When my friend Mimi said that she had her own webpage, I was intrigued. Imagine the pride of having your own space. I asked her if I too could follow suit. And she said, why not?
Not being very web savvy, I was a little apprehensive about my foray into this new wave of blogging that has taken the world by storm. I went ahead and created my account, but the immediate and obvious chore that confronted me was writing something meaningful to inaugurate my debut.
After toying with several ideas that would surely credit me with intellectual capacity, I let go of all. It seemed artificial, this business of writing for the sake of it. I always prided myself in being a spontaneous individual who could never fake emotions. Therefore, in spite of having several erudite topics of discourse to show off my hopelessly cerebral talents, I chose to adhere to the matter at hand, that is, my utter helplessness to write something simple. Then it struck me that why don’t I write about my “space”.
The next issue was a definite connotation attributable to this trite word? What exactly was this “space”? Was this a shortcut to instant access to this worldwide web of bloggers? Was this the place where you articulated your innermost desires? Was this the place where you searched for friends or long-forgotten links from your past? Or was this the space where you intended to get noticed for your literary skills? What was it?
In feminist jargon, we all come across this term “space” which is most commonly used in issues discussing the loss of it. Imagine our more homely female precursors fighting against the encroaching invasion of their “spaces” by their male relatives!!! They seemed quite happy with their spaces in the kitchen and the nursery. Empowerment of women was not in vogue the way it is now. They were quite powerful in their own ways, dishing out their homemade black lentils, yellow curries, green chutnies and red achars in ladles of love. With these helpings of their myriad recipes were added dollops of power, a silent persuasive push that did not need the vocal flourish of a Kate Millet or a Toril Moi. The power they brandished was that of the matriarch who was the source of both life and what sustained life – food. Their fingers might have turned yellow with turmeric, but their ample bodies draped in yards of sari did exude an aura of confidence which they drew out of the satisfaction from little labours of love. And there was no ignominy in being homebound without a career.
I do not remember my space in my mother’s womb, nor do I remember my infant cradle. The earliest metaphorical space that I recollect occupying was the silent corner of our back veranda where I would act queen of my playhouse, putting my dolls to sleep and chopping the local hibiscus for an evening meal for them. Sometimes our cook Minati mashi would take pity on me and hand me some atta dough with which I would roll out tiny chapattis for my dolls. There was so much of a need to imitate my kitchen-bound mom that a different kind of “space” from this was unthinkable.
We were two sisters. I was the youngest, born after a hiatus of ten years. So even before I knew what a woman’s “space” should be, I learnt from my didi how to protect your endangered space from nosy parents. So when I thought I was in love, I was actually asserting the imagined existence of my “space”. It was more a declaration of my protest against the violation of my liberty to an angry set of parents. They were perhaps clueless with the docile child turning a virago and crying out for her “space”. I am sure they did not demand theirs when they grew up.
The next phase came with visions of my overbearing father imposing his decisions on my mom. It never struck me as odd that my mother would abide by all of it. I never thought twice about my mom’s every day shrinking space. But shortly with the three of us hollering about our individuality and independence, it did finally register that my mother had none. I began my fight for my mother’s “space” and I embarked upon this daily clash of egos with my father. Unknowingly, I was giving up my own space for the family subaltern.
“Space” had taken on a whole new meaning attached to it and I was reluctant to let go. The subsequent space worth calling mine was my personal diary, a HPCL annual gift to employees, which became my confession box and confidante. I poured my heart out in it. Newspaper cuttings of George Michael and Phil Collins crowded the pages. Lists of endless heartaches for both real and reel characters, juvenile poetry written with sighs and tears, lyrics of Madonna songs (Papa don't preach! leading my charts), dried and brittle remnants of shiuli phool from our garden (the tree was murdered in midlife for its caterpillar nuisance) and a discolored piece of ribbon as a keepsake from an Anglo-Indian friend who migrated to Australia - all this and so much more populated my pages. All hell broke loose when my mother sneaked a peek into the forbidden pages. It was a trespass I did not easily forgive. I felt cheated. My space felt invaded.
Then came marriage - that rushing into an ill-understood chasm that sucks your emotional energy out, for better or worse. I was too eager to sacrifice my space to be with my husband, the man whom I had married after a heady romance defying my father’s dictates. I moved in with him after the ceremony, the demure bride, ready to play it right. Life was bliss, or so I thought. No thought of individual space ever crossed my mind. My space, was his - the rented apartment in a congested south Kolkata locale.
