Being woman
These past weeks have been emotionally taxing. I am not quite sure how to explain why. I cannot put my finger on what’s bothering me, but something surely is. It’s established fact that we live in a world made for and by men. It’s no secret that patriarchy is alive and well. And this is a source of infinite trouble. Let me explain. I have a job. A full-time job that makes demands on my time and mindspace. At the end of the work day, when I wind up and head home, I park work aside and then start thinking of home. What do I make for dinner? Do I have vegetables to last me the week? Is there milk in the fridge? So many questions. So much planning that it leaves me with no energy to focus on things I want to do. The biggest casualty over the last few years has been my writing.
And then I see others, mostly men, tell me they go jogging, work out at the gym, train for a marathon or pick up a new hobby and I wonder where I am going wrong. Why am I unable to even read a book or write a blogpost with any amount of consistency when others are out there, conquering the world, setting up parallel careers, running extra miles to train for a half marathon and investing in the stock market? Do I lack the capability of being more than a corporate employee? And make no mistake. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a corporate employee. There is nothing wrong in having a 9-5 job that pays the bills and being consistently good at it. But this sense of inadequacy stems from somewhere.
This gets worse when people I speak to learn of my academic credentials, my language skills and my writing. “What the hell are you doing in a bank? This is not where you should be,” they tell me. Then where should I be? Why do others get to decide where I should be and what constitutes success for me? Why this expectation of me to go above and beyond?
When I sat down and thought about it, I realised something important. Most of these people who ask me these questions, who make value judgements on how much I am doing with my life, are men. And no matter what we say, many tasks are still gendered. Running a household is still very much a gendered task. Women carry the mental load of running a household, even if it is a single person household like mine. For some reason, women give a lot more emotional energy to maintaining the house and making it a home than men do. Maybe it is social conditioning.
When I think of my own parents, or my ex, I realise that my mother and I ran the house almost all the time. Making lists, sorting through groceries, chopping vegetables and prepping them for the week, organising the kitchen…it was all us. When Amma passed away, I took on that role almost unconsciously. On the other hand, when I left my marital home, it took a while for S to realise that I was doing all this and start doing it. He had to wake up one morning and realise he ran out of sugar to take on this task of planning and prepping. He has learnt over the years and today, I am sure the mental load on him is equal to the one on me in running our respective households. Sadly, that is not the case with most men I know. They never really get around to doing any of this because there is always a woman around to take up the job: mother, wife, girlfriend, partner or even sister. And unless this changes, women will continue to perform that emotional labour of keeping a household afloat.
The point of this rant is simply this: if you are a woman, be a little kinder to yourself when you drop the ball on something. It’s ok to be imperfect. It is ok to hold “just one job” and do nothing else. It is perfectly alright to sleep in on a Sunday morning and do absolutely nothing, even if that means the kitchen stays dirty for a while longer. This epiphany is the result of a day of rumination and self-loathing. But that’s a story for another day.
When the music died…
People express themselves in different ways. For some, it is words. For others, it is music. And for yet others, it is art. For me, it was always words. I have always been a writer of some sort. A little over 17 years ago, when a good friend encouraged me to start a blog, I was reluctant. As always, I wondered if what I wrote was good enough for public consumption. I was full of apprehensions and self-doubt. But I still started. And many years later, I realise that writing has been my lifeline.
A similar, but very different creative outlet is music. I am no musical genius. Most of the time, I cannot even hold a tune properly. But, I love to sing. For years, I sang. I never held back. Not that I performed in concerts or sang professionally, but I did sing. I sang while cleaning the house or cooking. I sang when folding laundry. I sang in the car. I’ve never been able to drive without music. It’s a distraction, it’s what keeps me going. Not being a fan of podcasts and audiobooks, the next best thing was music. And when I drove, there was nobody to judge or criticise my singing.
But slowly, over time, that changed. I don’t quite remember when or how. I don’t know when the singing stopped. But somewhere in the seven years I was married, the joy of singing went away slowly. So slowly that I did not even realise it was happening.
When I think about it now, I think it started with a word here or there. An occasional snarky remark. A throwaway comment about my song being technically weak. Somewhere between the stress of keeping a failing marriage alive and trying to find meaning for my very existence, I stopped singing. I’d still listen to music. Of course it still kept me company on drives and at home. But I stopped singing along. It’s been five years since I left that house and that family. I have tried restarting several times. But something has held me back each time. Is it fear of criticism? Is it a trauma response that I completely shut down? I don’t know. This is something I need to address. And I am speaking out at length for the first time. Maybe this will prove cathartic. Maybe the music will come back into my life. Just maybe.
