COMEBACK

I have discovered that I am most present with surreal things. I am the kind of person who collects mementoes, souvenirs, things touched by a loved one, little trinkets that scream a deeper meaning…who relishes moments…who, as a child, licked the bowl and the spoon proudly…who saves letters not just for the words they contain but for the hands that brushed the page. I linger. I want my moments to last…When they don’t, I create a virtual continuum and dwell there as long as possible…basking my soul in the beauty of a moment, a word uttered innocently, a gesture so humane, a streak of hope of a better Monday. No, I am not naïve, when I ink my impasses, my ripple-free moments; I do it not just for this generation but for sacred posterity.

I spent my childhood in the bosom of nature…taking the trees, the blue fluffy clouds and the clear sheet of turquoise sea for granted. I had no idea that these are luxuries of life. My major concerns were my thick glasses, Harry Potter and my little diary. I comfortably mastered the art of being ‘invisible’. To a stranger, I seemed so quiet and calm – not words I’d use to describe myself now. But I haven’t changed. Evolved? Yes. Changed? No. With adolescence came maturity. Through the years, I learnt life; people; words…and that people don’t always mean what they say or say what they mean. I learnt to love unconditionally, to laugh mindlessly and to accept people for who they are. I learnt to say sorry. With perseverance, I learnt to let go, to cry behind closed doors, to forgive, pick up the pieces, glue myself and keep walking down the yellow road.  There have been moments when I have severely questioned my course of life. I have had my share of hopelessness, panic, fear, anxiety, pessimism, sadness and tears. But at the end of the day, I haven’t let them change who I am. My compensation? I have had more than my share of happiness…more than enough reasons to stretch my cheeks for a smile. I have no regrets, no complaints from life. If anything, I’d want my tombstone to read –

Jency John Charles

Woman who has been loved immensely.

Seasons have changed, few friends have faded away, few appeared to stay forever, logic became the new romance and daydreams have changed colours; but the only thing that has stuck by me all those years is ‘writing’. The moment of serenity I dig out of my life from time to time to sit down and pull strings of thoughts pensively with my ink on paper. It was my first love. It will always be my love, my passion socket, my peace. So, here I am…reviving my dormant blog as my fingers kiss the alphabets. This one is to starting afresh and to mark the same, all of my 41 published teen posts have been deleted. Cheers to new words! Cheers to life!

The Stranger in the Mirror

 Sometimes when I look into the mirror, I don’t have to stare at my reflection for very long before I see a stranger staring right back at me.

Who is this person that I have become?

What is under that skin?

Is there magic under those scars?

I see just eternal pain and memories worse than nightmares wrapped neatly around the bones and knit cleverly with skin.

I look at my hand and I realize I no longer know the person who owns them.

I don’t remember the things they have done to keep the stranger in the mirror from falling apart.

I have made promises to the people I love that I am unsure this stranger might keep.

I have smiled effortlessly while the stranger was crying her lungs out inside me.

I have spoken words to pull a loved one out of sadness; while my stranger sat in the deepest darkest abyss.

I have believed that I am truly happy; while I ignored my stranger’s plea for help.

I have let her suffer in silence by not acknowledging her existence.

I have wanted her gone.

I have loathed her in moments I was supposed to be there for her and love her unconditionally.

Do I owe this stranger something?

Do I owe it to her to let her stop existing?

Should I let her escape? Life itself. And be free of pain and the constant fear of abandonment.

This stranger. She’s not cut out for this world.

She’s too broken to be mended without enough love.

She’s too delicate to fly alone.

Her wings are too soft, too fragile for the North winds.

Her feet too unsteady to walk alone by the roaring sea.

And her hands.

They were lifeless, pale and without purpose.

When I told her that these hands have once held something beautiful, have once embraced someone she loved deeply, have once been kissed fondly, have once entwined with another and fit perfectly; her unbelieving eyes stared back at me like fiery coals.

All I wanted to do is wrap the love being offered to me and feel safer than ever; but my stranger, she believes she’s gonna be a mess forever.

CHAPTER THREE

Yesterday’s victim is tomorrow’s monster.

