Unladylike tales

I walked into marriage ready to become (or at least act like) a grown up. I own a human now! I mustered all the grace and femininity I could and told myself BE A LADY!

It was going really well. For about 48 hours.

Then I went for my first walk with my new husband. It was a cool full moon night, there was a light breeze and we were strolling hand in hand. I know, so romantic! I was just thinking to myself how perfect my life is and then, I fell into a gutter. Literally. Like one minute I was holding Ameen’s hand and walking with no care in the world, and the next I was laying fully flat in a 3 ft deep open drain. You see, the streets near my house are really narrow and because everyone here, except me, has amazing night vision, there are no street lights either. And since it had been raining earlier that day, I could experience the joy of being covered in slush too. Yay.

Le husband pulls me out and after ensuring I am alive, alternates between stifled laughter and ‘are you okay’s. I decide I probably shouldn’t murder him on the second day of our marriage. Then I hobbled all the way back and because shaadi house= 1 million guests, I had to sneak into my own house. To top it all off, I have a scar to remind me of the fall for the rest of my life. THANK YOU UNIVERSE.

So this, folks, is what my ‪#‎PostShaadiDiaries‬ look like. And there's more... 

At The Last Gate

The war 
Took mama’s arm and 
three walls of our little blue house.
The journey
Took five chocolate bars and my favourite doll,
And now I See Purple blisters on baba’s feet and-at night-
Tear streaks on mama’s cheeks. 
On the way we play a game where 
each gate is the next level 
we have to unlock
And baba says some guards will be meaner 
than the others
That on some days there will be no bread and 
our shoes might tear
But that’s okay, 
It’s all part of the game and 
we need to keep our eyes open while walking,
not stopping to smell the yellow flowers
because at the last gate
There is a warm bed, waiting, with soft pillows, 
And blankets to cover my shivering legs.
At the last gate we don’t have to beg and 
At the last gate we can stop walking and rest 
At the last gate mama and baba will smile 
And At The Last Gate 
I can close my eyes.

Just Being

For a long time I carried around this notion with me that spirituality is something separate from real life. I though that I cannot actively be spiritual and engage with the 'real world' at the same time. It was largely because of the way I was exposed to religion as a child. I was told that being close to God entailed doing 'abc' thing 'x' number of times. That you had to always do certain things and avoid doing other things to achieve some sort of spiritual high. When viewed from this frame, for the child me it seemed like I had to make two spheres- my spiritual sphere and my 'real life' sphere. And that at each moment I had to choose one over the other.

Some conversations with dear friends and family, quiet reflections of the Qur' an, and the blessing of travel led to certain realizations that made me reconsider how I view my relationship with The Divine. I now look forward to a spirituality that arises out of just ' being'. What does that mean? I mean an ' organic' relationship with God that arises predominantly out of reflecting on the many signs we see around us. These reflections lead to gratefulness and an overwhelming love for the Creator, which in turn makes you *want* to do that which He loves. So instead of doing things mechanically and waiting for something to just 'click', this approach makes you engage more intimately with the world around to get closer to the Divine. Because God does not isolate places where He can be found.

When reading the Qur' an, I constantly get the same message. The seeker is told to look around at this beautiful and chaotic world that we inhabit and reflect. (S)he is asked to reflect on the many things taken for granted- the sky, fluffy clouds, rain pouring down onto dry earth which then nourishes seeds that pierce the earth and reach for the sky in this beautiful, life-giving cycle. Then there are mountains placed firmly onto the earth, shadows shifting shape....

But life has become such that we are mercilessly cutting off our ties from what is real and becoming shells of what we could be, what we should be. Our reality now exists in pixels and is lived out in static screens. The outside world has become something we now consider as an 'escape' instead of our only reality. A spectacle we reserve for our weekends and family holidays. Perhaps that explains why most people don't take seriously the very real threat that climate change poses to the only world we know.

Earlier today I sat outside on the verandah and read a chapter from the Qur'an, An-Nahl- The Bee. I found myself overwhelmed as I kept reading verse after verse asking me to pause and reflect on the many wonders around me. "He has made mountains stand firm on the earth, to prevent its shaking under you, and rivers and paths so you may find your way, and landmarks and starts to guide people" and more such verses asking me to reflect on our shadows, on the fact that we have places that give us shade, how we have clothing that protects us from heat and cold and the other elements of nature... These are small things that we overlook in our every day hustle and bustle.