Soon we moved to Warrington, England. Another rented house became my new space. When my husband left for his daily job, I sat at the window side and cried for hours, longing for my familiar space back home. Tears would roll down my cheeks and I would sing Rabindrasangeet in a full-throated air, probably much to my neighbours’ chagrin. Sometimes I would walk down to the local library and find refuge in the books that laced the antique British bookshelves. Soon afterwards I realized my son was on the way and old stirrings of my hunger for space resurfaced full force.
What was I doing here? Waiting for what? Where was my space?
The motherly midwife assured me that everything was normal and millions of women delivered everyday - in exile. But I was by then determined to get back to my space. And what was that? The same old haven where I was born. My country which was perhaps not so clean, not so pollutant-free and not so advanced. I realized my space was India, or possibly the idea of her, which had nurtured me and helped me grow. The familiar jostling crowd of pedestrians in Gariahat, the haggling shopkeepers in front of the New Market, the vendors of old books at College Street; the buses packed to the brim suddenly became dear to me.
Memories came flooding my homesick brain. The aimless strolling inside our JU (Jadavpur University) campus, our professors admonishing us for bunking lectures, our petty rivalry over class notes, gulping down the lebu chaa (lemon tea) out of earthen khuris from the roadside stalls in a fashion that screamed “look at us..we are born of the earth ourselves!”, the sudden impulse to rush to Dakshinapan for summer skirts at bargain prices…were all part of my space. Like animals do, I was searching for the safest burrow to give birth. And was dying to go back where I was born myself. One of my college pals quipped that the teeming nation could jolly well do without another addition to its population. I nonchalantly told him that the best thing I could give my child was the first breath of the same Indian air which would bind him to the country. I know it sounds cheesily sentimental but that’s what I honestly felt. I wanted my child to impinge my space, I wanted him to share with his mother this first awakening in a country, which for all its shortcomings was the only space I knew.
We went back to Warrington after my son was one and a half. I had taught him by then that home was where his country was. And England was just a stopover to an Indian boyhood that I had promised him. Warrington, the picturesque village in the North West of England would always be my second home, a place I will always love. But the magic of the bonhomie that grips me even today at the Dumdum Airport will never fail to work its spell. I am sure my eyes still carry a starved look in them when they take in the common sights of the smoggy city on my ride home.
I guess it is needless here to add, that I have stopped looking for my "space". I now know where it is.
The next issue was a definite connotation attributable to this trite word? What exactly was this “space”? Was this a shortcut to instant access to this worldwide web of bloggers? Was this the place where you articulated your innermost desires? Was this the place where you searched for friends or long-forgotten links from your past? Or was this the space where you intended to get noticed for your literary skills? What was it?
In feminist jargon, we all come across this term “space” which is most commonly used in issues discussing the loss of it. Imagine our more homely female precursors fighting against the encroaching invasion of their “spaces” by their male relatives!!! They seemed quite happy with their spaces in the kitchen and the nursery. Empowerment of women was not in vogue the way it is now. They were quite powerful in their own ways, dishing out their homemade black lentils, yellow curries, green chutnies and red achars in ladles of love. With these helpings of their myriad recipes were added dollops of power, a silent persuasive push that did not need the vocal flourish of a Kate Millet or a Toril Moi. The power they brandished was that of the matriarch who was the source of both life and what sustained life – food. Their fingers might have turned yellow with turmeric, but their ample bodies draped in yards of sari did exude an aura of confidence which they drew out of the satisfaction from little labours of love. And there was no ignominy in being homebound without a career.
I do not remember my space in my mother’s womb, nor do I remember my infant cradle. The earliest metaphorical space that I recollect occupying was the silent corner of our back veranda where I would act queen of my playhouse, putting my dolls to sleep and chopping the local hibiscus for an evening meal for them. Sometimes our cook Minati mashi would take pity on me and hand me some atta dough with which I would roll out tiny chapattis for my dolls. There was so much of a need to imitate my kitchen-bound mom that a different kind of “space” from this was unthinkable.
We were two sisters. I was the youngest, born after a hiatus of ten years. So even before I knew what a woman’s “space” should be, I learnt from my didi how to protect your endangered space from nosy parents. So when I thought I was in love, I was actually asserting the imagined existence of my “space”. It was more a declaration of my protest against the violation of my liberty to an angry set of parents. They were perhaps clueless with the docile child turning a virago and crying out for her “space”. I am sure they did not demand theirs when they grew up.
