Beauty lies…
…in the eyes of the beholder. Then why is it that we judge ourselves by the impossible standards set by the beauty industry all the time? How many of us have been told we’re too fat, too thin, too dark? How many of us have been shamed for wanting that one extra dollop of butter or that extra paratha? How many of us have been asked, “Where do you buy your groceries?” in an attempt to shame us for being us. I have. And I’m sure that at some point, you have too. This should have been a tweetstorm, inspired by this thread by Naomi Barton. But, I somehow felt this deserved a more detailed and larger discussion in the form of a blogpost. So, I am going to take the opportunity to answer some of her questions concerning body image.
1) How old were you when you realised your body was not good enough?
Maybe 8 or 9. Every time my cousin told me that I could be beautiful if only I scrubbed more and became whiter, every time someone called me gundoos or fatty. Every single time. Maybe, just maybe my body wasn’t good enough.
2) What’s the one thing about your body you’ve been wanting to change forever?
Unwanted body hair and height. I wished forever that I could be one of those beautiful women who’d just need to wash their faces and be ready. I wished I didn’t have to subject myself to the torture of having eyebrows tweezed and legs waxed each month. I still sometimes, but can live with it. The second was my height. I wished I weren’t so tall. Being mistaken for a 20-year old when you’re barely 12 isn’t fun.
3) What item of clothing are you forbidden from wearing Cuz ‘it doesn’t suit your body type’?
Anything tight I suppose. I used to shy away from wearing fitted clothes because I always felt I was too fat to carry it off well. Anyway, that’s history now and I’m happier for it.
4) What is the weirdest, most demented thought you’ve had about your body on a Fat Day?
I don’t think I’ve had such thoughts, except for an all-encompassing sadness about being too fat.
5) If you had a girl child and she came to you with that thought, what would you want to tell her?
I’d tell her she’s beautiful. Every single person on the face of this earth is beautiful in their own way. I’d tell her there’s no ideal of beauty, no matter what fairness cream commercials tell you. She needs to believe it. And believe it way sooner that I did.
6) As fucked up as it is, what are the things, on the fat days, that you tell yourself about why you are worthwhile to exist? Your mantra?
This too shall pass. Every time.
7) What do you want to see in the bodies billboards and hoardings and magazines and music videos, to make them look like yours?
I want to see fat bodies, thin ones, dark ones, the ones with stretch marks and cellulite. Every type of body. Every single type.
8) How many of you have stretch marks?
Am I even human if I don’t? I do. Because I’ve gained weight and I’ve lost it. I’ve been through changes, biological and emotional. I’ve binged, I’ve starved. I have stretch marks and happy for it because they tell me I’ve lived.
9) If you have to choices – one where you have the perfect body, and one where you no longer had to give a fuck, which would you pick?
Do you have to ask? The latter. What I wouldn’t give to be able to not give a fuck! I’m trying. I’m getting there. Slowly.
10) Do you think you are beautiful? Why?
I’m beautiful because I’ve lived. So have you. Each one of us is here after having fought our own battles. And that’s what makes us beautiful. I’m also beautiful because I’m happy. For myself and for those who care for me.
Of love, hate, passion and fury
Have you loved someone so much that when the relationship breaks, or is refused, it turns to hate? Love and hate are but two sides of the same coin. If you relate to this or think this sounds about right, you should probably read Andromache by Jean Racine.
A masterpiece of 17th Century French literature, Andromache is a story of love and hate. It’s a story of rage, fury and passion. For the most passionate are also the most ruthless. For we know that an object of affection can very quickly turn into an object of rage. It is a story of a heart torn between love and hate. Of a heart that refuses to recognise or respect one’s duty. Filial, national, royal duties mean nothing compared to the passion its characters possess for the people they love. A son can be murdered, a brother beheaded. Doesn’t matter. All the heart knows is love. A love so dangerous that when spurned, it could turn to murderous rage.
Andromache is a powerful story of human emotions, both fascinating and terrifying. For, how many of us have the ability to rein these emotions in? Not me. Not a vast majority of my fellow humans. Perhaps that’s why this resonates so deeply within our hearts even 300 years after it was written.
I was 20 when I first read it. I fell in love with the story, the raw honesty of the emotions. I could relate. I’ll even go so far as to say that I am probably the Hermione of Andromache. Capable of love and hate in equal intensity. Capable of destroying what I once loved. Age and experience may have tamed that fire, but hasn’t quite extinguished it. For the heart always wants what it wants. Right?
Fiction: New beginnings…
There comes a time in everyone’s life, when they can’t have what their heart truly desires. At such a time, any sane individual would walk away and give up. I did that too. All those years ago, when I realised that Adam would never truly be mine, I decided to walk away and give myself a chance to live my life without him. He didn’t want me to leave, but what could I do? Between my expectations and his commitments, our love quietly slipped out, unnoticed and without protest. If anyone had asked me then, I would have promised them, and myself in the process, that I was sure of what I was doing. I’d have convinced then, without really convincing myself that going away from him was the best thing to do in the circumstances.
