Wednesday, April 15, 2009

The Phone Call


"Hello?" A tired older woman answered the phone.

"Mama, it's me Raima."

"Raima, what are you doing calling so late? Can't you sleep? Didn't I tell you that when you can't sleep to just get a glass of warm milk and sit out in the living room for a while until you feel tired again. No TV, no books." The older woman was abruptly cut off by her daughter's attempt to rectify the beginning argument.

"No Mama, I just thought I'd give you a call and it's not that late, it's only 9:30." Her voice trembled like a small child's trying to explain why the cookie jar was broken. It wasn't that Raima was afraid of her mother. It was just that her mother always seemed to know what she was supposed to be doing and what she wasn't and always felt it was her special duty to go around telling her, all the time.

"It's raining tonight, really hard, and I thought you might like to hear that. I know how you always wondered if it ever rained in Pune. You told me that you could never understand how anything grew out here if it was sunny all the time." She remembered that talk, when she had first mentioned the idea of going to Pune. She was only twenty then and her mother forbade it by going on for an hour talking about how she didn't understand how so many people could live with sunshine and smog and no rain for so long. She went on to talk about how everyone in Pune was air-headed and dumb and how awful it must be and how Raima would never fit in.

“Raima, did you call me at 9:30 just to tell me about the rain? Or do you have some news for me?" The news Sahana Awasthi was referring to was news of a job. Her daughter had been in Pune for three months and had not given her any news of an acting prospect. She could never understand why the hell her daughter had moved to Pune anyway to get a job when there were plenty of jobs in Bhopal. No, her daughter wanted to be an actress and she had to go to Pune to get her big start. No one ever hears about award-winning actresses from Bhopal, Raima was fond of saying. And no matter how many times Sahana had explained that there were plenty of successful jobs in law or business at home, Raima never seemed to hear that.

"News, of course I have news, why else would I call at this time of day? I got a part today - a commercial, for Pepsi. Everyone out here says that commercials are the doorway to the big time." She lied. She couldn't possibly tell her mother that the only jobs she'd been able to land were the dance hall and cleaning the sound stage. She couldn't tell her mother that every time she even entered an audition, it took the director about five seconds to realize she wasn't a fit for the part.

She did, however, tell a half-truth about the Pepsi commercial. Yesterday, when she arrived to clean the studio, they were wrapping up the remains of the commercial they had shot earlier that day, for Pepsi. She couldn't give her mother the satisfaction that, once again, she'd been right. That all those years that she said her daughter would fail at acting and end up living in some hole, starving, and working at a strip club was so close to the truth, it was frightening.
But she would never tell her mother the truth. Even if she had to lie, she wanted her mother to see that she was actually trying.

"It's great, Mama. I get my hair and make-up done and just stand there and drink Pepsi - and they're paying me. Isn't that great? I don't know anywhere in Bhopal where I can do that."
For a second, she heard nothing. Raima’s first instinct was that the line had been disconnected because of the storm. But then, she realized what had actually happened. Her mother was sighing on the other end of the line, just soft enough to barely be heard. She knew that even if she had landed the part in the commercial, it still wouldn't make her mother happy. She knew her mother was dead-set against her move to Pune and felt that Raima was wasting her life, chasing after a dream that was never going to happen.

When she was little and first told her mother that she wanted to be an actress, her mother laughed. 'Honey, you have to be pretty to be an actress', she said. Her mother explained that no one with mousy brown hair and glasses ever becomes a successful actress and she was right. That was the worst part about everything her mother ever said, she was always right. She always knew what was going to happen to Raima and had always made it clear though Raima had fought against it her entire life. Although, as time passed and reality began to set in, Raima realized her mother was right.

"Well, that's wonderful. I'm looking forward to seeing your face on TV." The monotony in her voice betrayed the compliment Sahana intended. If only her daughter would have some sense. Sense enough to realize you don't put all your efforts into some stupid commercial. But, then again, Raima never did have any sense.

Sahana recalled the day Raima came home from school waving the flyer announcing the tryouts for the school play, begging for permission to audition. She'd firmly explained to Raima that she didn't think it was a good idea, that she would probably lose out to someone pretty and she'd just end up crying and angry. She knew that her daughter was not what the director was looking for. Sahana didn't want to see herself embarrassed by listening to all the apologies the other parents would have to offer when she would pick Raima up at the end of the audition. She didn't want her daughter upset over some stupid play. But Raima took the advice as a challenge and practically demanded Sahana allow her to audition. Thinking of her daughter, as always, Sahana acquiesced.

