I did remind her that at least Buddha left his wife in comfort and his son later joined him as a disciple, but Ram lived as a king and abandoned his pregnant wife to live in the jungle who was later burned.

That pissed her off thoroughly. Ram is her god, Buddha isn't.

-----------------------

There are closet radicals all around us, who secretly vote radical parties into power. They are secretly wishing that India should become a Hindu Rashtra, thus destroying the dream of my ancestors who fought for a Secular Democratic Republic of India. They are the real enemies of the nation who are destroying the dream of Gandhi, Subhash and Nehru. Like unseen termites they are eating up the values and morals of the Vedic truth of a profound religion which has professed that all paths of god are of equal importance.

I know when I say this there will be very few sane voices to support me. I want to know who are the people who are supporting such elements to use my religion as a tool to hurt people?

The question that crops in my heart is that – “Are you going to sit back and keep quiet till the radicals come and beat up our daughters for wearing western clothes or buying valentine day cards?”

Isn’t our silence in a way giving them a support? They are getting support in some people. Isn't it time for us who don't support them to stand up and voice our displeasure.

As I salute the flag on every 26th Jan and 15th Aug, I fervently hope that let this country be saved from its Closet Radicals. Because the hooligans can be jailed but the masked support system which is hidden behind a thick veil of lies is even more dangerous.

So that's as far as it goes regarding our conversations (or the lack of them) about her sexuality. However there are other things...undercurrents, emotions and grey areas. For example, how far do I go with my displays of affection? I'm a natural born hugger, I love hugging my family, friends and people I feel close to. Thus far the only complication has been with men, particularly the ones in my age bracket with whom there is/could be a a certain attraction. Like most other women, I've tried and tested the waters and reached a certain comfortable balance of physical promiximity with the various men in my life. Now we arrive at the new complication of having to consider the same thing with another woman as well.

Personally I believe that sexuality isn't binary with a person being either homosexual or heterosexual (and how does that account for bisexualilty?) ; it is more like a range of shades and all of us fall somewhere along the scale. Oh perhaps we even move up and down the scale at various points in our lifetime. Note now I'm talking about orientation not actual action so for the more conservative-minded, I'm not accusing you of doing anything that could shock you. And if you follow my belief it means that each of us is capable of feeling attraction for any other human being, male or female at any point of time in our life. I've written about my own bi-curiosity (as Desiblogging termed it) before. I'm quite unabashed in my admiration of other women. But I find it stops right there and I have no desire (physical, hormonal or otherwise) to go any furthur than that. That in my mind is what determines my orientation and keeps me in the dating pool of male partners.

How do you distinguish the affinity and closeness that like-minded women share from sexual attraction? How far do you go with someone you think there could be a spark of attraction with? How close do you get to someone you suspect might be attracted to you?

And therein I find I'm back on the same territory as I was a few years back when I discovered the opposite sex, attraction and love. Friendship is so wonderfully simple but the hormones just come and complicate them all, don't they?

To come back to the case in point, my lovely lady friend appears to be in a relationship as well. How do I know? No, she hasn't mentioned that either but it is clearly visible to anyone who knows her well. I wish I could speak up and tell her how happy I am that she has found someone special. When her eyes light up at the mention of her girlfriend, I wish I could tease her and hug her in sheer glee. But I don't.

I also wonder sometimes what her girlfriend thinks of me. Just as I wonder what the wives and girlfriends of my guy friends think of me and I walk around on eggshells until I'm totally, completely 120% sure that they have no qualms about my closeness - I wonder in this case too whether her girlfriend ever resents me or even, well, frowns a bit at our closeness. Oh well, I think not. She seems a good sort in herself and I'm guessing if I had known her before I'd have been friends with her as well.

So to answer my own question of whether it is possible for a straight and a lesbian woman to be friends. Yes, yes, I think so. After all, sexuality is physical and perhaps mental but friendship, love and loyalty come straight from the heart.

She dresses like a teenager would, if she had the acquired sense of style that someone at least a decade older would have. Her face is cold, impassive, seemingly indifferent to the world around her. Or perhaps, she's just sleepy. And yet, her eyes are never ringed with dark circles.

She holds herself with the confidence of a woman in her late twenties at least. But her head is thrown back, like that of a very young child-girl. A mixture of pride...

Look how pretty I am!

Oh, what a wonderful world!

She reminds me of a fresh peach. Clean, wholesome and full. A ripe peach is a delight for all the senses...the eyes, the nose, the skin and the tongue. The slight downy hair on her arms tells me that she's either very young and uninitiated into the horrors of waxing or so cool that she doesn't give a damn. Somehow she doesn't seem to be intelligent or fire-blooded enough to be the latter and yet she doesn't look quite that young either. Either way, it suits her. It makes her look a little less waxen and brings to her body the kind of vigorous life that I don't see in her eyes.

I wonder idly at why I'm staring at another woman. Is she that beautiful? No, she isn't. Striking would probably describe her better. She's quite tall, taller than I am, which might be why I noticed her. But no, the first time I saw her, she was sitting on the edge of the three-seater, eyes downcast, her sharp bangs falling into the middle of her forehead, which she flicked back with a disconcerted toss.

Her lips might have been full if her mouth hadn't been. Oh, how funny that sounds! What I mean is that she even has the look of a ripe peach, that looks like it will burst out of its skin any moment if you don't take a bite.

She has a strong, well-proportioned body that might have been called androgynous if she didn't have those curves. It adds to her mystique. She has a woman's body, perfectly rounded, but she carries it like a man would, not weighed down by the fleshy curves like some women are.

I wonder sometimes what she sounds like, what she does all day, what her life must be like. But I realise I'm just following my compulsion to see people as human beings and not just bodies. In her case, I don't care. She's perfect and complete in my eyes and that is all she needs to be, to me. I don't have any desire to know anything more of her than what I see. The perfect peach that shouldn't turn into a human being with messy feelings and imperfect actions. I'm even glad that I get off the train before she does. That way I don't even have room to speculate on what she does for a living.