New Delhi. There was something about this city that drew her like a magnet. She didn’t particularly like the city. Its pollution, traffic and insecurity for women irked her. But it’s the city’s rush that was endearing to her. She could comfortably be a ‘nobody’ in this city. Invisible even. No one gave a damn what she did. No one judged. She did not have to sneak to do harmless things like watching a movie at the theatre, making plans with friends or roaming around just for the heck of it. All of these actions were a taboo in her island town, Andaman Islands; where, everybody knew everybody. Where, she was not Lilian first. She was first the priest’s daughter. She had to be the perfect role model for the congregation of her parish. Hence, in her native town Port Blair, she was the organ playing, soprano singing, aptly dressed, academically over-achieving, extra spiritual, geeky, ultra silent kid sitting in the first row with a big, fat Bible and fatter glasses. But she loved her island. She loved its silver sand beaches, the unannounced rain showers, the vast stretches of lush greenery that looked like stolen treasure from the Amazons, the air quality and the peace that is more often than not taken for granted. She often wondered how amazing it would be if she could combine her island’s serenity with Delhi’s freedom. She sadly reminisced her lost independence. Six months ago, she was a landscape Architect in the capital city. She wished to explore the field before pursuing masters in it. She vividly remembered that doomed day, when she said yes to an arranged marriage.

‘He’s the son of a priest. He will be perfect for you.’ Her father’s stubborn voice resonated from inside the cellphone.

‘Not now, Appa. Give me just two more years. I wish to establish my own firm before getting married.’

‘You have been saying two years since the last four years, Lily!’

‘Just two more, Appa. I will only be twenty six by then.’

‘Is there someone in your life? Just tell us, please! Instead of turning down every good alliance. If there’s someone, tell us, we will get you married to him, even if he’s not a Christian. Just that the marriage will take place in the Church only.’

‘Appa, there’s no one in my life. I promised you before leaving for Delhi that I will marry the person you choose for me. Just give me two more years. That’s all I ask. For my career, Appa.’

‘You already earn well, what more do you want? If you keep chasing your career, your marriageable age will be long gone. You can always pursue it after marriage. Just meet him tomorrow, Lily.’

‘But Appa’

‘That’s not a request.’

‘Okay, Appa. As you wish.’ She said, resignedly disconnecting the call.

Her ‘as you wish’ now weighed hard on her, like a Pandora box hanging by a clinking chain around her neck, threatening to drown her anytime now.



‘Are you drunk?’ she asked, as Joshua brushed past her, staggering, while she locked the gates behind him.

‘Absolutely not!’ he slurred. His bloodshot eyes gave him away without a doubt.

‘Shhh...Keep calm or Athai and Mama will know that you’re drunk!’

‘Okay…I am calm.’ He says dramatically, walking with his arm resting on her shoulder, leaning heavily on her, towards their room.

‘Why do you drink so much? You know you can’t take more than a few pegs! Drink up to your limits!’

‘Wifey!’

‘Shh…don’t shout!’

‘I am not a good husband to you, right?’ He asks, seating himself on the floor, his head resting on her lap.

She was silent. She did not want to touch him. She placed her hands on her sides on the bed instead. She realized she never fell in love with the person she married. She rather pitied him tonight. What a sad life he must lead, she wondered. Nobody really loved him in this world, she thought. If his mother loved him, she would have taught him good morals instead of seeking happiness at the cost of his miserable marital life. His dad. She didn’t know what kind of a father he has been to him. She realized how little she knows about him. She wondered why he was a monster.

‘Why are you so silent, wifey?’

‘Were you close to your dad as a child?’ She knew she can’t ask these questions when he is sober.

‘I hated daddy. I hated everything about him. My elder sister and I had even planned to kill him once, when we were kids.’ He chuckled sadly. ‘He hit us both so badly over such petty issues which were not even worth counting as issues.’

‘Like what?’ she probed.

‘Like, there was this time, during summer vacation, my elder sister and I plucked mangoes from the neighbour’s tree. I know it was our mistake. He could have reprimanded us orally or asked us not to repeat it again. Instead…instead…he hung us upside down, hit us black and blue with his belt and made us inhale red chili flakes while hanging upside down, wifey. He hit us until the neighbours came running to stop him! I was just ten years old and Aqqa was thirteen!’

She could feel his tears moisten her thighs through her cotton pants, as he wept softly digging his face into her lap.

The problem with being empathetic is that you feel sorry for monsters too.

She shut her eyes tightly feeling the pain of a ten year old boy being beaten up brutally. She realized that the child was scarred for life. Candidly, she ran her fingers through his hair, trying to console that hurt child inside the monster that he has become.

