Confessions

This post has been submitted to the Indusladies.com International Women's Day Contest under the category Women’s Education. Click here for details on the contest.

I am tagging Saadia, Andaleeb and Ravia.


“You’re Muslim?” enquired a fellow hostellite, eyeing my head scarf.

“Yes, I am,” I replied smiling at the incredulity in her voice.

It was my first day at the hostel. I had travelled miles away from home to be here—for an education.

My teenage head was filled with the thrill of freedom and living away from home. Freedom to do as you please. Well, almost. Living in a girls’ hostel came with strict boundaries. But it was freedom all the same.

I was also thrilled to be back in India, my motherland. These thrills blinded me to a fact that became clearer over time, much later. I was living a dream.

A few months later...

“So, how did you convince your parents about your studies?” My friend who lived four rooms away was full of questions as she battled with a stubborn needle and a thread that chose to magically knot itself after every attempted stitch.

We were swapping stories about our families while attempting a needlework assignment. Textiles and Clothing was a mandatory subject in our Home Science college and one that our Communications batch despised and sucked at.

I looked at her blankly.

“I mean, being a Muslim. How did your parents allow you to study further?”

My blank look continued for another five seconds before I understood what she meant.

“What do you mean ‘allow me to study’? They sent me here to get an education. Actually, I did have to convince them about this particular college but once they realised how much I wanted to be part of the communication course, they were happy for me.”

Now it was her turn to stare blankly.

I went on. “I come from a family that values education. There was never any doubt that I would go on to get a degree. Any parents would want their children to do something with their lives, right? Why would it be different for Muslims?”

“But you’re a Muslim girl. And you come from a religious household, don’t you? I thought those kinds get their daughters married right after school.” She was struggling to understand when and how the stereotype had changed.

And I was beginning to get annoyed.

“I don’t know where you get your information from but that’s not true.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a sudden corridor brawl over someone stealing someone’s snacks. My friend never brought it up again and I never got to tell her that she was partly right.

I thought about it later that night. As much as I would have liked to ignore it, I knew her stereotyping was not far from the truth. I knew of talented girls who had immense potential to soar in their academics but had had their wings clipped and were home bound. They were then married off young while their classmates from more ‘broad-minded’ households pursued fancy degrees. I tossed and turned that night wishing this wasn’t true. But it was.

I remembered a Muslim friend of mine from school who was brilliant in studies and had topped her class each year. An all-rounder, she was often seen participating in extra-curricular activities as well. I remembered her contagious laughter, her witty conversation and her ready smile.

“I’m going to be a doctor.” I had heard her say this a couple of times. I remember imagining her in a doctor’s coat, laughing her infectious laugh as she diagnosed her patients with an assortment of illnesses.

I had no doubt in my mind that she would achieve her dream.

We lost touch after school but I heard through others that she did not make it to medical college. In fact, her parents did not send her to any college. She spent a year at home and was then married off to the first suitable boy.

Call me crazy, but this seemed completely bizarre to me. I mean, why would her parents not allow her to pursue her aspirations, despite knowing how far their daughter was capable of going? Now, unlike what some people like my hostel friend believe, this has nothing to do with Islam or being a ‘religious type’. It had more to do with family customs and traditions existing in certain societies, which did not allow people to reap the benefits of education. I was fortunate enough to grow up among people who realised that when you educate a woman, you educate a family. But not everyone had that perspective.

Yes, the situation was changing.

I recall reading a newspaper story about Irfaana Mujawar and Gazala Mughal who belong to families that were deeply affected by the Mumbai riots of 1992-93. The riots served as a wake-up call to them. They realised they needed an education to get back on their feet. While one studied MA in sociology, the other got a diploma in crafts. They then pooled their savings and started a school for girls in the slums of Jogeshwari. The school employed five other Muslim teachers – all women – and together they began to help little girls from poor Muslim families become literate.