I briefly speculate on whether these are my semi-lesbian fantasies. Its possible. I usually display this degree of interest in men I'm attracted to. Sometimes I do think of them in terms of food. But where the men have been strong, finely created flavours.....chocolate, wine, coffee, tequila....this is the first time I've thought of someone as a fruit. On retrospect, a woman wouldn't feel like anything that's been processed or cooked. She would have to be something basic, something right out of the earth...a fruit is all.

And perhaps the fact that I don't stongly associate my identity with my gender makes it possible for me to fit just as easily into a man's tastes. When I told Sensorcaine about this, she said, "Well, not lesbian, bisexual perhaps. Just think, instead of 3 billion, you have a choice of 6 billion human beings now!"

That's a thought now. But beyond my intellectualisation I find if I get to thinking of making love to a woman, the idea loses its appeal altogether. I'm content with admiring my peach-woman.

Ever get the feeling you've said all there is to say? That's NOT where I am. I feel like nothing I can say now can top what I already said.

I wrote this post last week. Of course you know that, you were there. For the first time on this blog, I've felt like I wasn't alone, speaking out to a vast vacuum with no idea of where my words and ideas were landing, who was picking them up and what they were turning them into. Not any more. You were there with me, reading, re-living my experience and comforting me.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Like I said, I wasn't confident about sharing it online so I sent it to a few friends. Finally, after a couple of hours of sitting on tenterhooks, I did what I always do when I've been nervous long enough - threw out my fears, walked out and said,

I can't bear to be scared anymore. So here I am, come and hit me if you will!!!!

I went out with my dear, darling N and the little lord. My little lord, the only man to read the post before it was published, woke up from his nap and hugged me. Then the three of us played a giggly, silly Scrabble, ate dinner with our fingers and went home. As N dropped me off, she hugged me and said,

I'm glad you put it up. Brave girl! Good night!

You make me a proud blogger tonight! I'm so glad you put up the post! You rock, girl!

I shared the piece with some friends and they all thought it was beautiful! You should put it up!

No weirdos as yet. I've been watching. People are surprisingly decent!

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Woman, at least answer those comments! People are saying such nice things to you!

I wrote the post for purely selfish reasons, like something I should have written in a diary years ago but decided to finally go ahead and do it - on the blog instead. I thought I'd get a few comments from people sympathizing (which I'd hate) and a couple of friends patting me on the arm and maybe, oh just maybe a couple of weirdass-trolly reactions.

What I was completely unprepared for was this. It feels like that post was sitting atop a huge lock of emotions and experiences - my own and a lot of other people's. All week I've been caught in the flood. Comments, emails, IMs, tweets, messages and phone calls. Friends have called of course. Strangers have written in and shared intimate experiences that I can't even talk about since I'm bound to silence by their confidence. And most of all - the people in between, neither friends nor strangers, people with whom I have a connection but not a relationship - have shown me their human faces and I am finding it really difficult to keep them at arm's length now.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

A colleague sent me a message telling me how much it had touched him. A colleague I say? Yes, I've maintained a strict no family-no colleagues policy on this blog till last week. Writing that post dissolved a lot of my own rules. And when someone at work asked me for my address, I gave it and found this message the next day.

People I hang out with often and never discuss anything more personal than my boyfriends and even that only in jest - spoke to me and told me quite honestly that they didn't know what to say. I just wanted to say that I appreciated that. It was like I showed them my real self - the one behind the smart comments and style statements - the messy, emotional one and they responded. Well.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I was also pleasantly - most pleasantly! - surprised by the reactions of men. Friends and strangers. I do not believe (well, not anymore) that every man is a sex-starved monster. I have had the privilege of knowing and being loved by many wonderful men. Family, friends and yes, lovers too. Some of the men who have commented have demonstrated in their own ways how much they love and support the women in their life. For the women who have suffered and relate to my experience, please do read those comments as a reminder that half of the world - the other half - may be just as caring and wonderful as we are.

I want to add that my experience does not trivialize the brutal experiences suffered by hundreds of little boys worldover. Child abuse is not gender-specific and I suspect a lot of men relate just as well to my post as women do. What's worse is that women still have a chance of receiving some comfort and sympathy when they share their experience but I think most men don't even feel comfortable enough to talk about their horrors. My heart goes out to them. I wish I could say more. I wish I could do something to make the world a safer place for children - girls and boys.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I know, I know. At least I think I do.

In the later years, I also had access to books, media and the Internet where I was able to learn more about what I had experienced. I learnt about trauma, child abuse, sexual assault and the various ramifications (physical, psychological, mental) on the victims. I discovered - and which to this day I hold true - that the nastiest cut, the most potent poison in such an experience is the fact that the victim ends up as the casualty AND the guilty party. Whether it is self-imposed or societal, most people I spoke to after this post exhibited either directly or otherwise, an unwillingness, an embarassment, fear even of sharing their experience with other people. My first reaction while putting up the post was defensive as well.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I find sex disgusting.

You know the odd thing is that we are the kind of women no one would ever expect to experience things like this. We're bold, proud, smart and independent. The kind of women who won't take shit from anyone at all. Who would think it?

All I can say is how glad I am to have written it. I really thought it was over and the fact is that it is. And yet the healing goes on. Every conversation, every relationship is a proof of the fact. Every minute is a reminder to myself that it is okay to ask for help.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Perhaps not entirely unrelated, I took guitar lessons for 3 years and even played on stage once. But to this day I can't play a tune. It isn't that I haven't tried. But I hold the guitar, mutely and there is no recollection of the chords and notes that I know I used to be able to recognize. I have no connection or recollection with that music anymore. It is as if my teacher and my guitar are both strangers to me. I gave away my guitar a few years later, donated it to an orphanage. I can only hope that it brought some child more happiness and music than it brought me.

I remember reading once that Rudyard Kipling grew up away from his parents, with a nanny who battered and abused him. He wrote much later that the experience had left him unable to feel any anger or hatred. I know just what he meant. There is nothing more that I know how to say about this experience.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Thank you so much for reading. Thank you so much for writing to me. Thank you for telling me that it will be okay. Thank you for sharing your souls with me. I'm so, so very touched.

