My beeping phone woke me up in the middle of the night. I heard rain splashing on my window. Its incessant dripping was like the voice of a timid woman that the world ignores. I pushed open the curtains and the breeze blew on my face, while I checked my phone for messages. More friends had sent farewell messages before they embarked on a journey for studies and work, to other lands, to parts of the world that do not share their seasons with mine.
Born to a very loving father who prayed day in and day out for a girl child, I missed no comfort in life as a child. But growing up was different. I was 13 years old when I declared loudly that I wanted to be a writer, a journalist perhaps. “No,” said my father. He had rarely uttered that monosyllabic word to me until then. “What if your groom says he will not marry a journalist? How will I get you married? It is not for women, not for our community. So forget it and you will study commerce.” Little did I know that this was going to follow me a long way. As a 21-year-old, I have now realised that life isn’t for the faint-hearted and you only get weighed down by social conventions.
I realise now that this is not my story any more. This is the story of a community. A community that sees me as just a potential bride. As someone for men to reject (when I follow my dreams), so that they are rewarded with the feeling of empowerment by doing so. Apparently, my prospects are better in the ‘marriage market’ as a commerce student who is expected only to assist her potential entrepreneurial groom, that too if he consents.
When my rebellious self comes out, my mother tells me that a woman is like a flowing river, covering up all odds beneath its silver face, and changing colour and shape to suit the terrain it flows on. She might answer my question this way, but it feels more like an answer to comfort herself. The river, to me, doesn’t change. It cuts through hard rocks, falls down high cliffs, leaves behind old pastures and flows into the sea. Like me, the river never stops.
Today, I am a commerce-turned-journalism post-graduate student and the fight has just begun. Born a woman, and that too, a second child, I am the glue used to piece the broken pot together; the pot that the first-born son broke and left for me to repair. In addition, I am expected to be the ornament that will decorate, cover and beautify the pot.
This reminds me of the time when I watched a two-year-old cry at a family wedding, as she tried to get rid of a heavy necklace round her neck. The mother silenced her saying that she looked fabulous in it and that she must wear it. But the little girl did not stop trying to get that thing off! Just then, a little boy toddled past her in shorts and a shirt. The little girl’s eyes followed him.
I remember watching that scene and smiling as I sat in heavy silk with a choker round my neck. Only, I had outgrown my right to cry loudly and fuss. Everything else was the same.
