Time to Write Herstory

Love me not for I cannot be what you want me to be.
I cannot let you do it anymore.
I will not be the woman you want me to be,
Docile, subservient, voiceless, sacrificial.

It is time for me to unfurl the flag and shout out.
I am bleeding because of your cruelty.
I am suffering because of your indifference.
I am dying because of the gag you put on me.

I have to do this, reclaim my own.
For myself and for those who are at the tip of your gun.
Hanging from the broken ceilings they weep blood.
Their lifeless feet swinging in the fog shout for justice.

I will fight for them.
I want to see them live, to thrive.
They are all mine - women, farmers, tribal - my tribe.
I want to do whatever is taboo because you say so.

I will stand in the front of the line,
Face the bullets of those like you who fear me.
I will bathe in my own blood and fall lifeless on the asphalt,
With cracking sound of broken bones.

I will be dead but, unvanquished.
I will win because, you will finally see, 
the blood on your hands.
I will fall from the pedestal, lay crushed on ground. 

I will not let you live without a conscience.
History will judge you.
Generations will spit on your face.
It's time you knew what's coming.

Innocents will take what's their own.
They will take the bricks from the home you paid for.
The fire from the kitchen you ate from.
The love that you took for granted.

I will start the fire that will burn your fear.
The fear that makes you so vulnerable.
The fear that makes you forget that you are not alone. 
Fear that makes you put me up on a pedestal.

I want to be in control.
I want to decide destiny.
Away from your shaking hands holding a gun.
I will write my story on my own.

I am not afraid of those you doubt my ability.
I will rewrite history.
It will no longer be yours.
It will be Herstory or mine.

~ Shoma

Memories of Ma's Guru of Knitting

My mother is the most graceful and ladylike person I know. There is not an iota of tomboy in my ma. She is always poised and has the right expression for most occasions except when she is scolding me for being the exact opposite of her.

Portrait of my mother
Photo: Shoma Chakraborty

My mother is also a very complex person to understand. A child of the partition she had spent all her life telling us stories about their ancestral home in what is now Bangladesh. Though I could never imagine the sheer magnitude of that house but, the house in north Calcutta that she grew up in is a huge thing covering two lanes with openings on both sides. All her girlhood and early youth was spent in that cavernous building with latticed varandahs and stained glass windows and green Venetian blinds surrounded by family and relatives. She had scores of uncles, granduncles, aunts and grandaunts not to mention a zillion cousins. 

From a joint family of eight siblings where everyone was good at somethings and would help the others with their skills from school syllabus to culinary and fine art and knitting/ sewing she was married and had to start her own household in Delhi all by herself.

Suddenly in her late 20s my shy mother realized that she was knocked out for a six. Married and moved to a city where no one spoke her native language, she started from scratch to reinvent the proverbial wheel. From learning to cook with the vegetables and fresh produce available in north India to learning how to explain even the smallest of things in sign language to hoards of people everyday who were mostly uneducated like the vendors, cleaners and shop keepers she decided to learn everything from the language to sewing and taking care of one overweight and over-indulged over-energetic toddler (moi).

By the time she hung up her spurs, she was teaching Hindi along with Social Sciences in school. 

Her stories of how she picked up the skills are not always cute. Some reek of helplessness and others were sheer grit. Some like reading and writing Hindi happened because she had to help us with homework. Cooking is something she was always great at and her cooking was always healthy even before it became a fad. As an old school friend recently told me, "your tiffin was always great tasting with no oil running even when it was okra and your rotis were thin and even." She should know because she is a food Nazi these days.

But, it explains why all of us have stayed the same size through the decades.

Anyway, a few days back we recalled this really cute story about her learning how to knit - a skill she puts to great use every year though her skills are absolutely rudimentary - no purls and chains in her stuff but, lots of practical cover and tonnes of love.

Here's the story of her learning knitting.