And finally, I'm sorry for being such a moony, loony sentimentalist and embarassing you (some of you anyway!). I blame it on the rains, they always have a weird effect on me. If you like my fiery, sharp-tongued, stylized self better (and oh, say you do, I work hard on it!), I'll be back soon!

I hated being a woman. Being smaller built than the boys, slower than them at games, lagging behind them on my bicycle, my scrawny legs pedalling furiously to keep up. I never could.

I hated being a woman. It took me a long time to get used to my curves. I walked like my flat-chested 12-year-old self till I was 17. Till a classmate told that it wasn't the done thing for a girl to walk with such a straight back. Till, a boy said, "You walk with your boobs thrust right out at the world." And when I did get used to them, I took them on with a vengeance and used them as lethal weapons. Bait? Hah! Call them Venus fly-traps! I loved their power and I hated them for the compromise they were.

I hated being a woman. Bleeding every month, feeling pukey and giddy-headed and sticky and smelly.

I hated being a woman. 10 years old and being told, "Boys can do whatever they like. But a girl's reputation is like glass." Twelve and my tuition teacher's voice, "What a horrible laugh, so loud and monstrous! Look at Sonya, how prettily she covers her mouth when she laughs. And she doesn't make a sound." Thirteen and being admonished, "Sit with your legs together. Only a slut sits with her legs apart." Yes, I really and truly hated being a woman.

But I didn't always. I didn't know I was a woman for some time. And then suddenly I did. Or more accurately, I suddenly knew he was a man. As he introduced me to his manhood and asked me to pat it, hold it, feel it.

Oh stop! I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I held myself back. And I held myself in. Realizing suddenly that if I didn't, everything inside me would fall out of the hole. And in that moment, I seperated my vagina from me.

Sometime later, I summoned up the courage to tell my parents. I said he had tried to kiss me once. 'Tried to', not did. 'Once', not many times. 'Kiss me', not....

My classes were stopped and we didn't speak about it again. I gave up trust that day as well as faith in men. I even stopped hugging my father. I assumed a genderless identity. And later, sexuality was paraded as an accessory, not experienced from within.

As the years passed, I built armour upon armour. The strongest of them was the desicion that when I was uncomfortable or hurt or unsure or unwell, no one would know, least of all the person who caused me pain. I banished the fears. I suppressed the blushing and giggles. I stifled innocence and wonder. I held back pain. I shut down tears. I sent them all to the dungeon to keep my shameful prisoner company.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Four years later, I was playing a silly game with my boyfriend, slapping and giggling. Then in a dramatic flourish, he pinned me down and held my wrists. That's the last thing I remembered. The next thing I knew, he was shaking me very gently and asking, "What happened? I was only playing." I didn't say a word. Apparantly I'd gone all stiff and began whimpering.

My vagina was locked away into a dungeon when I was nine and went into silence after that.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

If my vagina could speak, what would she say?

She said,

I AM SORRY.

I'm sorry I disappointed you. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry you are in pain. I'm sorry that I remind you of my existance. I'm sorry I exist. I'm so very sorry that I didn't make you happy. I'm really sorry that I don't make you proud. I'm sorry that you're ashamed of me. I'm so, so very sorry.

My poor vagina, surrounded by my shame,
my guilt,
my pain,
my bad memories,
my nightmares,
my anguish,
my betrayal,
my agony,
my frustration,
my sorrow
...and my tears.

She cried, my vagina cried. And for the first time in years, I did too, with her.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I hated doing it in the dark.
I hated doing it on my back.
I hated doing it in bed. Or a couch. Or a car. Or in the open.
In fact I hated doing it so much that I never did.

Those who came to visit were offered a gracious cup of tea and then lulled into a battery of tests - a moat, a dragon, an army of defenses. And those that got past, walked up to the gates to find them locked. No entry into this love-lane, we're shut, you're unwelcome, go home. They did.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

I used to be a sweet child. Warm, affectionate, trusting and open and always getting into scrapes. All of that went away with the confinement, right down into my vagina which is everything I am not. Sweet, pure, soft and warm. And it stayed that way for twenty years despite the confinement.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

This is for Mahabanoo, Dolly Thakore, Avantika, Jayati (the moaner!) and Sonal Sachdev, the wonderful, spirited ladies who made last night come alive at Prithvi theatre. You made me whole again. You brought me back to life.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

If my vagina were to dress up, what would it wear?

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

But reading Lolita gave me some perspective on what happened to me. I suddenly saw my abuser as a human being - a very bad and flawed human being, a sick human being but a human being nevertheless. Not a monster, but human. And human beings can be overcome, overpowered and even forgotten. Almost.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Happy birthday to my vagina. And welcome to the world of the living again.

We are proud to announce the release of Aachi's debut novel "The Storyteller", published by Wisdom Tree India and launched at the recent Delhi International Book Fair. Jasjit Purewal has written the foreword to Aachi's novel, part of which is being posted below as an introduction to his wonderful story. For the rest, well go out and get a copy!!!

“ If you misunderstand your mind, you are an ordinary person; if you realize your mind, you are a sage. There is no difference at all whether man, woman, old, young, wise, foolish, human, animal, whatever. Thus, in the Lotus of Truth assembly, was it not the eight year old Naga girl who went directly south to the undefiled world Amala, sat on a jewel lotus flower, and realized universal complete enlightenment?” asks the Zen Master Jakushitsu Genko

As with all Zen sayings, profound mystery is captured in few words. In the matrix of all that we know as mind, exist states of conscious, unconscious, subconscious and the nirvanic mind or enlightenment. Zen masters call the ultimate state ‘no-mind’ or the door to cosmic wisdom. Ultimately, all existence seems to stem and end with what we simply call the mind. But even as science scales territories of time and space, the mind still seems to be an uneasy ground. Its mysteries abound and continue to tease all scientific instruments of probe.

