Often called a waste or barren land Worthless without a child or two If you just see a sweet, smiling face How would you know what they go through? It is not a curse of the Gods Perhaps just a matter of good luck Time ticks by and it’s still the same What can you ever say that’s awestruck? Science has progressed just like the mind While you make it all a big deal and tattle Not aware of what it is like to be this Who can feel the deep within battle? Each time the needle pokes your skin With no end in sight and the bloody oozes Besides what is fed for your curiosity Would you know the scars and bruises? The deprivation is not easy either Waiting through the emptiness and silence Be cautiously optimistic is what’s told When is it the right time for defiance? Kindness may not come for some But all we pray for is some blessings There is nothing that we won’t do To put an end to the hurt and sins Adopt, await or surrogate say well-wishers Only the heart knows what it really feels Decisions bigger than any emotions Why would you expose what they conceal?
This is my story battling with secondary infertility. Judge me all you want but it is not by choice, neither is it genetic nor because of being on the pill or sacrificing precious time for career. I am just one of the many. There is not much data out there and even fewer that empathize. Adoption is often provided as a favorite solution but it’s not for all. It may not define us, but we still try. Insurance sucks too to the most part no matter how good the job is. I still get jitters running into few people at social gatherings who read my palm to just tell me how my husband and I won’t be parents. If someone you know is struggling with primary or secondary infertility, support them. And if you can’t support them, just don’t say anything. A friend told me once, “There is a child in your life, one way or the other.” The time will come!!
I am a brown girl Unwanted from the start If not for brave mothers I’d be flushed in the toilet Or slaughtered in honor But I live despite the odds There is nothing that favors Yet, I keep defying all norms Back where I come from Lust and bigotry rule the roost All my life I struggle to break Those ruffian glass ceilings Not knowing where I belong But following my gut With hope that I am worth Then I’m married off Either in a trade or of will Still doesn’t mean much As I continue to merely exist No matter what I achieve It’s beneath a man When opportunity strikes And I travel to far away lands Dreams in my eyes Holding my head up high Sashaying into equality Alas, it is the same here Personality penalties galore Social inequity all over Glass cliffs give me the edge Risking my life’s harmony Told subtly I don’t deserve Because my sisters need more Confidence is called arrogance Hard work goes unrecognized Don’t know what turns the tables Well, my turn may never come Until I land below the red line Which I perhaps never will Born to take the roads That’ve never been taken Time will never be right So, I will make it right now Come what may Future belongs to me No matter what holds Proud of who I’ve become Honored how far I’ve come To stand tall on my feet Making my own destiny
I am worthy. I am enough. These are some positive reinforcements that I do for myself every day. From not sharing my stories because of what people would think, to not being ashamed of my tears, it has been a long journey of self-acceptance and self-love. It doesn’t matter anymore if people assume my tendencies are narcissistic but I’ve joined millions of women like me who are leading the way.
It is not easy to transform, ignore the dishonest comments, and the constant contradictions but I am very grateful to those that gave me care when I needed to blossom, gave me that inner voice to keep my psychological buoyancy, and gave the repeated signs that my life means a lot more than what some reduced it to. Some have had it harder than I did. And I hope I can be that support for those who need me, exactly like I had those that were there in my hours of need.
We are surrounded by people that are not well-wishers. I realized that when someone congratulated me for a pregnancy I had miscarried despite knowing that mishap had occurred and very recently the same person mocked me for not dying of suicide. And my concern for my elderly mother is often a cheap target of abuse. But in any circumstance, I have become that seed that when people try to bury becomes a sapling. This is true not just for me, but anyone who is fighting battles that are not visible to the naked eye. I just seem to be that dot of survival along with those who ascertain positivity.
When I write these lessons learned in my life it is mostly to celebrate success of life and existence. And sometimes I have to impose on you, to see the growth from where I began to where I am today. From an era of body shaming, and wounds to my wisdom, to an epoch of grit, it has been a wonderful voyage. Who knows what the destination looks like but this path has been nothing less than nirvana. I always wondered why some women like my mother and girlfriends epitomize zen despite the mayhem caused to their mind and soul. I hope to be them some day soon. Their nonchalance is admirable.
How is any woman supposed to overcome gender bias, discrimination or violence when their own are shoving them off course. And how will I stop sounding like a broken record, or mostly unforgiving and never forgetting about the injustice that perpetuates to strong women. When women fail to uplift their own tribe, what are we going to achieve by smashing patriarchy? If we don’t overcome this native intolerance, the path forward is going to be most painful.