I looked out and saw how the coconut trees swayed elegantly against the rain andd wind, how the birds chirped once the rain stopped, and how beautiful and clear everything appeared aftewards. In those few minutes of reflection I found myself feeling much more closer to God than I have felt while doing xyz ritual. I am not saying we should stop with 'action-oriented' worship, no not at all. I think we should simply reconsider the closeness to divinity that comes with just being.

A few years back I visited Germany with my parents. We were at the Olympia Park in Munich, enjoying a crisp autumn day. We strolled past trees decked in leaves every shade of orange you can imagine, crossed a bridge over a gushing stream and reached a lovely pond with ducks in it. It was time for Asr so we found a quiet spot under a shady tree. I cannot describe the incredible tranquillity I experienced in that short prayer. When I went down in sajdah and placed my forehead on the dewy grass I felt one with the earth. A profound moment where everything fell into place and there was sukoon (peace) in the heart. I believe it's because all my senses came together to glorify the Divine. The feeling of wet grass on skin, breathing in the earthiness of the ground beneath, listening to the chirping birds- all these made me feel closer to God just by ' being' there in that moment. I found my happy place. And I continue to find different happy places each time I decide to drop down the walls I have created around me and pause to be mindful of where I am. It doesn't take much, next time you are on the way to work, playing with your kids in the park, or just sipping tea out in your garden, just be there and Just There.

‪#‎PreRamadanReflection‬

Leaving Me Behind

The past few days have given me a reality check. A close friend lost a loved one, and I felt her pain. I can't imagine how she finds the strength to deal with this. It got me thinking about what it must be like. Cherish the people in your life. Love them and let them know you love them before you no longer can.

On quiet evenings I wonder
About Life stopping on its track to
Push you off,
Holding me captive
In a carriage
I don't recognize.
About my hands
dangling on the sides,
Nothing to hold on but
A You-Shaped-Space
that follows me around
Like a shadow that clings
after sun down.
About memories sprouting when
tears sew tired lids shut
drifting dreams on waves
where we then meet
And whisper words that never exist.
About my heart breaking each time because
I wake up to nothing but
That You-Shaped- Space
following me around.

Dear Daughter

A jumbled, tumbled upside-down, inside-out, all-over-the-place poem for my daughter (If I ever have one someday) to read on rainy days when she just doesn't 'feel it'. Inspired by one of my favourite poets, Sarah Kay.

Dear Daughter,
When down,
With your shoulders straight, chin up,
Go out and jump into puddles and
come back to me with muddy hands,
scraped knees and a big smile on your face
so I can kiss you and
send you right back to
Explore The World
with your tiny palms
And make you scrunch up your nose to
breathe in new wonders everyday
In everyway.
And remember, it's okay
To cry once in a while,
or snort when you laugh
Or burp in front of boys.
Go play in sun
Tan without worry,
throw like a girl,
run like a girl,
do whatever you want like a girl,
because you are a girl
and there's nothing to be ashamed of.

And when you grow up,
Don't let them tell you that
'You are not a real woman'
'Cause you are, baby,
As real as it gets.
And remember to stand up and tell them,
that real women come in all sizes and shapes and hues
More colourful than the rainbow in a clear sky.
Teach them that
All women are real,
Black and White,
Yellow and Brown
All shades you can name.
At home or in town
Fat and skinny
small and tall
With men or without
With kids or without.
Ring or no ring
All women are real.
Just like you and
your mother, her sisters and
their fierce foremothers.
And remember, my love,
Be
fiercely
unapolgetically
unconditionally
You.
Always.

I Don't Need Your Saving

After ages I watched a movie that spoke to me. 'Arranged', a 2007 film, explores the evolving friendship of two fourth-grade teachers at a New York Public School- one a practicing Muslim and the other an orthodox Jewish woman. Rachel and Naseera, though from very different backgrounds, share a lot in common when it comes to their values and beliefs.