Master Genko uses the word ‘realize’ to plumb the depths of this elusive space called ‘mind’. Few can really explain what this ‘state’ is and none have ventured to reveal even their own ‘realization’. Spiritual masters are the only skilled seekers on this circuituous journey and even they remain silent on the actual scenic route. But the adventure of the awakening mind continues to be the most mystifying and fascinating of all human experiences and endeavours. Sometimes a creative writer or poet tries to capture in the web of a story the awesome portals of the galaxy called the human mind.

Aachi Mithin’s debut work as a writer has attempted something similar in ‘The Storyteller’ -a tale both profound and simple. And as with Master Genko’s 8 year old girl realizing enlightenment, young Ramulu of Mithin’s tale is a mystifying combination of wisdom and perception in a world that views him as mentally challenged and unformed.

‘The Storyteller’ in fact unveils for the reader, the heart of the proverbial ‘fool’ that ancient texts often refer to as beings who are the true repository of wisdom. The ‘fool’ to the world is the undefiled mind where the cosmic flute plays un-hindered, its songs of truth and spontaneity. Like when young Ramulu, Mithin’s protagonist, is asked by the teacher his response to a poem and he says “I had a picture of joy that the flowers and the plant must have had on their faces when they broke open into a world filled with light after being confined to the dark world of the soil. I saw their smiling faces as they greeted each other in joy.” Hardly words of one who was termed ‘retarded’ by the village and the teacher was quick to notice the depth of the boy’s imagination. Only because his mind was as pure and untainted as the day he was born. In being termed ‘different’ he escapes the regimentation of thought that plagues schooled minds so early in our world. Ramulu in contrast is free and un-reined in perception and definition and through him Mithin spins the haunting truths of compassion and wonder which minds like Ramulu scatter with ease and innocence.

In a world jaded with merit, and vainglory Mithin’s story is acute and timely. Set in a simple village in Southern India it cameos the rich, nurturing fabric of a rustic life. The sugarcane fields of Mahu are the surreal backdrop to young Ramulu’s transformation from village ‘idiot’ to a vibrant storyteller. The blessings of his dead mentor Venkat Rao haunt those fields. Mithin creates more than a suggestion that purity and passion fuse uniquely in minds like Ramulu’s, powerful enough to access the infinite realms of consciousness from where a Venkat Rao can transmit his creative genius. The story underscores inspiration as the integral tool that carves a child’s path, especially one such as Ramulu who has been rejected and isolated by all. The sight of Venkat Rao’s statue and his life-story crystallize almost instantly into the icon that brings Ramulu’s self to fruition. In learning of how Venkat Rao too was born with a big head and considered ‘slow’ at birth, Ramulu is convinced he has found his mentor and idol. And that is all it takes for him to awaken his ‘retarded mind’ into a fountain of astonishing tales –creative and deep.

The Storyteller underscores simple but powerful truths. Through Ramulu, Mithin unveils a heart which is abundant, sensitive and nurtures with compassion..........(Jasjit Purewal)

Recently an event in my life started me contemplating compassion and this phrase popped into my mind- blossoms in the snow! The image was apt, complete and lyrical enough to embrace a state which is as rare as it is beautiful, as precious as it seems to defy the laws of samsara.

The other must wait! Only after I have eased my gluttony can I think what I owe other sentient beings, the earth, the air, etc. And not surprisingly, that time never comes conclusively in our lives, for appetites by nature grow, samsara’s seductive ways intensify and often a lifetime seems too short a span to gratify all I can set my heart on.

Someone with a sage like nature calls it all illusion. Yes indeed it maybe so but look at how wonderous and delicious is the illusion! All that is manifest captivates and ensnares- so is that not the design too of nature and the Way? Absolutely!

Zen –the only wisdom school clearly sidestepping the paradox of sacred and profane- indicates all as perfection including the illusion and instead avers that only in seeing the whole can you know the parts. Only in knowing the essence can you truly savour its exotic templates. And perhaps samsara is the most exotic of all.

But few experience its exotica

Instead like the mythical salamander most human lives are doomed to live samsara like their ring of fire- trapped within its intensity, unable to escape and yet drawn eternally to that fate. The High road is the invisible invitation to break the ring of fire, to draw from it -warmth and passion rather than captivity. To saunter as a Lord of the earth and its elements, enslaved by none.

In a nutshell this is the clarion call of enlightenment. Simple and uncomplicated in its essence, sensible and transparent in its promise and deep in its profundity. It says to us as if to the cowering lion- you are no sheep, and to the quivering eagle the sky is only yours, your flight its majesty. That is all that enlightenment is- our wake up call.

Few heed this call and of them even fewer wake up. And most of us wonder how to know the ones that do. How do we identify the ones who see the whole, know the parts and then savour all without entrapment?

They are the ones who flower into that rare state-compassion. Blossoms in the snow! Amidst the cold fields of self-gratification they brave all to reign as mystifying fruits of beauty and abundance. Nestled in the misty heights of man, they flower against all odds, beckoning to those who aspire to dizzy heights that amidst the harsh cold of the rock and the ice blooms the most fragrant, radiant flower.

The compassionate heart brings with it the most powerful transformative experience not only for the recipient but also for the one who allows it to flow from within. Compassion is spontaneity, it is rising above ones fears, it is about transcending the personal and going with the flow of life. It is about responding to the call of the heart and pushing aside the fearful, self obsessed mind. It is godliness for it has no boundaries, is devoid of personal stakes, it is expansive, inclusive and liberated action, rooted in faith, harmony and a sense of great well being.

Compassion cannot be known or understood unless you behold the one who is truly liberated. For with freedom from illusion comes the freedom to accept all, the freedom to cross from samsara to nirvana and back at will, the freedom to love and cherish all creation without discrimination and boundaries, the freedom to see heaven in a grain of sand and a mountain of sand in the grandest heaven. Free to will peace and serenity for all who suffer, courage to douse the ring of fire that traps them and acceptance for those who burn with impunity.