‘Your mom never stopped your dad when he hit you both?’ She asked, trying to comprehend the behaviour of a twisted family.

‘No. For my mom, my dad is god. She will not move a finger against his wishes or say a word against him. Whatever he does is correct in her eyes.’ He said proudly.

‘But isn’t it the wife’s duty to let her husband know when he is wrong and the husband’s to do likewise for his wife? Aren’t they supposed to be a team?’

There was silence in the room for a few seconds. She realized she has been holding her breath, awaiting his reply.

 He slowly looked up from her lap, maintaining eye contact, a clever smile appeared on his lips, curving them in the corners.

‘I might be drunk like a camel, Lily; but I am not stupid. You think you can manipulate me, you evil woman?’ He says, gritting his teeth, his fingers tightening at her thigh. ‘Mother was right. You are just a little, manipulative, bitch. For an instant I thought I could love you. But the truth is, no one can love you.’

She shrieks as his nails dig deeper into her skin.
‘Let me go. I was just trying to understand you, Josh’ she pants.

She wriggled to get out his hold. But soon realized it was futile to even try. He was too strong for her petite frame.

‘My sisters were right too. You are just here to create rifts in the family.’ His bloodshot eyes now dilating with anger.

‘Nooo. You got me all wrong. I was just – I was just saying - that marriage is a partnership; wherein both partners are equal - and have equal say in all matters.’ Shutting her eyes tight, she almost screamed, ‘Would you just let me go so we can have a decent conversation for once?’

‘To answer your question, it is the wife’s duty to shut up and let the husband decide for himself and for the family. Hey, you are a priest’s daughter, you should know this verse from the Bible.’ He says, his fingers now finding their usual place between her legs. ‘Just like Christ is the head of the Church, a husband is the head of his wife and family.’ He continued, his fingers obtruding immense pain, causing her legs to shiver because of the insufferable degree of infliction.


Battered, naked, curled up in fetal posture, hugging her knees tightly, praying for the pain to stop, she wept softly into her thick wad of hair now sticking to her wet face.

From where she lay, at the far corner of the queen size bed, she could see the satisfied smile on Joshua’s face as he dressed himself in front of the wardrobe mirror. Pulling his track pants up, he turned around to examine the shoulder wing muscles that he has been working on lately. Carefully inspecting the angles of his chest next, he pulled over a tee-shirt absently, his attention now settling on his gelled hair.

‘I have to hit the gym. It’s five already, why are you still on the bed? Go wash yourself, get dressed and get into the kitchen.’ He says, stuffing his resistance bands into his gym bag.

‘NOW!’ He shouts, alarming her.

She slowly unwinds, her body burning and aching at multiple places. She could hear the jingle of his bike keys stop abruptly as the sound of his Yamaha RX 100 being kick started pierced the tacit early morning air.

As she stood in front of her wardrobe mirror, the woman in the mirror stared back at her with an expressionless face. Lilian looked at herself from head to toe, her eyes halting shortly at the bruises.

“These scars will remain for life, Lily. Just a gentle reminder that you will always be mine. Whenever you see them, you will remember the lessons you have learnt.”

Anger egressed in the pit of her stomach like fire.

‘You have such flawless skin. It glows naturally. Why don’t you try modelling?’ Her senior in college, Priya had once told her, encouraging her to walk the ramp that year.

Look at me now. How flawless I am. Her once enticing curves were long gone. What remained of her was a bag of bones.

A rush of rage blinded her as she screamed and punched the metal almirah. She did not even wince at the instant pain in her knuckles.

She inspected the carefully placed bruises that would not peek outside her clothing. She touched her hair, lost in thought. She twisted it in her fingers, disgusted at how the soft waves fell below her waistline.

‘Don’t cut your hair. A woman’s beauty is in the length of her hair.’ The well-repeated words of her father echoed in her head.

She parted the hair behind her right ear to inspect the wound from where he pulled a bunch of her hair last night. Trying hard to take a look at it, tilting her head sideways, she yelled in frustration.

Annoyed, she searched for scissors in the drawers like a mad woman searching for sanity. Grabbing the scissors, she walked back to the mirror with anger ablaze in her eyes.

Beauty, huh? Appa?