That was 8 years ago. In these years, we’d both drifted apart, focused on career, become successful, made money. I had followed his career and his life closely, to the point of obsessively stalking his Facebook profile, refusing to accept suggestions from well-meaning friends that I should perhaps try to talk to him again. I couldn’t possibly do that. I couldn’t possibly reach out to him again. The fear of rejection was too strong. No. Scratch that. Rejection, I could take. What if he ignored me? That is something I couldn’t take. I knew from my passive stalking that he occasionally dated. I also knew he wasn’t married yet. Yet, something stopped me from reaching out.
And then, out of nowhere, I ran into him at the local supermarket yesterday. Pushing the cart along for my monthly groceries, I was busy trying to find my favourite brand of pasta when I literally ran the cart into him. Looking up to apologise, I froze. I couldn’t move. Or speak. The emotions of the past 8 years came rushing back, filling my eyes. Here was the man I’d have given anything for. Here he was in person, in front of me, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
All I remember of the next 30 mins was billing my purchases and getting to my car, still sane enough to drive. As I got home, the realisation hit me. I had walked away, for the second time, from the man I loved most in life. I had walked away with no words to say, with no explanations. Not even basic pleasantries exchanged. As I dumped the shopping bags and turned to shut the door, I saw him again. At my doorstep. With an unspoken invitation to step into his arms and his life once again. Perhaps, this was how it was meant to be. Perhaps this second lifetime would finally last.
For the love of the written word…
This is a special day. This day, 10 years ago, I began a journey that became one of the most important journeys in my life. What began as a protected blog under the name of “A Space of One’s Own” evolved to what it is today. I’ve blogged under my real name, moved on to a pseudonym, slowed down, written furiously, then slowed down again, and even considered quitting. Yet, this space is something I could never complete let go of.
The journey that I began ten years ago has been adventurous, exciting, depressing, and difficult at the same time. Yet, I’ve never really felt the need to stop or turn around. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s a need to express things I wouldn’t dare speak about in person. Whatever it is, it’s an important part of not just my life, but a part of my growing up.
As a 24-year old, I was idealistic, full of zeal. I wanted to change the world and believed that my writing had the power to do so. I wrote furiously, and with a frankness than amazes even me when I re-read those posts a decade hence. I wrote in sheer outrage around what’s happening in the world around me. I wrote, because I didn’t know any other way.
As time passed, my blog evolved. From speaking of politics and society, of the ills that we face and the injustices of life, it evolved into something more personal. It gradually became a refuge from the world. A place where I could cherish the small things, and speak of things close to my heart. Of art and literature. Of love and life. Of desire and longing.
Today, ten years older, and slightly more mature, I no longer blog because I’m outraged. I no longer react as spontaneously to news or happenings around me. I watch, I wait. I observe and analyse. And most of the time, I choose not to speak. I don’t speak because I feel I have nothing to contribute that hasn’t already been said a million times over. If I do feel like adding something, the 140 characters usually suffice. I find today, as I look back over my journey, that my blog’s tone and content is actually a reflection of how I have evolved as a person. And I am happy to say that it’s no longer the quantity, but the honesty and the intensity of my writing that’s become important.
Here’s to the next decade of writing. May this love for the written word never fade!
Seven random things…
I wasn’t planning to write today. I wanted to pick up a book and read, until I finished at least a couple to justify the reason for my leave. But I happened on Lakshmi’s post detailing seven random things about her. It’s so much fun to read, and she insists it’s revelatory as well. So let me try.
- I used to be an extrovert. The kind who forever seeks out human company. The kind who can’t be alone with herself. Over the past decade, that’s changed, slowly but surely. Now, I no longer crave company the way I used to. Of course, I continue to socialise, meet people, go shopping and the like. But, I am no longer an extrovert. I call myself a selective extrovert. Perhaps the term ambivert will suit me better.
- I am a compulsive reader. I read anything from bus tickets, to newspaper clippings, to literature that comes packed with medicines. If something is written, I’ll read it. I’ve always been this way, but over the years, I have also begun to try reading something every day as a deliberate step. Books, articles, poems, blogposts…nothing is off limits.
- If someone hurts me, I pretend to move on and forget. The truth, however, is quite different. I tend to hold on to the hurt. I become resentful of the person. I realise it’s not good for me, but the hurt me has a great difficulty in forgetting. I may even forgive, but I tend not to forget. And to certainly never trust that person again. Like a broken glass that can never be mended.
- I have an innate curiosity about things that makes me need to know. For me, ignorance is not bliss. If I don’t know something, I’ll make an effort to find out. Not knowing something that directly affects me or my life is just not acceptable. This could be the side effects of a medicine, the workings of a light bulb…anything really…
- I don’t particularly crave for children. I don’t have any, and it doesn’t trouble me. Of course, I’d love to have them if I can. But, if I can’t, my life wouldn’t collapse. It annoys me, nay, makes me furious when people say motherhood makes a woman complete. I’m complete in myself, thank you very much!
- Art makes me emotional. I can’t draw or paint or sculpt. I’m not remotely artistic. My creativity is purely verbal. But engaging with art in its myriad forms makes me feel things I can’t quite explain. Given a chance, I’d spend the rest of my life in art galleries. Not the techniques, not the theory, but art itself makes me crave for more.
- Friendships are sacred to me. I may not speak to my friends on a daily basis, or engage with them regularly. But, if they really need me, I’d drop everything and run. I have a handful of friends I truly care for and I wouldn’t give them up for anything in the world.
Phew! That was hard… So, what are the random things about you that people don’t know? Go on…do share!