Stories like this made me jump for joy and I pictured myself being part of such noble efforts. College was when I was high on idealism and optimism. I felt strongly about the need to do something for my community. Our assignments often sent us to work with NGOs and each experience at a slum made me feel I could do something. I didn’t know what but my mind often drifted back to my friend who would have made a wonderful doctor, if only she had been given a choice.

Five years later...

“I hope you don’t mind me asking. Why do you wear a head scarf?”

The question came from a particularly talkative colleague at the publication where I worked as a journalist.

I resisted the urge to scare him off with a, “Coz I’m bald!” response.

“It is part of my religion. I am a practising Muslim,” I replied coolly, instead.

I was used to being asked about my attire and I usually got into lengthy conversations about it. But today had been a really tough day and I wasn’t feeling very chatty.

“Oh okay.” He shrugged and turned away. The response seemed to make sense to him.

He was about to walk back to his desk when he decided to stick around for further conversation.

“We don’t see many Muslim girls in our line of work. I know Islam promotes education. I remember reading a book about it. So it’s weird why so many Muslim youth don’t pursue further education. And the girls aren’t encouraged at all. But of course this happens in all communities, among the poorer or narrow-minded sections of society. I think educated individuals don’t really pay much attention to this issue. I mean, so much can be done to help in terms of awareness creation, right?”

This was not a question. It was déjà vu. This ordinary statement sparked off a chain of memories. My mind raced back to the hostel room. Needle and thread. Family rules. Stereotypes. My friend who could have been a doctor. My education. Girls with dreams in their eyes. A long forgotten desire to make a change. Idealism lost in the daily grind of earning a living.

He wasn’t done.

“You are one lucky girl. I have seen so many girls from your community who can only dream of what you’ve achieved. You should be really proud of yourself,” he smiled.

“I am.” I squeaked with my best impersonation of a proud smile.

Yes, I should be proud of myself. I had successfully completed my post-graduation in Human Rights; I worked for a leading newspaper; I had a lucrative career ahead of me; and with the internet making the world a global village, I had a string of profitable options to choose from.

However, what I felt right now did not feel like pride.

He was exaggerating, I said to myself. Things had changed drastically. Today, there were many Muslim girls from practising Muslim families who were highly educated. Today, girls belonging to any community were confident and independent individuals who did not depend on someone else to make their decisions or how they should lead their lives. Right?

Who was I kidding? One girl denied an education is still one too many. Why was I trying to ignore them? Girls for whom life would have been different had they been born in a more understanding environment... I felt ashamed.

What had become of those promises and desires to make a difference? Waking up to the ways of the world had killed my idealism. But what about my dreams for my community? Why had I never given this issue any thought? I had thought about it. But the guilt of not having done anything had impelled me to push such thoughts to the farthest corners of my mind. My busy life, revolving around my family and work, made me believe that I didn’t have time for any more commitments.

I could go “tch tch” about the issue all I wanted but that wasn’t going to change a thing. It wouldn’t help a single one of those girls. They didn’t need pity. They needed the freedom to make their own choices.

I felt an old idealistic ember ignite somewhere inside. I didn’t need to feel guilty. I needed to do something.

Facing the issue through this post is my first miniscule attempt at doing something for those girls.

See... this is how the wheels turn

This post is inspired by my friend’s concern that I am probably drifting towards an unwise revelation mode through my blog. My friend feels that I am making myself vulnerable by exposing my inner self and thought process to all and sundry. To quote him “Give them the final picture; don’t tell them how the sketch is made.”

Hmmm...

Being honest and baring your soul, or at least part of it, is so very liberating. Blog-therapy, as I call it, has helped me come to terms with a few issues lately and I’m itching to know how it can continue to help. That calls for more straight-from-the-heart writing and further access to my inner thoughts. Do I want to do that? Do I want to let people into my head and show them how the wheels turn? I’m not sure what the repercussions of such actions would be.

I am not double-faced and I hate false pretensions. But like almost everybody I do not always voice my thoughts. Two reasons for this.