The tinkerbell in her head sat up in her pod.
'Woah! Lil! You really gonna chop them off?’
‘Hell yes, I am gonna chop them off!’
‘Really? What will your doting husband Joshua say?’
‘Do I look like I care?’
‘Okayy...what will Appa say?’

She just didn’t care anymore. She raised her scissor to the bottom of the mane, timidly grazing it an inch. It felt great. A tiny smile appeared on her lips.

You both men! You who decide my fate! You want hair on my head, don't you?! CUT! It defines me as a woman? CUT! So, I am not feminine if I don't grow my hair? CUT!

The hair now just above her shoulder, she raised the scissors to cut it further. A sense of strange joy filled her heart.

Still wearing a smile on her face, she entered the shower.



Dear Diary,

The feeling you get when the chopped bair hits the tiled floor with soft thud thuds! The peaceful sound that metal makes as it cuts! With each strand, I sliced away my problems, my fear, my depression and all my worries. I feel light as a feather now.

I will not be the good girl to Appa anymore.

If Joshua touched me, I will kill him in his sleep tonight.

Xoxo,
Superwoman.

DIVORCE : Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO : 

Please me on the bed BECAUSE you are a woman.

She avoided eye contact with Joshua, as they were finishing dinner. She knew he’d motion her to get to bed. She was more than tired today. All she wished to do tonight was to curl in on a chair, at the porch, with a good book and a bowl of nachos. She had already kept the book and nachos ready, well hidden behind the rice sack. She need not go back into the bedroom to fetch the book. She slyly smiled to herself at that thought, still cleverly avoiding his signals. Since her father-in-law was a Priest, they were living in the Church quarters attached to the Church; hence the porch was actually the Church’s. She knew for a fact that he wouldn’t create a scene in front of the Church, within the direct visibility frame of their neighbours.

Around midnight, she sensed a silhouette behind her.

‘Get inside or I will lock you out.’ Joshua growled standing at the screeching gate.

‘Just one more chapter, Josh. I’ll be inside in ten minutes.’ She says, flashing him an appeasing smile.

She could see that he was seething with rage because she had made him wait. Sighing, she tucked in the bookmark, uncoiled and followed him back inside, feeling like a lamb walking towards the slaughter house. She hated her bed. She hated every inch of it.

‘Undress.’ He commanded, unbuttoning himself.

‘Josh, not tonight. I am tired.’

‘You think you are smart?’ He grabbed her chin, pressing her against the wall. ‘You thought I wouldn’t do anything to you if you sat at the porch? Try that one more time, I dare you.’ He threatened.

‘I didn’t think anything of that sort.’ She gasped, lying, trying to push his hand away in vain. ‘I was just reading a book!’

‘I threw away all your books, did you buy books again?’ His fingers tightened at her jawline, threatening to crush them.

‘My friend sent it to me for my birthday at Amma’s address. Please, Josh. Leave me.’ She pleaded helplessly.

‘Who is this friend that I don’t know of?’ He questions, his eyebrows raise as did her body, few inches off the floor.

‘Momo.’

‘Momo who? Are you making up names now? You wannabe writer!’ He smirked, malice sprinkled all over his face.

‘Momina. She’s a friend from college. I have told you about her! Now, will you please let me go?

You’re hurting me!’ She slapped his hand lightly to make her point.

‘You don’t know the H of hurt…yet.’ He laughs. He releases her jaw and swiftly grabs her breast, turning off the lights in quick motion, his other hand settles back on her lips, stifling her in an attempt to discourage her from shrieking.

‘Now you will discover the real meaning of Hurt, dear Lily.’

Her name sounded ugly when he said it. She knew it was the doomed night again. The night of punishments.

As his hands squeezed at her breasts harshly, she stayed still; not allowing herself to weep; to not give him that satisfaction of having hurt her.

‘I asked you to undress, didn’t I?’ He grumbles, tearing her night shirt off her body. The sound of ripping cotton and the hum of the ceiling fan was all that could be heard in that room. He pushes her on the bed roughly. She stays still. She could feel her emotions go cold. She could feel herself hardening up. There was no noise in her head now. No dialogues asking her to fight back. Even her thoughts left her alone tonight.

He quickly unclothes himself and tugs at her pants.

‘Don’t just lie there like a robot. Fight back. You know how I like a good fight.’ He sneered. ‘Come on, my tigress, resist.’ His rape fetishes were bubbling up to the brim. She could sense a brutal night closing in on her.