Not surprisingly, the result had been just as she had predicted. The lead and most of the other roles were given to prettier, skinnier, fair girls. Somewhat chunky, brown-haired Raima was offered a stage hand position as a consolation by the director. Sahana had been so embarrassed by this display she informed Raima she was forbidden to help with the play, citing that if they didn't want her as the lead, she shouldn't give in to the bones they threw at her. Once again, Raima ignored her and accepted the position with even more fervour than she would have the lead role. Sahana watched her make the sets, clean the stage, and help the actresses, all the while never realizing that she had lost and was simply making a fool out of herself. No, thought Sahana, she never really understood that she lost.

With that, she attempted to change the subject.
"How's the car doing? Are you putting enough oil in it? You know how it can heat up, especially in that Pune heat."

"Oh yeah, I just got it checked the other day. It runs great, thanks Mom. I even had someone from the commercial tell me they thought it was cool." The car that her mother let her have when she went to Pune, the car that Sahana hung over her head as the final sacrifice she could make, was sold exactly one month and two days after Raima arrived in Pune. She needed the money to pay the rent. Raima was surprised at how much rent was considering the dump she found herself in.

Lying about the car was just another example of Raima feeling the need to lie to her mother about her life. Not in the same way that other grown children might offer up some placating bullshit to assure their mothers that everything in their life is really okay. No, this is more like a shield put up against the abuse. She thought that by answering the questions with the answers her mother wanted to hear, she could keep up a civil, even pleasant conversation.

Raima wondered now why she had actually called. She could have gone through with it without speaking to her mother. Maybe she just needed that final push that is her mother's specialty, the final assurance that the decision she'd made was the right one. The phone call was a form of self-pity. The way a person with low self-esteem continues to call himself ugly or stupid. It is in the problem that they find comfort. Comfort that they know they have analyzed the situation correctly.

"How are Dad and Ryan?" Raima asked.

"Well, your father has taken it upon himself to finish shingling the roof before winter. I keep telling him that he should just hire someone to finish it for him. He's not getting any younger, you know? But he listens about as well as you and your brother does. As for your brother, he's about the same. In that I mean that he's still failing at school and staying out all hours. Your dad seems to think there might be some drugs involved so I've got my hands full on that one. I guess I deserve all of this somehow. It seems no matter how hard I try to help everyone, they seem to get worse and worse."

Sahana sighed because she knew that she was the only one who had ever really tried to make the family work. Lord knows Jai had never done anything. He seemed to go throughout life like a robot, involving himself as little as possible. She was the one who gave of herself constantly. She was the one who helped the children and who spent all her time worrying about the future. And it wasn't as if she asked for much. All she ever wanted was one of her children to actually succeed at something, to show the world what a hard-working mother they have behind them.
When the children were little, Sahana dreamed of a daughter who would grow up to be a successful lawyer and a son who would become a master surgeon. How proud she would be, sitting in the wings, accepting the praise. She longed for the chance to explain how her tough love approach had made the children what they were. But it never happened. As soon as she started pushing, they pushed back. They were never able to see what she was doing for them.
Instead of being able to show off her smart, successful children, she found herself constantly making excuses for why this one didn't look pretty, why this one didn't understand the homework, or this one never tried hard enough. It was impossible to bear all these years but she did it in the hopes that sometime, before she died, she would be able to show off one of her children. And with each passing day, she became bitterer as she realized she was hoping for something that would never happen.

"Mama, I guess I just wanted to tell you I love you and I miss you. Tell Dad and Ryan, too. I'm not sure when I'll get to come home again, what with all the work coming in and all." She laughed.

Raima laughed because part of her wished that the reason she wouldn't be coming home was that she was so busy with her successful life. There was a small part of her that still felt hopeful and wished that any of the lies were true. That small part of her was who had decided to call home. To listen and see, for the last time, if Mama really loved and accepted her. That was the part that laughed because it was the last part to realize that it had lost. It was her heart and it had hung in the longest. Longer than her body that gave up any dream of stardom the first night it stripped nude and danced in front of fifty drunken men. Much longer than her head that realized that coming to Pune was a mistake the first day. When it realized that no matter how hard it worked, it would still fail. And certainly longer than her soul, which she wasn't sure had ever been there in the first place. It was her heart that finally found the pistol, the one she had purchased three days prior with the last of the money she received from selling the car.

