through a wide-angle lens. Nearly two years ago, a 10-year-old pupil of mine mentioned that her mother was ill, down with periods. ‘Ma’am, what is periods?’ she asked me. ‘Why does my mother fall sick with it so frequently? When I ask her, she tells me I will know it later.’ I smiled, took her hand in mine and said, ‘It is something that happens to every woman. God decides when a girl should start having it. It is nature’s way of preparing us to become mothers.” She seemed utterly pleased with my answer. ‘So, will I get it too?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Of course. It is when you change from a little girl to a young lady, when your body will slowly start changing to becoming healthy enough to have your own lovely babies like your mother does.’ ‘Do you also get it, Ma’am?’ ‘Of course, I do.’ ‘But you don’t have children.’ I had to pause a bit to find a good answer to her question. ‘Not of my own. Maybe, that’s why I have so many of you.’ After allaying her fears about ‘periods’ and confessing that it may not be always a pleasant experience, that it often makes us physically uncomfortable, but it is something that makes us a complete woman. We will bleed, but that bleeding isn’t from a wound. It is from the nature’s blessing bag. ‘Do you like being a girl?’ I asked casually. She nodded animatedly. At 10, being a girl only meant wearing accessories and trying out new hair styles. At 53, it means a lot more. I gave her a hug and said, ‘it is the most beautiful feeling in the world. It makes us kind, loving and understanding. It makes us very special.’ I felt happy that she had gathered enough to enter puberty with none of the confusion and intrigue that I had grown up with. I felt grateful that I could convey to her the ‘secret’ in a way she would appreciate. Now, as I push the last stages of that which made me a woman primarily, and I endure its end game tantrums, I realize that I will not stop bleeding even after my menopause. I will bleed till the end of my life. Not from the sacred birth canal, but from my eyes when I see injustice; from my heart when I have intense feelings, and from every pore in my body when the surge of love invades me. I will bleed forever because I am a woman. It isn’t a ‘period’ of my life. It’s what I am. Sanguine. Seasoned. Sentient.

A RIDE TO REMEMBER

The first time I visited Delhi after the Nirbhaya case, it was as if I had touched down on a landmine filled area. The very atmosphere felt sinister, and a sense of dread became my constant companion as I navigated the city with great trepidation. It was as if there was someone waiting to swoop down on me any moment; such was the paranoia. The fact that I live in Dubai, a place renowned for its high standards of safety for women, made it doubly difficult for me to let my guard down as I walked the streets. It is a good trait, of course, to be cautious, but when caution turns into phobia it can be a severe burden. It kills the enthusiasm for life, it robs us of our freedom and above all, it changes our world view. It makes us sceptical and deeply suspicious of all things. It induces stupid biases in the head. So it was when I landed in Delhi after the Nirbhaya case. Although with a couple of more visits, the degree of fear lessened significantly, I still had to gain confidence to take Ubers and rickshaws. The chance of getting waylaid is more when you are alone in a vehicle, you see. Or so I believed. Every time I booked an Uber, I would first assess the driver by his name, not that it gave away much, but the brain prompted me to do all due diligence before hiring the ride. Once inside the vehicle, I would look at the dashboard and assess how neat the interiors were. I knew that it is foolhardy to think that the dashboard reflects the driver’s moral standing, but somehow it was my first metric to assess his character. A religious, God-fearing man will not rape a woman. I had to reinforce my confidence with such assumptions. Else, my fear would paralyze me and make me a hopeless sissy. There was a time when I would indulge in small talks with people that I came across randomly, but not anymore. I made it a policy not to talk anything more than what was essential to anybody, especially as a cab rider. Every single time, I felt a tremor in my body through the length of the journey. The fact that I did not know the routes made me a tad bit more jittery, but I gradually learned to stay composed, and began to have a more positive attitude. The world might be getting nastier, but not all people are partners in its crime. Goodness still has to be given its due, despite everything. I was in Delhi last February, after a long gap. As it is, the pandemic period had completely ripped me of my erstwhile fervour for travel, and the fact that we were spending our first days of the India trip in Delhi triggered old fears. I gently put them down by saying a lot of effluences have flown down the Yamuna since then and the past has now been obliterated by time. Brandishing my bravado, I took my first Uber ride in the city with Arvind. A man probably in his mid-fifties, he didn’t seem the trouble-making kind. What’s more, there was a sticker with ‘Press’ and a Doordarshan’s logo on it on his windshield which added to my confidence. A man who ran for the government couldn’t be a creep and I needn’t be stand-offish in my attitude. These are the many ways we manipulate our emotions to tide over our fears and anxieties. We need to keep auto-suggesting, infuse dollops of encouraging thoughts in order to sail in a hostile-looking sea. A few minutes into the ride, I realized that I wasn’t wearing my mask, and I exclaimed, ‘I have forgotten to take the mask.’ It was a sudden realization that got voiced aloud. ‘It doesn’t matter, madam ji. It’s not mandatory anymore,’ he reassured me. ‘But I hear there is a fine of 500 Rupees,’ I expressed concern. ‘Don’t worry, nobody will catch you,’ he reiterated. ‘Covid is gone. It’s over.’ The confidence in his voice made me sit back in the seat with relief. It suddenly occurred to me that men like Arvind were right in the middle of it all when the pandemic was at its peak. I wondered how badly these men must have been affected financially. How did they make a living? How many of his people must have died? The odds were entirely against people like him and the fact that he had made it safely to this side of the catastrophe was a happy thought to me. ‘Is everything well in your family?’ I asked with genuine concern. I chided myself soon after for extending the conversation. I had vowed not to speak unnecessarily. But then, it’s hard not to spare a thought for fellow human beings. No matter who they are. ‘Yes, all are well in the family,’ Arvind said, desultorily. There was no spark in his voice. It was as if he thought it was obligatory to reply in the affirmative. I didn’t probe further. A few honks around and some manouvering on a busy road later, he said as an after-thought. ‘Madam ji, sorry if I am bothering you. But I want to tell you a story.’ And then he went on to narrate a parable to me that uncovered some profound thoughts about the shallowness of human relationships. How no one we consider as ours are ours in reality. How people love themselves first and the other person only next, even if is the family. His spiel meandered through excerpts from the Gita, and other spiritual texts. I listened to him with intrigue, amidst his frequent apologies for being so talkative. At one point when he apologized, I said, ’Don’t apologize. It is not often that one comes across people like you. I am listening. You have an amazing perception. You are a spiritual man.’ ‘Madam, it is unfortunate that people think all cab drivers are drunkards and criminals. That they misbehave and are morally bad. It is not so.' His statement felt like a punch in the face, and I winced inwardly. I was guilty to the claim he was making. In one stroke, I felt all my prejudices fall limp on the ground. As we reached the destination and he began to look for change to return, I said, ‘Keep it. It was the best ever cab ride of my life.’ My journey for the day must have been over there, but I realized that I still had a long way to go before knowing the truths of life. I had light years to travel before I can proclaim, ‘I know life up close and personal.’