The enlightened heart is nothing but the full moon of compassion. Shines within the dark night of samsara, leaves its depths and laws undisturbed yet lights up the surface of the waters for all those who wish to know the light, masters the night, lends it mystery and beauty and embraces and soothes uniformly and indiscriminately as completely as only the Divine heart can.

In our imagination of the cosmic heart or God we wonder how loving, magnificent and abundant must be its depths. Compassion is the fountainhead of that which we covet as Divine. Enlightenment is merely the road to the silent lake at whose centre the effulgent, inexhaustible fountain of divinity awaits as the compassionate heart.
For he/she who discovers the essence of truth/self witnesses it many folds wherein lie liberation, play, the warp and waft of samsara and Nirvana, love as an eternal melody, joy, abundance laughter and immortality.

The seed is existence, the rock hard terrain –illusion, misty heights are consciousness and compassion the exotic bloom. For if and when you come upon such a one- be sure to remember that you are witnessing the rarest sight- a blossom in the snow.

In my second post I will share some wonderful stories of compassion as I hope you will too.

But where is this ‘glass ceiling’ or ‘iron wall’… or the ‘Threshold’??? Has anyone seen it ever? Is it in our mind? Or is it in the Man’s mind? Are there any such adages used for men who take up jobs which are primarily done by women? If anyone knows of them I would love to hear them.

Men are taking up nursing, stripping, massage, cooking, tailoring, makeup and even being nannies. But no eye-brows are raised at their new adventures, new choices of jobs or achievements. The only change is that earlier a ‘nurse’ or a ‘stripper’ primarily meant a woman, so now a word “Male” or “man” is added as a prefix.

In many countries, women who are doing jobs which have been traditionally done by men are not seen as aliens. There are really very few places where gender definitions rule the work environments. In most places a job is a job and a worker is a worker irrespective of their sex. What takes precedence over gender is obviously job expertise.

Be it dangerous jobs, of Army, air force, police, divers; intellectual jobs of scientists, researchers, professors, creative jobs of films, media or even hard core jobs like truck driving or carpentry, plumbing and construction, women are everywhere. From diving, into deep seas, to researching the Amazon, or taking on Space, there really can be very few jobs where there are no women. I recently saw a woman who is a motorcycle speed tester!. From extreme sports to beauty queens, women can excel in any field they choose to.

Based on their expertise, where they reach, can be a difficult task for every woman around the world. Every woman around the world knows that she has to work “double than a man to get half his pay and credit.” But maybe it is a degree easier in certain societies and countries, since the “man’s world” concept is slowly fading away. Women are taking up so many jobs and do so successfully that the concept of gender based jobs is slowly vanishing from these cultures. Unlike India where even a most talented, qualified woman is left on a “consideration” for a job, if an equally qualified man is there.

In India most of the time it is believed that when a woman comes out to work, it is either for sheer fun, or maybe because there is no other earning member in the family. I had a boss, who often claimed, “You girls don’t need to work so hard. Just earn enough pocket money, and then get married and have a relaxed life on your husband’s pay. Look at us, we have to raise a family and work so hard”. It was quiet exasperating.

So one day I finally told him, “It is really a pressure on you that your wife doesn’t work, but just imagine if she did, wouldn’t your life be a bit easier. Besides if she could earn more than you then you could also have a lot of fun on her money, isn’t it. The basic idea is we are both either working for money, or for the sheer joy of having a career. You may feel sad that you are working to feed two people at home, but I feel glad that I am taking care of two old people at home. The bottom line is we are both here because we work hard.”

Much later when I was nearly 30 and was looking for a job… repeatedly I encountered one question at the interview… “Married? Any plans of marriage soon? Are you planning to work after marriage?”
Initially I didn’t get the hint. I was surprised, when it was written in my CV that I am single, I wondered why this query was raised. But soon I realized the purpose. The HR manager of a leading global IT company said, “You see a lot of work goes on into choosing a candidate… and then suddenly if she gets married and goes away… it’s a loss for us.” I wasn’t prepared for this, but I did answer him and many after him.
“If I told you that I am getting married in 6 months, would you not employ me? And if I am telling you that I have no such plans in near future then would you not trust me? Then in that case I cannot trust this company. Who can say what might happen tomorrow. I may not have any plans from marriage, and you employ me, and while coming to office I get mowed down by a bus, you will still be at a loss. Besides many men leave jobs within 6 months of joining in lure of better pay. Do you ask every man you interview, “Are you planning to leave if you get a better pay?”

After marriage I thought the scenario would change, but it is still the same. Now HR managers ask me, “Married? When did you get married? babies….?? Not yet?... OK we still have time. “ In one interview… I actually told the guy, “no-no I don’t have time… we will soon plan something…. And I will let you know… !”
I burst out laughing when I walked out, his face was a sight.

So being a woman, my parents gave me a lot of education… to “make me stand on my own two feet” so to say. My father had a dream that I will have a great career. Being a woman in a “man’s world” I had a tough time getting my first job. Then by the time I did grow a bit on the rungs after fighting several bosses who thought I just worked for pocket money, I reached my marriageable age. Then again I faced a shortage of offers. Eventually I convinced my employers and worked on contracts… “That I will not get married and ditch them halfway.”

Finally I am married and the offers are getting fewer by the day. Even if I manage to get something now… I know the question of reaching home on time, doing all the homely responsibilities and managing a job will again create stress for me, especially with a husband who will go hungry rather than cook for himself. Again after my baby I have to struggle for a foot hold.

Someone close to me suggested “why are you so hell bent on a career? Have fun take rest. Enjoy your marriage. Anyway you have worked so hard for 15 yrs. It’s enough, now you relax.” I cannot explain to her that because I have worked for 15 yrs I love my work and want to work till the last day I die. She is no different from my boss.
So it is not that bad really. I do have choices. One aunt said, I could become a teacher. It’s the best job, after you get married. You will get all the holidays and come back home in time to cook also. Surprisingly I was also one of those who wanted to become a 'super woman of sorts fighting the man's world'. Not that I have one in my head, but the one in the outside world. In the “Man’s world” . Do some freelancing. That way you can work from home and cook and look after your child as well.