“Raima, are you alright? You sound like you're not getting enough sleep. You have to remember to sleep. You don't see any successful TV stars with bags under their eyes, do you? You have to work hard and take care of yourself." With that, Sahana felt a glimmer a hope. Maybe she would see her daughter up there after all. She did say she was in a commercial, didn't she? That could lead somewhere. Yes, she would just have to keep on the girl now that she had an opportunity. She wasn't going to let this slip away like all the other chances and leave Raima to her own resources. She would need her mother to push her along. Yes, there was still hope for her.
She could see it now, her daughter starring in film and TV, winning the Academy Award, taking everyone by surprise. Not everyone though. Sahana knew it could happen because she was the one to make it happen. She could picture it now, everyone shaking her hand and saying things like, 'You should be so proud! An award and she's only been in the business six months! You must be a great mom and who knows what she can continue to achieve with your backing. It's just too bad that everyone doesn't have a mother like you. But, then again, that's what makes you so special, Sahana.'

Finally, she would have her moment. Yes, she would keep on the girl with no mistakes this time. Starting tomorrow, she would start calling her at five every morning for training and...

"I'm just fine, Mama. I'll get enough sleep, don't worry. I'll look great tomorrow. You won't believe what they'll say about me. I love you, Mama. Good night."

Raima Awasthi hung up the phone. For a minute, she listened to the sounds of her apartment, holding the gun in her hand, mere inches from the floor. The creak and shake of the water pipes, the squeak of the rats hiding in the walls, the cursing of the couple upstairs, the bizarre honking of the traffic , they echoed in her ears. She looked around and realized, with every part of her being, that she lost. With that, she took the pistol in her left hand, pointed it to her temple, and fired...

I'm just tired...

Not on a "pity-pot,"
Nor ranting or venting... I'm just tired

I’m tired of being misunderstood,
Nerves are shot,
Weak – like mites-eaten wood.

I’m tired of being ill,
No energy, can’t think,
Losing my skills.

I’m tired of so-called friends,
Stabbing me in the back,
Again and again.

I’m tired of trying to make things right,
I give up – I surrender,
No will to fight.

I’m tired of seeing others in pain,
Raises frustration,
Drives me insane.

I’m tired of not being able to cry,
I’d melt away,
Nothing left inside.

I’m tired because I can’t feel,
Walking in a daze – numb
This can’t be real.

I’m tired of pretending to be “strong,”
I’m weak, I’m fragile,
It’s gone on way too long.

I don’t know what else to say,
I’m hoping, I’m dreaming,
I’m begging, I’m pleading,
Please, take this feeling away.

Right now… I’m just tired…

Friday, April 10, 2009

Incessant torture

Nothing has changed.
The body is susceptible to pain,
It must eat and breathe air and sleep,
It has thin skin and blood right underneath,
An adequate stock of teeth and nails,
Its bones are breakable, its joints are stretchable.
In tortures all this is taken into account.

Nothing has changed.
The body shudders as it shuddered
Before the founding of Rome and after,
In the twentieth century
Before and after Christ.
Tortures are as they were,
It’s just the earth that's grown smaller,
And whatever happens seems right on the other side of the wall.

Nothing has changed.
It's just that there are more people,
Besides the old offences new ones have appeared,
Real, imaginary, temporary, and none,
But the howl with which the body responds to them,
Was, is and ever will be a howl of innocence
According to the time-honoured scale and tonality.

Nothing has changed.
May be just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
Its legs give out, it falls, and the knees fly up,
It turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.

Nothing has changed.
Except for the course of boundaries,
The line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
Disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
Alien to itself,
Elusive,
At times certain,
At others uncertain of its own existence,
While the body is and is and is
With its incessant torture,
And has no place of its own.


Wednesday, April 8, 2009

~~ NO ~~

Talk me not of reminiscent tears,
Their crystal delight on an iris bright.

Acquaint me not how you shed them there,
I won't see how mine fell so light.

Converse me not of malaise fears,
Their careless stride on my tender tide.

Illustrate me not how we rested here,
I won't discern why our ways got wide.

Let’s talk of the ample autumns instead,
When the timid zephyr spoke poetry and rhyme,
Let’s stroll again in those mildest drizzles,
When the petite crystals carved songs on our time.

I would seize a song here,
And a filch a story there,
Every now and again I would,
Release our sarcophagus to bare.
Read them along,
In colours green and blue,
Rip away some,
Tuck away one or two.

So remind me not of maladies of life, love,
Veiled in the spite of the sunshine's bright.

Sing to me not of the broken songs, for
I won't hear how mine lost to the night.