I related with one scene in particular which took me back to my various experiences as a 'Visibly Muslim' woman. During one of the lunch breaks Rachel and Naseera get called into the Principal's office. The principal- a white lady who took part in the women's movement of 60s- gives the all too familiar ' "Don't worry, I am here to save you" look to the two ladies. She begins,"You are both smart, bright young women. You are so beautiful, why do you have to hide under all those layers? This is the 21st century after all." As the two woman look on in bewilderment the benevolent principal continues to make offensive statements about their beliefs and then proceeds to offer them a wad of notes to 'shop for designer clothes'.

At 18 I started college with high spirits. I was in Bangalore- a city that I love in all its imperfection-living on my own for the first time. I was pursuing a degree in Psychology, Journalism and English- subjects that I loved and excelled in. Within days I made friends with amazing girls who I continue to cherish. I was actively involved in extra-curricular activities and was winning prizes for debates and 'personality contests'. But I soon realized that did not matter. One day I visited the staff room to have some of the well-intending lecturers there ask me why I am wearing clothes that are so 'drab;.Why, when I am so young, am I hiding my beauty under all those layers? Why don't I wear something stylish? You are so brilliant, you don't have to wear it you know.

As I stood there, an 18 year old girl high on life and excited about her future, I realized this is how it is going to be. No matter how vibrant my personality or how many my accomplishments, I was still going to be judged based on the cloth on my head. The hijab never held me back from enjoying life and its little pleasures. I traveled, I met interesting people, I wrote about these experiences. But for these women, my clothing muted every other feature that defined me.

At 19 a teacher asked me when my parents are going to get me married off. You know since in my community people do that to girls.

At 13 a random Muslim man shouted at me for not being modest according to his standards.

At 15 I held back tears as a religious teacher told me I might taste the flames of hell for not covering my face with a niqab.

Over the years I have developed a thick skin against these presumptions and judgments. When people ask me about my hijab I can now tell apart the genuinely interested from the ones who are out to save me or condemn me. I can see the words forming in their heads asking me to abandon what's on mine.

But let me tell you something, my hijab is not meant to act as a barrier between you and me. Neither is it an opportunity for you to tell me how I should live my life.

It is an invitation to look beyond what is physical and connect with me as a person. If you don't want to do that, and would prefer to just talk down to me, then know that-

I don't need your opinions.

I don't need your pity.

I don't need your saving.

I just need you to stand there and watch me rock my pashminas while I conquer the world with friends who value what's in my head rather than what's on it.

Peace.

Chai

What holds India together? No, it is not Bollywood. Or cows. Or Masala.

It is the divine drink- Chai. Chaaya. Tea. Teh.

It starts in the morning, when Indian households slowly open their eyes to  a new day. According to the hierarchy of the family, one of the female members steps in to begin the ritual. If it is just a husband and wife, the wife. If it is father mother, and daughter, it is mostly the mother with the daughter making forays in when mother is unwell. With Parents, son, daughter-in-law, it is the daughter-in-law. The complicated matrix of tea making duties according to age, location, and hierarchy is available as pdf on request.

Once the wife/ mother/ daughter-in-law steps in and twists her hair into a loose bun, the process has officially begun. All families have a loyal tea pot- for God knows kettle made tea is blasphemy- with a wobbly handle that has been in use for years. A look inside the pot will reveal long tales of the past, where its mistress has let it burn in acts of rebellion or in the midst of the other main ritual- soap opera watching.  Carefully measured goat, cow, buffalo, or genetically modified radioactive milk makes its way in followed by a proportionate amount of water. The ratio of Milk: Water is critical here; tea is no joking matter after all! You don’t want your tea to be too milky, because that says that you are an entitled brat that indulges in milk when people don’t even have water to drink.  And you also don’t want it to be watery because that just means you are a spineless baby that can’t take strong tea.   So it has to be just right. Once in, the tea maker gives the tea pot some privacy to get its business done and meanwhile, revs up the household- The hair bun tied tighter, she pushes her husband off the bed, drags her groggy kids into the bathroom and plants them under the shower, and then checks on the pet she said the house did not need because she will be the only one looking after it.  The timing is so precise, that the Swiss will grudgingly tip their hats, if they wear any, to the tea maker. This is stage two of the ritual. Once little bubbles form, it is time for the most critical step- Tea leaves.