Probably if I wanted to have fun on my husband’s money, I wouldn’t be running from HR to HR trying to convince them “NO I am not planning a baby soon.” Probably if I had taken up a job in a woman’s world it would have been different. There the women would understand that I can get married and can get pregnant, yet I have a right to a job. A job I like, and a job I prefer. But unfortunately I am blinkered towards gender defined jobs and roles. So I struggle to break the glass ceiling. Waiting for the day when there will be no sex difference and I can sing.

OHH! Baby baby it’s a man’s world and its 'reigning' women halleluja its 'reigning' women.
I am no super woman. I am a normal woman, with my family and biological responsibilities, as well as a love for a certain kind of work and an ambition for a successful career. That's all. Why complicate things.

" No," my friend replied.

" But you worship him as God. You should be visiting him on his birthday celebrations" I persisted.

"There will be tremendous rush. It is not worth it." he replied again.

"But isnt that the test of devotion?" I queried.

"Perhaps..." was my friend's noncommital reply.

"it was about 4 years since i saw him.

the delay when noted was surprising given that he is the most visited diety in the world. and i am one of those who eagerly visited him regularly.

its time, i told ramesh and baba. they both agreed.

so on a slightly sunny august morning seated in an empty AC Chair car of the south central railway the three of us headed south...to the seven hills of tirumala.

baba and ramesh spent most of the time sleeping. and i like everytime shunned the AC for the rush of wind on the dirty compartment steps. India! it has never ceased to fascinate me.

as the rushes of green interspersed with canals, rivers, farmers, huts , birds and all galloped past us for a moment i was Mohun Bhargav...this was Swades....and i was looking at a beautiful but poor India.

but before i could start singing " ye jo des hai tera" reality came bombarding and a yawning baba came out and wondered whether the train was on time.

the train was on time. we reached renigunta and climbed into a taxi by a tamilian called Arunachalam. i smiled at him and queried about his life as the taxi rushed towards the abode of venkateshwara atop the sevven hills. he explained his entire life from agra to mumbai to kanyakumari in the 45 minutes it took us to reach tirumala.

during the ascent i chanced to gaze out at the seven peaks...they are shaped like hoods of a snake (natural formations )...it was chilling to gaze at their humungous black silhouttes in the night. i felt i was being watched.

we checked into the cottage and slept as our darshan was booked for 4 am.

at 4 am we joined the eager crowded line at vaikuntam and the snails march towards Srinivasa began. it was one of the most lifeless crowds i had ever joined...discussions on business, politics, marraiges and a lust for laddoos dominated the psyche. shouts of govinda by me were met with passive stares. i wondered....did modern psyche finally overcome the awe and devotion? there were many from the USA, who made sure everyone knew they were from the USA by their loud english banter. the line moved on....and then....

after 4 years and 2 hours in the line i saw him.

he was the most beautiful thing i ever saw. standing on the pedestal , smiling in mirth venkateshwara looked ready to fulfill any boon u asked him. i waited for the tears to well up in my eyes and the palpitations to start. but they didnt..... within a moment i was out and i wanted to see him again. for i was surprised and confused that whether i too had become too modern for his devotion.

so ramesh and i went to the darshan booking centre and boooked our darshan for the evening....with the regular poor people darshan lines. the previous darshan was through internet booking. in the evening was the raw darshan. with the coolies, the labourers, the poor.

and was it a tornado!! hundreds of poor in luck and money when compared to the ultraelite group of the morning darshan were part of us now. there were lusty shouts of govinda doing the rounds. a small hint shout of govinda of mine brought forth much more lustier and louder shouts of ecstasy from the buzzing line. one person kept on shouting govinda till he saw the diety.

and was it my imagination or was venkateshwara more smiling and happier in their presence than in the morning? the diety it seemed was brimming with life and more mirth.

is this why internet, privileged darshans might bring us close to the lord within minutes....but it is with true brimming devotion that the lord is truly gladdened?

the next day early morining we had another darshan , the lord now in pure form divested of all gold ornaments and the trip ended.

as the taxi climbed down the hills towards the station, i wondered, the poor in luck>? in money? but in faith...in love....they were the billionaires.

Srinivasa it looked, was playing one of his subtle leelas again.

lots of love,

aachi.

p.s. " i am glad i saw him...finally" said my friend sitting on the steps outside the sanctorum after our gang had gone to tirumala in 1999.

yes...the word is gladdening...this Srinivasa gladdens the heart...the hearts filled with love, with devotion, with joy."

Yes it does.

And I have my reasons.

'Reason' would be more appropriate.

I expected it to be heavenly. Nay...beyond heaven.

And I wasnt disappointed.

In fact I was gifted with a bonus.

Not only the music is beautiful, but the surreal world with blue hue, the sets with walls painted with fantastic art and a corner illuminated by the statue of a Buddha head, the simple scene of the female lead dusting the carpets to the hero expresing his love for the first time...everything is pure poetry.

The story is simple and one can guess the ending pretty
easily. But the journey to the end is beautful and the characters are pleasing.

Every actor fills their part with sincere effort, with Ranbir and Rani standing out.

Though I have seen the negative feedback everyone is giving for the movie I liked Saawariya.

It is soft, poetic and a piece of Art in its own way.

There is something about movies with unfulfilled love. They touch the chord in the softest part of the heart.

Saawariya is one such.

Forget prejudice and go and enjoy the soft romance.

It is a picture for all those who have romance in their hearts and beauty in their minds.
:)

lots of love.

One casual evening, my 9 plus daughter Shruti asked “Do we really get butterflies in the stomach when we fall in love?”

.I needed to explain in her vocabulary what is love? I searched for words quickly and tried to break down complex love into simple words for her.

I said, “Love is feeling good about somebody, wanting to care for someone’s needs, wanting to do things for somebody and also treating the other as your own self and sometimes sacrificing one’s comforts for other’s happiness.” It sounded heavy to me though. I again tried to make it simpler. I said ‘the symptoms of love at times start with getting dress conscious, self-conscious or sometimes impression-conscious and wanting to look at somebody again and again or thinking about someone all the time. But there are further tests to confirm if it is really love or just fake.” (Last note was clearly from the baggage of my upbringing. ‘’Words of caution’’.)