# 1: I do not like confrontations. I voluntarily, though sometimes half-heartedly, choose peaceful dialogue over exciting debates, no matter how exciting. Cowardly as it sounds, I’m very uncomfortable about rubbing people the wrong way.

# 2: I get tongue-tied. When I try to voice my opinion, I hear myself say things that are not exactly in line with my thoughts. I think this is because my thoughts are racing from one idea to the next and my vocal chords cannot catch up.( I wonder if this condition/disorder has a fancy name.) So the end result is a distorted version which rarely makes for strong dialogue.

Now writing, via blogging, is another story altogether (pun intended). This mode of communication helps get the message across minus distortion. There are tons of bloggers out there who rejoice at the freedom of expression available though the blogosphere and are going all out to bare their soul. But, from what I have observed, a lot of them do it under the cover of anonymity. Like him and her.

Some courageous bloggers do it without using an alias. Like her. But of course there are still limitations when you choose not to hide behind a pseudonym.

What route is this blog going to take? I don’t really know. Right now it’s serving as my therapist and I’m going to try and experiment with my treatment methodology as much as I have the nerve to. *Seat belts on.*

Connections

“Tomorrow and all the other approaching tomorrows looked bleak and thorny. She wished she didn’t have to get out of bed and face whatever it was that was in store for her. With the option of Melting into Nothingness unavailable in the list of things to do with herself, she decided to meet Sarah. She needed to talk, big time. Spill her guts to someone who would hear her out. Speaking with Sarah always had a soothing effect on her frayed nerves.

Two hours of conversation later, the heaviness had lifted. The sky was blue again and sun shone down on her. The predicament still persisted, yes. But it was no longer unchallengeable, its thorns visibly reduced. She could look at it rationally. She was able to think again.”*

*Spontaneous fiction written to underline a thought.

Wear Your Attitude

I am not difficult to please.

I am not a fussy eater. My taste buds are open to trying new flavours, both bland and exotic. I might eat less than what is required to satisfy my tummy if I don’t find something particulary tasty. Nevertheless, I eat it.

I do not hog the television. I happily allow the other living room occupants to take complete control over the remote. In fact, when I have the remote control in my hands I hardly know what to do with it, and gladly pass it on to someone who can make better use of the device.

I do not require fancy or expensive clothes, shoes, bags, make-up and jewellery. I have very simple clothing preferences that have more to do with comfort than high fashion.

That said, I am certainly not a clumsy dresser nor do I adhere to any Gandhian fashion beliefs of austere simplicity. I like elegance, I have fashioned my own personal style (at least that is what I like to think) and I occasionally like to look dressed up (dolled up?) too.

Now let me tell you what I don’t like. I absolutely loathe being told what to wear. I mean telling me what is appropriate attire in certain circles is something I’m open to and I will surely appreciate the inside information. But dictating that I must follow the current ‘in’ thing and specifying the fabric and cut is taking things a little too far. I refuse to bend down to something just for the satisfaction of gossiping aunties (apparently) who would otherwise get enough fodder to fuel their conversations, while they condescendingly click their tongues, disapproving such poor sense of style (hypothetical).

But it looks like I will be relenting after all. Not for the aunties, mind you. Only to put a smile on the face of someone. I guess it won’t kill me to indulge a loved one and give in to pretentious yet harmless joys.

Aaaarrrrggghhhh!! The woes of being a sweet lass who readily stomps her own desires for the happiness of others (again, this description is purely hypothetical)....