As a young woman with a leaky toddler in the 1970s she needed a lot of sweaters because even at age -1 I was always hungry and ever eager to either throw up or pee and since there were no modern diapers, it meant her changing my clothes several times in a day.

So, my poor parents were buying mini sweaters by the buckets to keep me warm and clean because my ma couldn't knit. 

The house we lived in was divided into four flats and there were two more Bengali families with five teenage kids who were always taking turns to pet me like I was a little furry animal. Not to say that I did not lap it all up. Till the age of five we stayed in that house and I was the cynosure of all eyes - the happiest toddler ever.

However, among the five was this young boy who was very sweet, slightly crazy, artistic young man with a golden heart and a wicked sense of humor. He was in sixth standard and was very attached to my mother because she allowed him to eat from her kitchen all day. He too - like me - was always hungry.

He also had a soft corner for me and my mother and so would keep an eye on me when my ma was busy with chores or had to take a bath or use the toilet. He would bring his books and sit next to me doing his homework while ma finished her personal chores and tasks. I remember spending a lot of time with him even as a toddler. My ma also helped him with his studies because he was not too good on his own and there was no one else to help him because all the other elders in the house were working. 

So, the legend has it that one day he asked my ma in confidence why she was buying so many sweaters because all the other women knit for their children. It was the done thing and he himself had never worn anything off the rack. He was really outspoken for his age and no one minded it because their was no use asking him to mind his own business.

Hence, my mom broke her silence on the taboo subject and let him into her little secret. She told him in strict confidence that she didn't know how to knit. 

That sad confession must have really touched his heart. Imagine a mother who cannot knit for her child! It was a huge scandal. He had fodder for a big gossip but, his kiddy heart was not inclined to abuse the trust of the elder who was actually helping him with his studies and who trusted him explicitly to let him look after her infant and fed him scrumptious stuff everyday.

Instead he decided to change the situation. He could because he had the power to do so.

So, the next day - weekend, he asked her to meet him at the rooftop in the afternoon and leave me with my father.

My ma agreed without asking why thinking maybe he wanted to learn new English words like always.

The next day they met on the terrace. Everyone else was enjoying a siesta after a mutton lunch - those were the days without TV and Internet!

So, the two co-conspirators got to work. He had stolen a ball of wool from home and had brought it up with a couple of sticks from the bathroom broom. 

He had learnt how to do basic knitting watching the women in the house and since he was a little guy who was always crafting  something they never even bothered to tease him. Most were scared of pulling his leg because his sense of humor would tear them to pieces. 

With that one stolen ball of wool and two coconut leaf sticks from the broom he initiated my ma to the art of knitting and taught her whatever she knows today. Hence becoming her knitting guru.

My ma who learnt quickly never looked back, though she didn't try increasing her repertoire by adding designs and styles.

Just last week, when my mother was knitting a small yellow sweater for my toddler niece who wants - "verrrrry loooseee sweateee!" My father suddenly looked up and chuckled, "each time you pick up the knitting needles, you should take a few seconds and thank and bless your guru."

They both laughed and I felt warm without a sweater.

Memories are the most beautiful things and this one melts my heart. 

From Saving my Ma from Zombies to Losing my Family to Zombiehood

I woke up at 5 am today and with a distinct memory of saving my ma and me from being eaten up by a bunch of zombies pretending to be human. 

I swear we were invited to a posh restaurant with dark interiors and grey walls by a very suave ex-student of my mom's who looked a bit like a Bollywood A-lister last evening. I did hate all my mom's students at one time because she loved them and spent a whole lot of time with them but, didn't remember this guy. Though my ma seemed to remember him well enough to accept his invite. To me, he looked smarmy right from the start. What clinched the deal for me however was the fact that he was willing to drive us both in his luxurious dark-tinted SUV and anyone who knows me knows how I hate to drive.

So, off we went, nicely dressed and happy. I was dreaming of the lovely food that I would get to click for my Instagram account while, ma was busy chatting up with the 40-something 'boy'!