I don’t know what it’s like to be anything else. In between all of the opinions and the formidable, there is one thing that matters; “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” This is my once. A masterstroke. It is never the same, with ups, downs and sometimes falling on my face. Nevertheless, “I am proud of the woman I am today, because I went through one hell of a time becoming her.” Hope you become too. Everyone deserves a “Becoming Her.”
I’m often asked why I don’t write in third person which is writing from an outsider point of view, and or by using second person, where I am arbitrarily writing about a ‘you’ and ‘yours’, instead of vilifying my ‘aunts’, ‘uncles’ or ‘cousins’ or ‘relatives’ etc. For those who know me well, I am a poet first. But writing poetry has never been a coachable moment for anyone simply because for those that I want to teach, I give the impression of suffering from insanity or melancholy. After all, poets are disheartened people. And I had languished decades writing paramount poetry of my life devoid of ‘moving the needle’. On 28th December, 2014, I made the audacious makeover to write prose. And boy oh boy, what a difference it made.
Out came all those “When asked who’s the thief, started sweating bullets.” Never in seven years of writing in ‘first person’, had I never felt any repentance just because of the fact that I was not mendacious. If I were, I am sure my conscience would be bruised beyond recognition. Till today, I am proud to have abundant bravado to transcribe my actuality. I genuinely hope that this vigor shall last till I rest in peace. In pursuit of such truth, I desire to share in extreme authenticity that, “Sometimes painful things can teach us lessons that we didn’t think we needed to know.” And those that have been in the practice of demeaning other resilient individuals would stop in their tracks one of these days.
My memory has been my worst enemy. It is not easy to live with remembrances since when I couldn’t speak properly. At 14 months, I was effortlessly rattling sensible sentences and had the intellectual capacity of an adult. When I was in third grade, my grandmother, mother’s mother was caught in between the punting responsibilities of her brood. Sadly, besides my mother, none had the soul to raise a parent. But that one time, out of shame of disregarding their mother, two of her sons had decided to keep her in one of their homes for a few weeks. By rule of thumb the sons bear responsibility of the ageing parents but they had successfully created an exception to a tradition.
She requested my parents that she return to our place immediately. While she was there her elder son’s mother-in-law had verbally abused her. At our home, the four of us, my father, mother, grandmother and I were like the exemplary close-knit family. There was not a day when we didn’t show our love and respect for each other. It was quite a jolt for the three of us that my grandmother had to endure the darkest time of her life. While her transportation was yet to take place, her elder son’s son had visited us. I remember that I used to look forward to his visit as a kid. I feel fortunate that he still remains one of the few who is yet to insult me.
I don’t know what came of me but I couldn’t stop campaigning how conforming to certain forceful traditions is wrong such as keeping my grandmother against her wish in their home. I was also determined to ensure he would take my ruckus back to his parents and his mother’s mother. Although I admit, for that age, it was wrong on my part to display the choicest of bad words. I never did that ever again in my life. When my grandmother passed away, the same woman told my mother that my grandmother became a drifting wicked ghost. And that she had to put out food in front of their home and call that ‘spirit’ a ‘whore’ for it to go away. As Bertrand Russell had rightly said, “Fear is the main source of superstition, and one of the main sources of cruelty.” Perhaps, their fear stemmed from their previous abuse meted to my grandmother, and haunted them to take refuge in senseless superstitions.
Another that I can get over, is how my half-brother literally ‘stole’ my father’s dead body to bury him per ‘their’ customs. My father had thoughtfully instructed my mother and I to ditch that practice and cremate instead. Until then, I did not realize that many Hindu families who orthodoxly incinerate the lifeless, still do bury. Even though I will never have closure with my father’s demise, I still feel unacceptably disheartened for not having fulfilled his last demand. Since, I have piled on such experiences to the roll of my unforgiving manners. As time passed, I have begun to recognize that superstitions are indicators of weak minds.
My mother reminds me of how alone she felt after my father passed. Not because there was a great void because of absence. It was how she was treated – like a societal discard. She was not subject to the widow superstitions but there was none that treated the humanely. Those languished in the get-togethers at my home before and parcel copious take-outs, did not bat an eyelash to not only waste the food prepared in his honor but also not host her. It was not just the superstition that she was a new widow and considered inauspicious but stabs from the resented minds. For several of those, attempts of humanizing through poems was not enough.