It seemed to click with her level of understanding. But at onset of her 10th year whether she would make out, I wasn’t too sure. Days passed and then came the D-day.
“I am in love”, she declared.
“Who is he?” I asked
“Harry Potter” she replied.
“But he is too old for you,” I wanted to wash him off her mind at first go.
There was a silence. Our eyes met. I did not dare to ask anything further as we both saw “Cheeni Kum” a night before.

Next week a huge cardboard with a Harry potter’s printout neatly pasted was decorating her room. As a woman it was a special moment for me. I truly celebrated the growing girl in her and secretly missed out on not having done so in my childhood. But soon the parent took over. I needed to discuss with her about the crush and love. The sanctity and purity of love in her life should not get mixed with heartaches and breaks of crushes that strengthen you as an individual. She needed to aware of thin lines between loving crushes and crushing loves. But how was a question that needed a preparation from my side.

It was night time and we both were preparing for sleep. Vinay was yet to arrive. I initiated the discussion. “You are a grown up girl now and I can share my secrets with you”, I told her. The word secret evoked the child in her and the grown up girl was left behind. “So child like” I said to myself and smiled. “Please share your secret I will not tell it to anybody”, she assured.
“I also had a crush on a film star when I was your age.” I admitted to her.
“What is crush” she interrupted.
“Crush is something which you are going through right now” I lovingly looked at her saying this. She didn’t want to discuss her own new secret. She was feeling shy. Her coyness and shyness about this new phase of feelings gave such a pure glow on her face that I was touched at the purity of the emotion called love. But to enable her enjoy this pure emotion and to celebrate it in true sense it was important to make her comfortable about this passing phase and discuss with her.
I then explained to her that it is a wonderful phase in her life to have first crush and I do respect her emotions regarding Master Potter. But we should call him “first crush”. I also told her that it is an exciting phase as one learns many things about one’s own self during first crush. So she should not exhaust herself in being very secretive about it rather discuss and enjoy coping this passing phase.
“When will I be in love then?” she enquired.

“After some crushes we are able to experience and identify love on our own. In the beginning the crush seems like love. Even the butterflies get confused. So sometimes people treat crush like love. Since you are an intelligent girl, you can treat it as crush and you’ll slowly develop the sense when it is not the crush but love” I wanted to simplify.

I didn’t know how much she understood but for two months each international film festival we went to, she kept helpdesk girls busy with printouts and information on Harry Potter. She even had cards and letters from her friends who all had crush for Harry Potter’s other friends on each of our foreign visits. After two months the D-day came and she announced.

“I have second crush”,
“Who is that” I was eager.
“Jack and Kody- they are really cute and funny. They are real comedians.”, she was talking about the teenage artists of a new foreign series imported for Indian children on the television.
“So Harry wasn’t really good”, I said.
“Mummy Please don’t say a word against him”, came a curt reply.
“Is it okay that I first liked Harry Potter and now I like Jack and Kody also”, she asked seeking an affirmative answer.
“Yes it is okay to have numbers in crushes. Perhaps that’s why we call them crushes. Slowly when this number game stops and the number doesn’t change for a long, it means we can discuss about love.” She seemed interested. I continued,” As we grow our tastes, habits, likings change and also our role models, favorite heroes/heroines keep changing. But gradually when we mature in body as well as in mind, we get a clear idea of what we like and what we do not like and then our choice of people we want to love also gets clearer.”, I replied.

I am sure she would not forget Harry Potter. Why should she?
Even I remember my first crush. Am I right?

Do send in your own joys...sorrows...on attempt of discussing sex and sexuality with your children.

I tried to explain to her that frigidity was an out dated diagnosis, that it didn’t exist and what she was experiencing was an inhibited sexual response. That a gynecologist would not be able to solve the problem and that the most likely reason was some memory/emotion that was making the body unwilling to let go. Maybe child sexual abuse? She denied any such experience.

I then asked her what her relationship with her husband was like and she said that within two days of being married he had become extremely emotionally distant and had stopped paying attention to her. She said she felt no emotional connection, safety, intimacy or trust with him but she insisted “what does that have to do with having sex?” And besides she said “all I want is a certificate from you saying that I have been counseled and am not frigid so that I can save my marriage and so that he doesn’t defame me in court by saying I am ‘frigid’.”

It’s really quite common to come by women like X. Sexually violated and emotionally abused in their marriages, but still wanting to save them if only because we still place more social value on being married than unmarried. Or because we school our daughters in such low self esteem that they can never stop feeling that ultimately all failures are their fault and so saving the marriage is tantamount to saving the self. Or because women still don’t feel strong enough, feel they have enough options in life to move out and discover new adventures for themselves. Despite doing this work for so long now and understanding all the nuances of abuse and the emotional web it spins and traps its victim in, I have to say that women like X’s responses never cease to surprise me. How low the value of being woman is.

However this article is not about abuse and violence. Nor is it about why women want to stay in abusive situations and keep thinking they can redeem them. This article is about the issue of “frigidity”.

This vague and denigrating term is a non-medical term coined by men and used commonly in everyday language as an insult for women who are perceived by men to be unaffectionate or are seen as sexually unresponsive. It was also used to refer to a lack of orgasm in women or their lack of sexual excitement. No one thought about the possible causes of ‘frigidity’ but instead prescribed it to be the result of some form of female inadequacy.

‘Frigidity’ is a sexist term that places blame on the woman herself rather than on her socio-cultural milieu, emotional experiences, or health status, all of which can contribute to sexual non-responsiveness. Women’s sexual responses are rooted in a complex emotional framework of experiences, needs and desires. Inhibited sexual response is nearly always a result of a psychological/emotional issue.

There is no standard that women must meet for their sexual functioning to be considered normal. And if this could be understood and accepted deeply by women I do believe that sexologists, psychologists, gynecologists etc. would lose a whole lot of business and the world would be a sexually happier place to live in. If you want your body to work with you get to know it, listen to it, and respect it. Stop looking at yourself through the eyes of others.