Monday, April 6, 2009

The apologetic feminist…

Who cares that I'm a writer but not one professionally any more? Or that I love my world of words. I spin them, string them, weave them together and like to believe I can do it fairly well. But who wants to know that? Do you?

The apologetic Feminist…Is what I’m not going to be.

Yes, I have a problem with the way the patriarchal system works. If that makes me a feminist, I’m proud to be one.

I also have a problem with the way patriarchs talk. If that makes me a rebel in the family, I’m not ashamed to be one.

I spend nine hours at work everyday (thirteen to fourteen hours daily including travel time). I have an opinion that’s as sane if not more as what others have to offer, I think, I have a brain that can work beyond the aesthetics of a pretty home or the nuances of kitchen politics. And despite that I’m not a man’s equal (?) I do not do any of that to equal anyone, but I expect equal treatment because I’m an equal person. And it hurts to be treated “only as a woman”.

I do not understand why I must not be part of discussions on home finances, why my name must not be put on the nameplate outside the house along with the names of all the men. I do not understand why you must not look me in the eye when you speak to me. I do not understand the way your brain sees me…

We have “advanced”. But would like to clarify when we speak of advancement....we begin with an assumption that all was 'backward' before. During the Vedic times things were different...We in fact have regressed. Don’t refer to the countless attempting to shame us about our culture books which say the opposite. They are not true.Vashishta the Royal guru/advisor said that Sita was capable of ruling Ayodhya in Ram's absence. He wanted her to rule when Ram left for vanvaas. Going with him was her choice.

Why must I take responsibilities for the insecurity of men? Why must the onus of shouldering burdens be on me while I get no credit for doing so? And why the hell should I consider myself inferior to any man even for a millisecond because I was not born one.

First, I fight against notions of what is expected of me and what is not. And when I prove those notions wrong, I fight the misery of feeling out of place. Not fair!

But I could do without men who can't look at me as a person and insist on seeing me through gender stereotyped glasses (whatever that may be).

Is it because I’m a woman?A woman who stands by her husband, but should never be seen standing as tall as him.
A woman who acts tough but must learn to treat herself as a pretty mantel piece displayed when it suits the place.
A woman who can make decisions but must never be credited for them.

Why must I be made to feel ashamed for living my life the way you do? If my independence unsettles your patriarchal seat, should I be apologetic for it?

~~ Murder ~~

She opened her eyes wide and stared at the dull, dusty ceiling fan. She could hear it again; the incessant knocking on her door. She had opened the door the first time and had found no on there. Frightened, she ran into her bedroom and curled herself up into a ball under the covers. An hour later, nothing had changed except that the birds had begun chirping and that the skies were turning into a pitch black at a rapid rate.

"Open the door!” a voice commanded. It was deep and husky and belonged to a man. She wondered what he looked like but was too afraid to look. She darted across the room into her kitchen and gulped down a glass of water that had been lying there for three days. The knocking ceased.

Sweating profusely, she tiptoed back into her bare living room and sat on the floor wondering what she should do. If he was a robber, she had nothing to offer him. She had only recently moved into this apartment and had nothing but expired milk and yogurt in the fridge, bare essentials to survive, and four walls around her. She also knew no man in any capacity in this town.

She sat there in pitch darkness and waited. All she could hear was the faint sound of a guitar playing somewhere outside. And then without warning, she saw the lock on her main door click and turn. A cold chill ran down her spine as she began to tremble not knowing what to do. There was nothing to hide behind or under and she had no idea where her cell phone was.

A moment later she screamed as a tall, dark, muscular man stood before her with angry glaring eyes. There was something familiar about him. She motioned him to stay away from her and began to walk backwards. He did nothing. He simply stood there looking at her in amusement. She screamed again. No one heard. No one but he and that made no difference. Very soon, she found herself in her kitchen groping for a knife. He merely smiled. She panicked.

5 minutes later, she was sobbing uncontrollably. She had flung a butcher knife at him which had managed to slit his throat. He had fallen on the floor with a loud thud, bleeding profusely, as his eyes rolled and stared into vacant space. She knew he was dead. She knew she was safe; that he could no longer trouble her every time she moved into a different city or apartment. She was finally free from the clutches of his evil being, she thought.

She quietly left her apartment to go buy sleeping pills. When she returned, she called 911 and informed them of a murder and a suicide. Then she took 10 of these pills and went back to her covers.

Three days later, she awoke in a loud and ugly hospital. At a distance, she saw her son talking to a man in a white coat who uttered one particular word several times.
"Schizophrenia".

This was not the first time she had heard it.