The tea leaves are of prime importance.  Half a tea spoon for every cup if you are a sissy and a spoonful if you are committed to tea and everything it stands for. You want to know a person? Find out how he likes his tea. Strong and sweet? Weak and sugary? Aromatic and spicy? A person’s choice of brew is very revealing of who they are.  This is proven science and the reason why tea is central to all matchmaking missions in India. Starting from when the matchmaking aunty walks into your home with her mental file of suitable ‘Nice Boys’. She sits down with the Concerned Mother of unmarried 23 year old and consoles that it is not too late, ‘It’s the new age! There might be some boy who likes old women!’. In return the temporarily placated mother offers her a cup of tea as a sign of gratitude. Then over cups of tea nice boys are laid out (metaphorically of course) as the aunty rattles out Age, profession, salary, and family history upto Adam. After half a dozen cups of tea the conspirators land upon the perfect  Nice Boy to whisk away the Aging Spinster at home.  Matchmaking aunty then repeats process in the Nice Boy’s house, over tea of course. Then Nice Boy and co. head to Aging Spinster’s house with Matchmaking Aunty in tow. 

The scene is set, the Aging Spinster is dressed in red and the Concerned Mother utters a prayer and begins to brew the tea that will make or break her daughter’s life. Not too weak because you don’t want them to dominate you for the rest of your lives, not too strong because we are not aggressive like Sharma’s family.  Concerned Mother drops in some crushed cardamoms for the delightful aroma that will twirl around the Nice Boy and make him like the Aging Spinster. She lets it simmer till the perfect tea coloured tea is ready. It is then poured into the delicate little cups brought out just for this occasion, arranged carefully with sugar on the side so no diabetic grandmas of the Nice Boy die. Aging Spinster nervously carries the tray that determines her future and offers it demurely to her prospective in-laws. She looks down as her mother in law gauges her height, weight , and skin-tone. The only time she looks up is to meet the very uncomfortable Nice Boy’s glance and then she looks down again with a shy smile or a disgusted sigh.  Matchmaking aunty talks on behalf of everyone in the room and the match is made! And what carries forward this dated and excruciatingly awkward ceremony? Our beloved chai of course!

The famous ' one-meter tea'

Do you see how important it is now? Tea is so important that we even have a time in the evening- usually 5 pm- where the entire family sits together and sips on tea with Marie biscuits and the staple ‘Rusk’.  No conversation is necessary; you can lose yourself and your worries to the small cup in your hand.  If you do want to talk though, you can choose from a wide array of topics –cricket, politics, and the latest black sheep of the family.  Not just homes, even Government offices run on tea. It’s a known fact that government employees take up their jobs for the endless stream of free tea delivered by Chottu The Office Boy (Thanks to every Bollywood movie ever made).  Earthquake, Tsunami, or a Zombie take-over- nothing interferes with the office tea breaks.  And God forbid if Chottu ever takes a day off! *collective shudder*

Really,nothing ever gets in the way of tea, not even the times when it is physically hazardous to drink it. Take the great Indian trains.  Your face is in sweaty aunty’s armpit and there is a pervert trying to grope you from behind, but do you let that stop you? No. As the agile Chai-waala contorts his way through this human sea, you unglue your face from Sweaty Aunty’s armpit,  frantically wave so he notices you and then you dislocate your shoulder while locating your purse. But you buy that damn tea.

The love affair with tea is more profound in the rural areas. Take my native state Kerala. The locus of the village here is the Chaaya Kada (tea shop)- A shed with wooden benches and a woven mat as the roof. In the corner stands the most important man of the village- the Chai maker. Out of reverence for his holy-trade the locals attach the title of Chetta (elder brother) with his name. The chaya kada sees a variety of people throughout the day, but the loyal customers (as informed by Malayalam movies) are-The avid newspaper reader, who is singlehandedly responsible for the political knowledge of the entire village, the local communist party worker who rages against the bourgeoisie over endless cups of black tea , the old man who should have died yesterday, and, often, a failed poet who inflicts his soulful poetry on his tea-companions.

The Chai-maker Chettan is also the Page 3 of the village. His hands maybe busy brewing tea, but his eyes and ears are everywhere. Want to know the scandalous affairs, the elopement stories, the  history of gulf-returnees, and who just died? Visit the tea shop for gossip begins and ends in this tiny stall. Who needs TMZ when have the dedicated services of our beloved chai chettans!

This love affair with tea is an unending saga that cannot be captured in a single post. Maybe I will regale you with it another day. Over a steaming cup of tea, what do you say?