There are many more I will continue to point out. This is my way of eradicating senseless superstitions through direct writing. It is my appeal to whoever reads, that it is not my aim to be endlessly negative or express my incapability to ‘move on’ or ‘forgive and forget’ or harp on the past. If these delusions continue to hold our humanity in ways leading to toxic behaviors, or linger to serve as prologues to intimidating fear from past relationships, or unease resulting from opinions, we would never progress as communities or as families. My goal is to change the bigotry that has been embossed as a convention without equitable reason.
Yesterday, I had the opportunity to judge a PURE Thinkers Public Speaking Competition along with two other prominent professionals. The topic was, “Stereotyping of Women and why it is wrong.” I am still in awe of the boys and girls who participated. It is amazing to see that at that young age, they exhibited more courage, vulnerability and maturity than some adults would. Their call for action, the attention to detail, the importance of statistics to drive towards betterment, personal struggles, perceptions – they touched it all.
When I volunteer my time towards these activities, more than anything else, it feels like I’ve served a larger purpose in life. I live my dreams through these kids. And it is assuring to know that our future is going to be safe amongst most compassionate, responsible, and trust worthy future leaders of the world. As Charlotte Sophia Kasl said, “Whether or not you have children yourself, you are a parent to the next generation. If we can only stop thinking of children as individual property and think of them as the next generation, then we can realize we all have a role to play.”
When I see organizations like PUREOnline investing in the future, it makes me want to do more. PURE is “People For Urban and Rural Education promises to be the bridge connecting individuals, groups, organizations with the urgent needs of the world’s Children. PURE pledges to facilitate sustainable empowerment through quality education with complete transparency and accountability to the sponsors.” It is worth devoting time and resources to causes like PURE no matter how little it may be. I am definitely a better person than I was the day before.
I have had the toughest times going through the arranged marriage practices. When I look back now, I wished I had more fun doing blind, speed and regular dates on steroids. Perhaps just for that time, exclusiveness went out the door. I had no time for tenured dating for having already been slotted into the ticking ‘time bomb’ age bracket. Nonetheless, I had my share of stories, but this particular one is not about me. Also, by the time I was on an undertaking to find myself a husband, the matchmaking process had become the leading business in the contemporary matrimonial realm.
Somewhere on the other side of the world, many that I knew, all of who are way older than I am, were also in the same quest like I was. The only difference was that they had flawlessly become proficient at the knack of deceit, not in a manner of swindling money from gullible brides/grooms or in the form of wedding gifts but in very creative ways. The end goal was modest – to secure themselves a preeminent and most eligible significant other. And I get it. That is what everyone desires. Some even had unsuccessful engagements and marriages. We would only assume that the second, third or fourth time around, the parents and brood, would be humble enough to accept someone who has been through similar circumstances.
The first person in this story had two unsuccessful engagements and an unsuccessful marriage. But, for the fourth attempt they still wanted a ‘fresh’ bride which is the finest paraphrase of a virgin. Maybe, they forgot that they are not ‘fresh’ after all. Those broken relationships took a decade of their life and they found themselves in the market again and again. However, their age remained the same, no matter what. If they were 26 years when they first entered the ‘scene’, even after 10 years they would still be 26. And you were in awe watching, ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’?
‘The age factor’ has over the years become an obsession. The logarithm is that wider the age gap, the more ‘fresh’ they are. Fortunately for them, there were overzealous parents that wanted to just give away their daughters to anything that walks. It is another thing if the spouses got into the relationship knowingly that they have that kind of a generational variance. To this day, I don’t think their spouses have ever figured or stumbled on their partner’s actual age. The second story is even more bizarre. These parents wanted their son’s bride to be a decade and half younger than the older daughter-in-law. That compelled them to adjust the age of their second son too. Not sure how birth certificates got wrought after they became adults – but by some means that mysteriously transpired too.
Another story is of an only daughter, whose marriage story is not that bad but the poor son-in-law does not know that his wife is three years older than he is. Not that it is a taboo where older women cannot marry younger men, but why not make it an accepted practice than snitching around with deception. I don’t know what the issue is but despite being the younger than all these fine ladies and gentlemen, I’ve heard that some have become younger than I’d ever be many times. In fact, one particular guy’s wife who found out the age discrepancy has used it as paramount ammunition to destroy their family. It is a common booster for people celebrating milestone birthdays – that thirty is the new twenty; forty is the new thirty; Fifty is the new forty and so on but for some – “Old age is always fifteen years older than they are.”