Fiction: A shared domesticity
The doorbell rings. I look up from my screen, a bit startled even though I’m expecting him. I’d gotten a little lost in a work-related conversation and lost track of time. I put the call on hold and head to my front door. There he is, that twinkle in the eye, that adorable smile. I let him in and tell him he’ll need to hold on as I finish my call. He nods and heads to the kitchen. I wrap up my call and log off for the day.
Five minutes later, I head out into my living room. The scene in front of me makes me pause a second and brings a slight smile to my face. I see him settled at my dining table. He’s put beer into the fridge, popped open a can and poured himself a drink. He’s retrieved a glass from my crockery shelf, got ice from the freezer and looks quite contented with the glass in front of him.
There’s something very intimate and domestic about the whole scene. Something that feels good. As I gather him into my arms and plant a kiss on the top of his head, I realise that it feels like home.
The process of writing
About 15 months ago, I published something. Not on my blog. Not on twitter, which is the only form of reading anyone does any more. I put myself out there and published a piece of writing that was never meant to see the light of the day. I did not think, because if I had, I probably would have hit shift+delete on the entire folder. I looked up Kindle Direct Publishing and put it out there for people to read. I wanted it to be free, but Amazon does not let you do that. So, I put a minimum price to it.
Fifteen months later, I got some feedback. Feedback that I did not expect or anticipate. I got what I can only call constructive, even if it did not feel quite so constructive when I received it. “You got me invested in the character and gave me nothing in return,” he said. It felt like an attack on my writing. Like he had unreasonable expectations of me. I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to tell him I’m not Margaret Atwood. That my story was a simple one. One of love. I stayed upset for some time. But then, you cannot really create something if you are not willing to learn from those experiences.
When I think back to the process of writing, I realise some very important truths. My story could have been better. The narrative could have been tighter. I could have said the exact same thing in 4 pages instead of 14 or 24. I could have been brutal in cutting out unnecessary embellishments and pointless storylines. In hindsight, there are a hundred things I could have done that would have made my book (for want of a better word) more readable. But I also realise that when we write, we invest a part of ourselves in it. We tell stories inspired by our own experiences and observations. But what we fail to realise as writers, as creators and as artists is that our characters are different from us. When he told me that my protagonist disappointed him, I took it to mean that I disappointed him. That his estimation of me as an individual had somehow fallen because of his response to my writing. And in that, I am completely wrong. While my protagonist may have some similarities with me as an individual, we are actually different. And unless I learn to dissociate myself from the characters in my book, I am never going to be able to put myself out there and write another one again. Nor am I going to be able to take that criticism that comes with the turf.
What I understand today is that I need to be happy that I actually put something out there for people to read and comment on. That it may not be perfect, but it is a part of me that I cannot deny. While I have let go of that piece of writing, I need to retain the lessons if I am to ever tell another story in my life. But isn’t that what life is about? The process of learning and unlearning. The ability to hold on to the lessons while learning to let go of the emotion.
Today, I have grown. As a writer. And hopefully, as a person too.
Fiction: The kiss
I am laughing hard at something you just said. Your characteristic dry humour. Your ability to lighten up any situation. Your sheer optimism. They all attract me to you like a moth to flame. I know I should step back. But I find myself unable to do it. So we meet. Again and again. Coffee dates, walks on the beach…and sometimes we just sit on the shoreline and talk. Long conversations about everything under the blue skies. It’s the same today. Except that it’s not. You’re sitting just an inch closer to me than you usually do. You’re chatting animatedly and our arms brush. You pause. It’s a second, but it’s definitely a pause.
Today we’re in a cafe just across the beach. You casually lace your fingers around mine. Like it’s not a deliberate thing. Like it’s muscle memory. From some previous lifetime. I let you. I enjoy the feel of your fingers as you continue to talk to me. Your fingers tease the inside of my palm. Gently. Absently. And then suddenly, you stop talking. I look up at you, puzzled. You lean forward in your seat and look into my eyes. I can’t stop myself. I lean towards you. You caress my face gently. I close my eyes. And I feel the warmth of your kiss. At first gentle. Tentative. And then more urgent. More needy. And I savour the experience I return your kisses. That’s the beginning. Only the beginning