We reached this posh and unlisted looking restaurant whose entrance looked like that of an old fort with grey exposed rocks and accompanying arches. It looked pretty cool with vintage furniture and liveried staff.

I was so busy dreaming of kebabs and biryani by now that I couldn't wait to get inside and start. I however saw that the place had valet parking before we all went in to meet this middle-aged smarmy guy's family - this was a lucky thing to do. 

The inside was a bit of a let down because once you entered, the walls didn't change. They were still grey exposed stones as outside. The furniture was very flimsy and the people looked almost lost in their own world. Most-importantly, there was no aroma of food. But, I chalked it all up to - bad place to eat and walked with my ma to the table where the family of some kids and their mom was waiting for us. I was looking at a very boring evening by now and all dreams of food photography was off because the place hardly had any light.

We sat down. The entire trek from the door to the table laid out at the back of the restaurant took a while because of my ma's bad knee, She shuffled and walked leaning on her cane while the smarmy 'student' held her hand smiling like he was eyeing a trophy. My ma was obviously soaking in all the attention.

We sat down finally, I insisted on sitting next to ma - thank God!

After a while, I realized that there was no food coming in and then a strange feeling hit my spine. I turned around to see a sea of deadened eyes looking at us as if we were a feast served. I looked back at them archly like any Delhi girl used to having people stare at them in public places. But, suddenly as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I saw a sea of grey faces and some with cracking make-up. 

I knew in a jiffy that we were in the wrong place and in wrong company thanks to all the paranormal romances I have been devouring in the last few years. I knew we were the dinner!

My only worry now was to get ma out of the place quickly which is next to impossible because of her arthritis. I turned back to the table to suddenly see that the kids were eyeing my ma with similar hungry eyes as the others at our back. The smarmy guy was still acting suave and so was his wife though her make-up had started cracking. Ma was oblivious to all and talking 19 to a dozen with the devious duo.

I had to do something and I did. With SFX-defying speed, I stood up dragging ma up from the flimsy chair that broke when it fell. Ma yelped and I said, "grab the cane."

She did it with the speed of a parent who is tired of her defiant-since-teenage rebel-wihout-cause offspring and looked up. I said, "run".

She looked at me as if I had finally lost my mind. With regret on her face, she turned to our hosts who were yet to order dinner and finally saw what I had already seen - the drying make-up that had fallen-off the smarmy guy's cheek showing a row of dirty exposed teeth and rotting gums.

It was perhaps the teacher in her that got really disgusted by the lack of hygiene despite having taught it to all her students that she got wildly angry and suddenly picked up the stick and whacked him on his head. 

I must say, that her action took everyone in the room by surprise and bought us a lot of time. I knew already that zombies are slow on the uptake thanks to the paranormal series I had been devouring and broke into a run pulling ma by her wrist. 

My only fear now was the arthritic knee that might stop us from making the escape. I spied a closed doorway on my left and suddenly remembered all the airline safety drills that insisted on telling you about the doors on the left and right that "open in case of emergency." This was a bloody emergency said my brain and I dragged ma to the door.

And yes, it opened. Because, it WAS an emergency.

We were out in a sunlit lawn and there were shaded deck chairs full of - yes - more zombies!

I knew that we had walked out into the frying pan from the fire but, still we were out in the open and we could see things clearly. I also suddenly realized that ma could keep pace with me. I looked at her and then her knee and up back at her with awe in my eyes pride in my swelling heart and like some Bond girl she shrugged her shoulder delicately and kept running with me.

My heart swelled in gratitude to see her walk without any pain. I loved this moment more than anything but, we had zombies to get rid of before we could rejoice.

So, I shoved her into an alcove in a stoney wall which was covered with moss and flowers and put a finger to my lip to tell her to keep quiet. The zombies on the deck chairs were stirring a little and I could hear a bit of a commotion coming from inside the faux-restaurant - or was it a real one for "zombies only"?