The next phase came with visions of my overbearing father imposing his decisions on my mom. It never struck me as odd that my mother would abide by all of it. I never thought twice about my mom’s every day shrinking space. But shortly with the three of us hollering about our individuality and independence, it did finally register that my mother had none. I began my fight for my mother’s “space” and I embarked upon this daily clash of egos with my father. Unknowingly, I was giving up my own space for the family subaltern.
“Space” had taken on a whole new meaning attached to it and I was reluctant to let go. The subsequent space worth calling mine was my personal diary, a HPCL annual gift to employees, which became my confession box and confidante. I poured my heart out in it. Newspaper cuttings of George Michael and Phil Collins crowded the pages. Lists of endless heartaches for both real and reel characters, juvenile poetry written with sighs and tears, lyrics of Madonna songs (Papa don't preach! leading my charts), dried and brittle remnants of shiuli phool from our garden (the tree was murdered in midlife for its caterpillar nuisance) and a discolored piece of ribbon as a keepsake from an Anglo-Indian friend who migrated to Australia - all this and so much more populated my pages. All hell broke loose when my mother sneaked a peek into the forbidden pages. It was a trespass I did not easily forgive. I felt cheated. My space felt invaded.
Then came marriage - that rushing into an ill-understood chasm that sucks your emotional energy out, for better or worse. I was too eager to sacrifice my space to be with my husband, the man whom I had married after a heady romance defying my father’s dictates. I moved in with him after the ceremony, the demure bride, ready to play it right. Life was bliss, or so I thought. No thought of individual space ever crossed my mind. My space, was his - the rented apartment in a congested south Kolkata locale.
Soon we moved to Warrington, England. Another rented house became my new space. When my husband left for his daily job, I sat at the window side and cried for hours, longing for my familiar space back home. Tears would roll down my cheeks and I would sing Rabindrasangeet in a full-throated air, probably much to my neighbours’ chagrin. Sometimes I would walk down to the local library and find refuge in the books that laced the antique British bookshelves. Soon afterwards I realized my son was on the way and old stirrings of my hunger for space resurfaced full force.
What was I doing here? Waiting for what? Where was my space?
The motherly midwife assured me that everything was normal and millions of women delivered everyday - in exile. But I was by then determined to get back to my space. And what was that? The same old haven where I was born. My country which was perhaps not so clean, not so pollutant-free and not so advanced. I realized my space was India, or possibly the idea of her, which had nurtured me and helped me grow. The familiar jostling crowd of pedestrians in Gariahat, the haggling shopkeepers in front of the New Market, the vendors of old books at College Street; the buses packed to the brim suddenly became dear to me.
Memories came flooding my homesick brain. The aimless strolling inside our JU (Jadavpur University) campus, our professors admonishing us for bunking lectures, our petty rivalry over class notes, gulping down the lebu chaa (lemon tea) out of earthen khuris from the roadside stalls in a fashion that screamed “look at us..we are born of the earth ourselves!”, the sudden impulse to rush to Dakshinapan for summer skirts at bargain prices…were all part of my space. Like animals do, I was searching for the safest burrow to give birth. And was dying to go back where I was born myself. One of my college pals quipped that the teeming nation could jolly well do without another addition to its population. I nonchalantly told him that the best thing I could give my child was the first breath of the same Indian air which would bind him to the country. I know it sounds cheesily sentimental but that’s what I honestly felt. I wanted my child to impinge my space, I wanted him to share with his mother this first awakening in a country, which for all its shortcomings was the only space I knew.
We went back to Warrington after my son was one and a half. I had taught him by then that home was where his country was. And England was just a stopover to an Indian boyhood that I had promised him. Warrington, the picturesque village in the North West of England would always be my second home, a place I will always love. But the magic of the bonhomie that grips me even today at the Dumdum Airport will never fail to work its spell. I am sure my eyes still carry a starved look in them when they take in the common sights of the smoggy city on my ride home.
I guess it is needless here to add, that I have stopped looking for my "space". I now know where it is.
Eta khoob bhalo likhechish! Loved how you traced the progress of your space - we take it with us and define it wherever we are :-).
ReplyDeleteKeep writing! I'm going to flag this site and will check regularly!
- Sushmita/Mimi
Thanks a lot, Mimi. And the Mimi here is YOU! Hope you realized that? :-)
DeleteShotti??! Wow. Glad you took inspiration from my feeble attempts at blogging, which has been shelved, thanks to many reasons. :-) You are doing a much better job at this than I ever did!! Chaliye ja... I am going to read your Barfi piece now :-).
Delete