My Confidant

I took to writing diary from age 16 when I was in college and away from home. I was lonesome in a new place amongst new people and one fine day took up a note book and writing my thoughts. And soon it became a habit because every day after college I wrote down the date and shared with my new found confidant every little detail. It was like I was sharing everything with my folks the way I used to after coming home from school. And I finished notebook after note book. All these books were neatly piled in a corner of the shelf. And when I returned home for good a box full of notebooks were amongst my luggage. In fact the box was my most precious luggage. And my habit of writing diary continued and I never missed a single detail..not even when I was bad. I wrote down that as well. And when I fell in love and out of love it was my confidante that got to know every little detail in detail. I described every feeling, every emotion to my confidant which I would not do with any human being. My anger, my depression, my fear and sorrows, my dreams and nightmares..I left out nothing. Soon as my age advanced the number of diaries kept increasing year after year and there were two boxes full of diaries. And I kept them away in the attic. One in a blue moon I took out any of the note book and read a random page and it was like living that day of that year all over again because of the minute details I had captured in it. I was addicted to writing diary. A note book accompanied me everywhere I traveled. It was an extension of me. And I could not do without it. IF for a day I was not able to write I felt restless. One fine day it just occurred to me that I am way too much addicted to writing a diary. Anyone who read it would know me inside out. But then I thought after I am no more someone who read it would know me better after I was no more. But did I want people to know me in such details..some were just too bold. I thought I should de addict myself. Stop writing these diaries. Say farewell to my confidant of over 25 years. One night when it was quiet all around and I was alone at home I removed all my diaries doused kerosene oil and set fire to them. I watched in stoic silence as the flames engulfed the books…and as the fire raged…something inside me began to crumble. I thought I would break down and cry but I kept watching the fire. I could not turn my eyes away from the sight of the burning books. I kept watching although I was deeply hurt within. Finally when the heap of ash lay at my feet I sat down in a heap myself. And it dawned on me that I had lost my confidant of my adolescence and my youth. And now I was alone. Because I would no longer write a diary now. My relationship with my diary was over.

Another item added in my league of lost things. I finally let go of the tears that were struggling to come out. I don’t know why I did it. I only knew that it was time for this habit to go. But now I still think if I did the right thing. When I told my friend about it after a few months she told me that would have made a good data for your to write stories and maybe even a novel. What a foolish thing to have done! Well..well.. ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

The Rebel

We loved visiting our grandparents during our summer vacations as they pampered us to the core. During story time there was only one story we loved hearing again and again.

And this was grandma’s favourite story too. But wait it was not a story, it was something that happened to her during his childhood.

In the village where they resided grandma and grandpa were both lived in the same village in their childhood and were  buddies. But the older children in the village were bullies and used to wait near the big banyan tree for little children to come to the swings so they could bully them and extort goodies if they had any.

Little grandma was a rebel even then while grandpa was a timid boy. That afternoon Grandma had  sweetmeats made by her mom which she was carrying for her best friend – our grandpa. But she was bullied into giving it to the older boy who was waiting near the corner. 

She was livid with rage and flung a stone at the boys from afar. But the stone found its mark and hit the same bully on the head and he began to bleed. All the children panicked and so did little grandma.

Afraid she ran and ran away from their village and soon was lost. It was evening and it was growing dark. She was afraid and began crying but soon great grandpa along with the others found her.

No one scolded her instead they all pampered her and this made grandma happy.

And after that no one bullied grand ma and whoever happened to be with her as they were afraid of her.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.  

This blog got me the WOW badge. My 2nd one.
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An abandoned warehouse

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

There is an abandoned warehouse in our town and it always fascinated me. And I deliberately took that route while going to work though many avoided that narrow lane.

There were many stories regarding the old warehouse that after the British left India it was abandoned and later inhabitated by the people of the other world. While some said that it was used by the people of the underworld to hide their loot.

Whatever..I thought..as I gazed at the huge building in its dilapidated state, the huge wooden doors worn out and the locks rusted, wild grass around it.

I used to always try to imagine its past glory…how nice and majestic it must have been with activities bustling in it. What all goods must have been stored in it and from what different sources? What must have been the process of warehousing in those times?

How did the workers carry heavy loads? Where they paid well and on time? Or were the British were hard task masters and treated them cruelly?

I often parked my bicycle and stood gazing at the building wishing to go back in time and see firsthand how the warehouse back then functioned. 

This blog got the WOW badge

Washing clothes not a female domain

“I am joining the Ariel #ShareTheLoad campaign at BlogAdda and blogging about the prejudice related to household chores being passed on to the next generation.”

When I read about the Ariel contest on reducing gender prejudices and washing clothes my mind went back to my childhood when the ‘Dhobi’ used to come to our place to collect the laundry fortnightly and came back after 15 days to deliver the washed and pressed clothes. He and his wife took turns. It did not seem unusual back then that a man came to collect and deliver the laundry.  

And when we traveled past the river on the outskirts of our town both men and women could be seen washing heaps of clothes and drying them.

However when families became smaller and washing machines had not yet entered the household it was the mother or the ‘kaamwaali’ who washed the clothes along with the household chores which are considered ‘ womanly duties’.  And when the washing machines finally did enter the households it was still the women who did the laundry as with all the other chores. Even the ‘kaamwaalis’ were taught to operate the machine.

As I grew up I saw this transition and imbibed that indeed there are a set of different chores allotted to both men and women. I longed to outsource the laundry as it was time consuming and interfered with my free time. And I longed to go out with friends on the weekends.  But here I was stuck on Sundays with the cleaning and the laundry of the entire week.  

If I made any plans to go out with friends on Sundays I made sure I did the laundry on Saturday nights. (I work 6 days a week). It was always at the back of my mind that why the chores can’t be shared? Why these prejudices?

The society has defined separate roles for men and women and I learnt that these prejudices are imbibed and handed down from generations. There is nothing womanly about washing clothes and nothing manly about repairing the electric fuses in the house. These roles have been defined to suit the dominant ‘male culture’ with women at the receiving end. If my man washed the clothes it would not make him less manly. After all I go out and work.

And the Ariel share the load drive awakened my senses and I realized it’s time we women took up the challenge to oust these prejudices. There is no such thing as male domain and female domain.

Musings: DIGNITY

Musings: DIGNITY

DIGNITY

Grateful I am

‘Coz with dignity

I raise my children

So what

If my tummy rumbles with rage

And my legs wobble

When I stagger home

Grateful I am

‘Coz a job I have

So what

If lustful male gazes on the roads

And contemptuous female glances

 from the havens  

I have to ignore

Grateful I am

‘coz food on the table I can lay

And bills I can pay

So what if the fear

Of the morrow haunts

That with my limbs

My children too might fail me?

Grateful I am

‘Coz today I live in dignity

Roads- where dost thou go?

The highway roads

Long and Stretching

Far and Beyond

Never Ending

Always busy

Yet seem lonesome

Leading everywhere

And No where

  If they could speak

        Would they fore tell

          Destines unknown?

          Reveal secrets

untold and unknown?

  Disclose histories 

hidden and un witnessed?

 But the roads

Still and silent

Go on and on and on

Life ends

But roads do not.