P.S.: It looks like I am going to be using this blog as my punching bag. Considering the past few posts, I’ve been letting off steam through my writing (as well as bottled up emotions – positive and otherwise) and treating myself with some blog-therapy. So far, it seems to be working! :)

To the city I love

11th January 2009: I wake up a little unsure of my surroundings. I turn and look out the large window and see, from my 13th floor perch, the hustle and bustle of a familiar city below. I’m groggy from the exhaustion of the last few days spent in relocating, depressed about leaving the place I called home in Bangalore, missing the few close friends I made over the past four years, the friendly neighbours, everything. Yet, there is this unmistakable spark of excitement growing within me as I look out the window. A thousand memories flood my thoughts. College, hostel, friends, family, journalism, meeting Gowhar, tears, laughter, regrets, lessons learnt, fears overcome, friendships cemented, reality checks, and much more - so many powerful moments packed into the three wonderful years I spent here. This is where I spent some of the most important years of my life, a city I missed immensely and craved to go back to. A place I wanted to embrace and make my own. Mumbai.

Though I had been meeting you briefly throughout my life, I only got acquainted with you in 1999 when I joined college. Within the first month I was hooked. I never knew a city could be alive and take a personality of its own. As months passed we developed a bond, an unspoken and nameless bond. You accepted me for who I am and helped me find my identity. Far from restricting me, you gave me wings to fly, let me learn from my mistakes and gave me friends and family to cushion my falls. Despite the polluted air, choked streets, poverty, and slums that make you unhappy, you gave me the air of freedom to breathe, ample space to run and play, obstacles to make me strong and opportunities to find success and of course, even love.

I’m looking out the window and smiling. I had my doubts about coming back to you. Today, I am not the same girl who reluctantly left you in 2002. I’m married, I have a daughter, my priorities have changed, my ambitions and dreams are not the same. I’m a bit wiser, I don’t trust that easily, and I’m over cautious. But I’m still over sentimental about things, I still love Juhu beach morning walks, pani-puris, linking road haggling, the monsoon rains, the adrenaline rush of travelling in the local trains. Sigh. I’ve missed you. But now I’m back. Back against my will. I didn’t know how badly I needed this. I should learn to stop questioning destiny. I’m being taken care of. Your streets may look different, parts of you may have got a facelift, but its still you. The same embrace I left years ago. Thank you, Mumbai. Thank you for being you.

Change is the only constant

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned my fear of change. Well, it’s happening. Change is happening now! It’s staring me in the face I am not sure if I should run and hide or look at it in the eye and face what it has in store for me. I am not entirely sure I can face it. I’m too fragile right now. I’m ready to break into a million glass pieces that can be swept away into the trash.

Change can be good. It can come as a pleasant breeze that gives things a little swirl, making things exciting and even better than they were. But change can also be harsh. It can be a strong wind that tosses things up in the air and has them twisting and turning, without will, in the melee. Then when done with the torment, it stops and lets them fall back down to the ground. But never will they be the same again. The damage is done.

It is not just change that I’m terrified of, it is the attached unpleasantness that this change is bringing along with it. Or is that just a figment of my imagination? Have I just conjured it up to be an ally to my pessimism?

Stop. Think. Breathe. Tomorrow, when the tide of emotion has calmed, and I can think with a clearer head, I know it won’t look this bad. It will be some time before I truly embrace it. But at least tomorrow I think I will be able to accept it. Accept it for what it is – inevitable and unrelenting. Change.

The Glass Globe

I suddenly realise that I am alone. Not literally. But I have become conscious of the fact that I sometimes walk a few steps away from the other people in my life. Standing outside and analysing a tiny glass globe of people who happen to be my dear family and friends. Figuring out what everyone is really about and where I stand in the hullabaloo. It’s a lonely feeling.

As a kid, I was always an extension of my family. No matter how much I would have wanted to break free and be an individual at that point, there was no escaping the fact that my life revolved around the family boundaries. As kids, our thinking is moulded by what we see and hear, and we are conditioned to behave a certain way. As a teenager, we might have argued and rebelled hard enough to create our own persona, even if it was a façade. Yet the strings remain, more for a sense of security and a kind of default identity.

As an adult also, especially in Indian societies, we are always attached to family. Yet there are those who gravitate towards standing outside the glass globe. Some like to look away and live their life the way they want. And some look in and make their lives miserable wishing, wanting, hoping, regretting, rebelling, antagonising and sometimes yielding. I belong to the latter.