Of Good Old Days and Real World Connections

(Opinion column in Khaleej Times dated 2 May, 2022)

How often have we reminisced the good, old times in our casual conversations, exclaiming with a stirring sense of nostalgia, ‘those were the days!’ The glory of the past has always beguiled us, despite the changes and huge strides we have made in our lives. It isn’t as if we had no grouses then, yet it is in the past that we often seek our salvation and satisfaction.

Usually, it is in caches of memories and keepsakes that we deposit our past to revisit, but my tryst with it is often accomplished by old connections established by my parents in their younger days through their old age. As a chirpy child and a young adult who did not shy away from a small talk, I was part of those liaisons, gaining me access to my parents’ contacts even after I grew up. Whenever I was home on vacation, I would accompany my father to the many places he went to, even after I relocated to the Gulf post marriage, and I was part of the conversations that took place at home in the company of my parents’ acquaintances.

What it helped me achieve is a network that lives on even after my father’s demise. What sets this network apart is the fact that these were not just my parents’ friends with whom we spent a leisurely evening or relations who were hemmed into our lives. They were people whom we met as part of our daily needs – the vendors and shop-keepers, the agents and the bankers, other men and women who they met for various purposes.

There was a pattern of loyalty in these connections. There were fixed places and people they went to for their everyday needs. One could argue that choices were limited back then, but even when the town grew and fancier establishments cropped up, my parents stuck to their old haunts, buying and seeking services from the modest corners, choosing familiarity and friendliness over the new neon lights. Perhaps, that is how it was with people of those times. They valued relationships even in the routine transactions; there was a bit of personal touch even in business deals; there was a human side to every aspect of life.

The world has expanded and changed several times since then, and how! We are now spoilt for choice. Technology now delivers people, products and services at our doorstep and our connections have become mere numbers in our phones. The human element in most of our dealings has reduced to synthetic politeness and a customary ‘thank you’ at the end of it all. Come to think of it, even a robot could do that.

It makes me nostalgic about the times when people acknowledged each other by name, and the first thing we did when we met was greet and enquire about each other’s wellness. I still do it. It is a legacy of that my parents have built in me a part of my character; an example they set for me with their honest, affable nature even in their smallest associations. Their old connections and the inherent goodwill are what support and sustain me whenever I am home on a visit. It is what still makes me feel belonged to my native place despite its transformation with time. They are the vestiges of a past that keep me tethered to my roots, nurtured by my parents and kept alive by my own efforts.

Last February, during my first visit in two years, I went on a deliberate trek across the town, under the blistering sun, to meet the old-timers. Not because I had any particular business to do, but to touch base and rekindle memories of my parents’ vintage links with them.

It was overwhelming to see the recognition in their eyes and the warmth they exuded when I stepped in to greet them. Some had grown older and handed over their affairs to their children who too knew me, and a few had even moved on. Some visited me home; some I called and connected with. None of them were people that I had made friends with on my own. They were a unique tapestry of amity that my parents had woven into their lives and passed on to me as an inheritance.

In our flurried settings of modern life, how likely is it that our children will even know about our connections that we ourselves don’t often follow except when the need arises? What kind of relationships are we leaving behind for our children to fall back on? The good old days weren’t good because there was material abundance. They were so because there was genuine affinity that didn’t hinge on personal gains alone.