Anyway, I had no time to loose. I ran to the the edge of the parking and spied an old and battered red Maruti 800 and quickly memorized the number off the twisted plate. With that I ran back to ma and took her out of the alcove and walked boldly back to the entry. A swarm of zombies ran past us - apparently looking for us, so we held our breath. No breath means you too are a zombie - thanks to my knowledge of paranormal literature.

We quickly made it to the front door and I gave the number of the red car to the liveried staff who didn't at all look like a zombie - how were they managing to stay alive? There was no time to investigate or even ask because, they could tip us off to the swarm of greys still running around in the garden looking for us. 

Anyhow, the car came in, I took to the wheels, ma got in quicker than me still clutching her walking stick like a talisman or a weapon of mass destruction and I strapped her to the seat. I drove like a manic without sparing any rubber till I remembered that the zombies could follow our tracks and slowing down. When I checked left, ma was fast asleep like my baby niece often is after a day of adventures. 

What woke me up was the fact that the zombies knew where my folks lived. I had to move them quickly to my place.

It was still dark when my eyes popped opened and the phone said it was 5 am. Adrenaline levels were still high in my blood and the zombies had lost us for good.

By 9 am I was already up and around for four hours. So, decided to call ma to see if she was doing good. I must confess that I half expected her to be unwell while the other half wanted her to be rid of the pain like she was in the dream. 

So, she picked up on the nth ring when I was about to hang up and walk down to her place and said, "you are awake?"

I must say that was a low blow but, I managed to carry on saying, "yes and also done with tea, Yoga and breakfast."

Her reply was a very casual, "oh."

I thought something was wrong and asked her if all was well. 

She sounded sad and said, no, Nonie - my niece - was unwell and had been sent to her already for the day because she was not going to school. I tut-tutted and said, "can I talk to her?"

My ma said, "I don't think she'd be interested."

I was aghast. I said, "how can you say that?" 

She totally side-stepped that and said, "Are you coming now?"

I said, "Do you want me to? I can if you need help with the baby."

Her answer was a bored, "not really."

This conversation was getting messier by the minute. Had the zombies attacked my parents' home?

So, I persisted, "what's up with you all?" 

She sounded really bored with the conversation by now and said, "we are watching Masha and the Bear and Masha has made dresses out of all seven of the bear's towels and now he has nothing to dry himself with when he takes a bath..."

My head was reeling. "WHAT?"

I heard my niece's voice suddenly shouting, "didu, didu, the bear's in the shower..."

My ma said, "I have to go now. The bear's in the shower," and disconnected.

Surely, the zombies have won and even my little niece is one of them. So, much for my trying to save my family from the attack of the zombies. 

Realization: As long as there is the television hanging from the drawing room wall. My family will be a part of the zombie tribe however much I try to save their souls. 

When Summer was Fun

It is that time of the year once more - summer vacation! I remember summer vacations as fondly as the best time of the year (the scorching heat not-withstanding) during school. Never an outdoorsy person, I spent most of the two months either visiting grandmothers or reading. In fact, while visiting grannies too I would be huddled in a corner reading or lying down and listening to my mom's mom reading out stories to me. In the case of my father's mother, she was a consummate storyteller and would recount stories about her village in East Bengal with as much flourish as she would tales from the Mahabharata and Ramayana.

I loved to hear her tales. They sounded almost unbelievable at times. Especially my favorite one, where a famous robber was attacked during the village fair in front of both my grand parents and she swore that even though his head was loped off, the man ran headless all over the place, drenching everything in a fountain of fresh, warm blood, scaring the hell out of everyone because he was still clutching his sword and slashing it about. According to her, it went on for a while till he finally fell down and died.

I would never have believed it possible if I had not been to a scene of a similar crime in Delhi years later as a reporter on Sunday duty. A cop had killed his wife by her slashing neck almost severing her head off. The wife had put on a brave fight for survival when she held on to the almost-severed head with blood gushing from it like a geyser and run around the corridor of the building knocking doors, seeking help. I saw enough gore the next morning to believe both stories to be true.