As most teenagers would, I have given my parents their share of angst and regretted it later. But generally I think I’ve done okay and been a good girl. At what point in life did I realise that I was free to have my own opinions? Those that did not conform to what I was taught. When did I decide that it was okay to not always agree with the people around me even if it meant standing on a lonely opinionated island? I don’t know. But what I do know is that having that opinion, arguing my point of reason, caring enough about something to fight it out is what makes me ME. And this means I have to sometimes walk alone, look at the glass globe and wonder if differences put cracks in relationships.

Introspection

Year ends make me a wee bit nostalgic. And I think a lot of you will agree with me here. The end of a year is a time to think back to moments spent, moments lost, moments that zipped by. A time to walk backwards in your own footsteps and relive, albeit hazily, what you did and didn’t do. Year ends can bring on a whole lot of regret and embarrassment, for things you feel you should have done differently. Fortunately, they can also bring pride and a glimmer of hope for the coming year.

2009 was a year brimming with opportunity for me. I began the year with the decision to quit working as an employee and do my own thing as a freelancer. The start was rocky, and I wanted to rethink my decision. But I’m glad I didn’t, because way past mid-year I found out what I wanted to do and how I wanted to do it. This brainwave didn’t come about as a eureka moment one fine day. It came in the form of my business partner Kavita Machiah.

Kavita and I struck the right chord from day one. We’ve been working together for 4 months now and I have enjoyed every moment of the journey. I don’t think I fully understood the meaning of teamwork till we started on our venture. As freelance writers we have been kicking up our own little storm from the cosiness of our homes. We both love the independence and freedom that working from home and working for ourselves has given us. If you know us you’d agree we are different as chalk and cheese. But when it comes to ambition and work methodology, I have yet to meet anyone else who is so like me.

So as I draw the curtains shut for the last time in 2009, and I think back on yet another year that rushed by too quickly, along with a lot of other introspection I’m going to be thankful for what I got this year - business partnership, life long friendship, and several other ships to keep me afloat during the years to come.

It’s what’s written for you.

I stole the above line from a friend’s google talk status message. She’s been displaying it for a few days now and every time I look at it, it gets me thinking. I love the way the line seems to resonate when I read it. I can imagine hearing it being said in a hushed yet firm whisper and yet it echoes in my ears.

I am a firm believer in destiny. I accept that our life’s story has been written by a higher power and that who we are is decided by this plot. Is the plot decided by who we are? Yes, I think this holds true as well.

I know there are no such things as coincidences. Actually I’ve seen coincidences happening so often that they have seized to be classified as coincidences. I believe there is a reason behind incidences, happenings, meetings, gains, losses, successes and failures. Everything leads to something else. Some occurrences have the capacity to be complete life-altering events. Some are so discreet that we might not even notice the events they unfold. So we don’t always get the drift of why something happened. But it has a purpose behind it nevertheless.

That sentence got me thinking about all this. Even though I believe in destiny, it is so much easier to let emotions get the better of you, to get caught up in the moment and forget the wisdom of your beliefs. So when I looked at the line today I said to myself that I need to say this out loud to myself when things are beyond my control. The sooner we learn to accept the things we have absolutely no control over, the more successful we will be in handling our emotions as well as the challenges life throws up.

Preoccupation with change

What is it about change that scares me? The fear of the unknown perhaps. Unpredictability, unfamiliarity and uncertainty. These are what my nightmares are about. How do I explain these fears to anyone? Do I need to? I’m not entirely sure. I’m swinging between hope and despair and wondering where to land.

I think I don’t give myself enough credit. I’m tougher than I think. I know I can will myself to look forward and carry on without delving on the past too much. I know I have it in me to embrace change, and to take each day as it comes. I’m desperately looking around for inspiration. For some manifestation that makes me realize the finiteness of my worries. I haven’t found it yet but I know it will arrive soon. And the sun will shine soon enough.