If your body is closing up to your partner, or you find that you don’t really desire to be sexual at all, take a deep breath and relax. Your body is wise and it’s trying to tell you something about yourself which you’re not willing to accept or listen to. Either you’ve had some experience of body violation before. Or you’ve received strong moral messaging. Or you’re not attracted to your partner, don’t trust him/her, don’t feel safe in the relationship. Or…or….or… Dig deeper, there is a very valid reason.

If none of the above is your problem then look for depression, anxiety, stress, exhaustion. Keep looking until you find it. But don’t let anyone tell you that it’s because of an unexplainable, vague, condition called ‘frigidity’ which implies a hundred and one things and all of them not nice. So let Frigidity R.I.P (rest in peace) and lets try and re-learn through our own experience how wonderfully scientific and what a great friend our body truly is. And thank God for the fact that even when we insist on lying to ourselves about our emotions, our partnerships and our state of mind, we have the kind of friend in body which is there to draw us back to the path of truth.

Then one fine day just before Rakhi, she went and bought some Rakhis for us and on our behalf called these guys as well and arranged for a big festival at her place. Since she was tying one to her brother, she put it straight to us, “why don’t you girls also tie one to your friend.” All of us were caught in a situation in her family where all the people had this keen curious look of anticipation and apprehension, on the guys and us. My sister said, “What the heck. If it puts an end to all the controversies and speculations, so be it”. So we tied Rakhis to that guy and his brothers as well, for close to 10 yrs. We didn’t feel any different emotions towards them than we had before. But poor guys, shelled out gifts for us regularly. Since we really felt guilty on taking such extravagant gifts, my mother treated them to grand lunches.

Much later when all three brothers went out of city for their careers, we lost touch. Then one fine day one of them just asked us, “why was the need to tie a Rakhi?” The story that unfolded did create a lot of fun among us. Since then we stopped trying Rakhis to them. Since that girl in question was not in their lives so we found it really futile. They eventually got married (not to us) and had kids. But even now we are “attei” – which means Bua or aunt(father’s sister) in Tamil, to their kids and “nanad” to their wives.

They still come and put their arms around us and chat for hours. They still come and hug my mom and kiss her like she is their own mom. They still tease us that “you girls fleeced us for nothing for 10 years; that too when we didn’t even have great jobs.” The feeling of friendship, deep friendship, akin to brotherly feeling was mutual. We never needed a certificate to tell the world about it. But as the society grew around us, we understood the pros and cons of not having a brother, and the clear implications on our characters, if we instead had friends of the opposite sex.

Maybe if my sister was a brother or I was a boy, things and situations would have been different. But then why cry over that what was not meant to be. I realized that in a dire situation, I am my own protector.

There are brothers who will go to any lengths to stand by their sisters. There are exceptions who don’t really care what the true purpose of the festival was, when it was started. The festival is not only fast loosing its value, but also getting distorted. One comment really saddened me, “I have tied a Rakhi to my brother all my life, but when my husband slapped me, my brother found faults with me. He wouldn’t let me come home, as his wife wouldn’t like me to permanently settle in her home. So I am living in a rented accommodation.”

My sister delivered a baby girl this month. When her son was born 7 yrs back, she was a little upset cause they were fervently hoping for a girl. One of our dear friends said this time, “One boy one girl, now your family is complete.” I don’t feel left out in the permutation combination of god. I don’t feel our family is incomplete in any way. As long as you are loved in your family, it doesn’t matter what gender is your sibling. Today I can say that I never missed having a brother, since I got all the love from my sister and the brotherly love from good friends.

I know two such incidents from affluent, highly educated families, where the girls, now in their late 60s, are blaming their brothers for not looking after the ailing widow mother, who died of sheer neglect. They lament, “If only we had more sisters instead of brothers.”

I understand now why my parents never really reacted to “You have no son?” Cause they found it futile to talk to such people. But I feel that a change needs to be initiated by us. We cannot expect a change to happen unless we become a part of that change.

Unless the educated, affluent and the liberal minded people slowly change some rituals to include the importance of having a daughter, instead of harping on a brother or son, the social outlook towards the necessity of a son will not change. Maybe we could have a different type Rakhi. Or start a trend of tying Rakhi to women.

In Bengal Rabindranath Thakur started a Rakhi where Hindus tied rakhis to Muslims and vice versa. The need of the hour says we restart such customs. Who knows maybe we can really use this custom to awaken feelings of peace, harmony, value of the girl child and the best of what is known as "brotherly feelings".

Princess Baatcheet

As late last week my bare feet touched the electrifyig soil of sweet sweet neverland and my soul breathed in the fresh air of rain filled monsoon in the centre of Mangalore, I could not prevent myself from pondering over what Osho said.

Time is fickle, a mistress of change and father of the 'new every second', it has the power to show, to mesmerise, to fill one with emotions unimaginable a second before...but it has not the power to contain.

The mind overlaps time, hurdles over seconds, minutes, hours , eras...it brings us back to sweet sweet neverland.

We might not taste the virgin flavours of the moment, but the permutations of the mind, coupled by thoughts lost in translation bring anew emotions forgotten. Those emotions that were once our very breath, now lie tucked in corners of the mind, stimulated and refreshed.The fragrance of times immensely pleasurable, sad, indifferent return to the fore.

But no emotion is repeated in virgin clothing. As a dewdrop on the petals of ecstasy in the infancy of thought it returns with maturity and the honor of a stream.

The essence is same.

the Love is same.

The thirst is quenched.

The arms are stretched and Ishwara is attained....again....in Sweet sweet Neverland.

I like many of you have many neverlands of which I have been a part...

Neverlands which came, and have gone.

I do not dwell in them, nor I drive my car watching only the rearview mirror.

I move forward, along with time....but when I get a chance to peak a small look back...I indulge my mind...

For the time has ended...it cannot return.

But the Mind can.

:)

lots of love,