Sometimes I feel that the seeds for the love of magic realism and surrealism were firmly planted during those story-telling sessions. My mother's ma used to read out from her collection of what is now known as paranormal fiction. Her haul included, Alif Laila, Thakumar Jhuli and other such collections full of ghosts, demons and goblins all set to tilt the world order on one hand and adventurous, courageous and swashbuckling romantics who always found their love in the end along with enormous riches, on the other.

The fact remains that those two ladies had planted the seed of storytelling inside me, all those years ago during those lazy Summer afternoons.

Stories are what I love to hear, to read and now, to tell. So, those long ago Summer vacations are where the Big Bang of my storytelling universe must have really happened.

Summers was an excellent time to read and dream. They are the best times to be out in the nature even in a city like Delhi that is almost as hot as Hell.

The night sky those days, would almost always be clear dark cobalt blue with a hint orange from the hanging-in-the-air sand of the Thar waiting to plunge the city in a dusty cover. Mostly the dust storms came in the evenings.

It started with dark clouds gathering overhead and a thin whiff of sweet wind teasing our senses. This was the moment when I'd take my book and skip out to the huge terrace to read and day dream.

While, soothing after a day of relentless heatwave, this would only be the prelude to the real deal. Soon big fat drops of rain would start falling and even before I could run for cover clutching my book to my stomach and running, cool fresh water would be trickling down my neck into my back wetting my spine.

At this point, ma would appear at the terrace door to call me in and I'd collapse into her, shrieking with joy, my hair rushing in behind me in a tangle.

Inside, I'd perch myself next to the window clutching the now-forgotten book, waiting for the real drama to begin.

The massive winds would soon take over, sweeping the rain away with a disdainful dirty hand and shower the city with sand and dust. At this point I'd push the window a little to feel the gale. The moment I pushed it a wee bit, the wind would snatch it from my hands and flung it open almost pulling me out with the gust.

The dust would rush in with the speed of lightening painting me in grime and ma hearing the noise would run  in to the room and prying the catch from my struggling hands would bang it in place and shut the window, glaring at me all the while.

It was icky being covered in desert sand. It scratched the eye and tickled the nose. It also went into the mouth and made me bite - dust.

So, I'd make a contrite face that made ma go back looking for the broom to clean the dusty floor while I waited for the grand finale...

The most spectacular part of a summer storm is the lightening and the subsequent deluge.

Itchy with grime and scratchy all over I'd wait for the climax. When it finally came, it would make visibility zero for a few minutes and the only discernible thing in the sky were the thick streaks of light that cut it from side to side. Sheets of rain would fall making the wind run off with a whoosh, bathing the dry, gritty dust in water to make it submit, washing it off down the storm water drains. The divine odor of wet grime on the sizzling sidewalk would fill the atmosphere making me take several deep breaths and run around the room with my hands in the air like in a trance.

Often my little sister would join in giggling and we'd continue the ritual together, arms up in the air, deep breaths in and running around in circles, whirling like dervishes. Hearing all that naughty noise, ma would call her name and my little sister would run back to her while I was left looking for the right moment to flee - out!

Making sure that ma was indeed working in the kitchen, I'd tip-toe to the terrace door and open it a bit. The lashing rain would immediately welcome me with a cool spray and make me giggle. The giggle would be enough to make ma aware of the latest mischief but, before she could run out to catch me by the tail of my frock, I'd be out with the brick on the floor scratching my soft jumping feet. And there would be crowns all around me.

Raindrops falling on the water that would have collected on the terrace floor would resound with a thousand plops and make a million crowns that rose and fell within seconds.

The water would soak me to my bones and drench my dirty dress and make me happy, very happy because ma would be standing at the door with a hand on her hips and the other, restraining my younger sister from lunging into the water with me. I knew I was safe because she would never come out in the water nor leave the door in case I slipped and fell.

Did I say, Summer vacations were the best?!