‘Oh! So, you think you are that smart?’ He hisses, angrily pinching her all over the body, peeling the delicate skin at places. 

She just lay still. Eyes shut tightly, hands crumpling the bed sheet with a newfound vigour as she disallowed herself to make a single sound. Warm tears escaped the corner of her eyes as his fingers found the most delicate part of her insides. I am not gonna beg you to stop tonight, you devil. Let me see how big of a monster you can be.

‘You know that I will not stop, Lily.’ He grunts, his hands making way towards her face, and stops midway.

 ‘No. I will not touch your face. Your parents are visiting tomorrow.’ He says, almost to himself, lifts his body from above her and walks away.

She was breathing heavily, silently sinking the pain of her burning body. 

I wish I was dead this instant. I wish I never obeyed you, Appa. I wish I was not the good daughter that I have been to you. I just wish I ceased to exist right now.

Fresh batch of tears gushed out her eyes as she tried to press her legs together. 

Jesus, please have mercy on me! Where are you, when I need you the most?!

 She knew it wasn’t over yet. She could hear him rambling from closet to closet. 

‘Where did you keep the nail cutter, Lily?’ 

Fear gripped her insides at that question. She was silent.

‘I asked you a question.’ He raised his voice.

Her silence fueled his anger furthermore. As she heard her vanity box clicking open, she knew she would be half-dead tonight.

Cuts, bruises, tears, peels, burns and pain adorned her body the next morning as she sat on her bed with her head hung down, staring at the toenails that were brutally clipped deep last night. She could hear her mother-in-law shuffling through her wardrobe.

‘Wear this.’ Her mother-in-law demanded, throwing a high collar kurta on her lap.

 Lilian touched the fabric reminiscing how happy she was the day her father bought this kurta from Rangoon for her to wear it for interviews. You wouldn't have thought this will hide my wounds one day, Appa. She chuckled sadly.

‘What are you smiling at?’ her mother-in-law questioned, with a hand on her hip, moving her lips horizontally to adjust her fake teeth inside her mouth.

‘Nothing Athai. I’ll wear it. When are Appa Amma coming?’ She asks calmly.

‘They will be coming for lunch. You dare not open your filthy mouth.’ She instructs, her eyes bulging out as a threat.

‘You are a woman too, Athai. You know what he did to me.’

 She tries to seek out any mercy in the abyss of this woman’s heart.

Inching closer to Lilian’s face, the older woman says, ‘You will have to please him on bed, Lily; because you are a woman.’ 

She watched her walk out of the bedroom with her head held high. She could see that she was pleased with her son, now that he has expressed his ‘masochism’. 

 

Even the soft cotton could not fondle her wounds today. Painfully pulling down her kurti, she looked at the girl staring at her from the mirror. She couldn’t recognize the person she has become. The once rebellious Lilian was long gone. She felt hollowness settle inside her chest. A strange calmness overcame her. The kind of calm that sets in on the exterior before you break down completely. She checked to see if any wound was exposed outside the clothing; with a huge sigh she leaves her room as she hears her dad’s faint laugh in the drawing room.

‘Your parents are here, dear.’ Joshua announces in a pacifying drawl in the hallway, within her parents’ earshot.

Acknowledging him with a reluctant smile and a nod, she beams widely as her eyes find her dad smiling at her.

‘How’s Mike? Why didn’t he come along?’ she enquires about her brother, perching herself on the arm of the wooden chair on which her father was seated.

‘He has just joined a new job last week. They keep him busy.’ Her mother replies. 

‘So, is my daughter troubling you all too much?’ Father asks, his question directed at Lilian’s husband and parents-in-law.

‘No, no. She has been such an obedient girl.’ The father-in-law responded, his smile half hidden beneath his dyed thick south Indian moustache. 

‘We were just discussing about her work.’ Joshua began.

 Lilian’s father could sense the tension in the room. 

‘What about her work? She is still practicing at her office here, right? And when are you both planning to shift to Delhi, as planned before the wedding?’

‘No, mama. I am not willing to shift to Delhi. I cannot abandon my parents here and chase my career in Delhi.’

Lilian shifted uncomfortably in the arm of the chair. Just as she stood up to shift to the chair next to her father, her mother-in-law motioned her to get into the kitchen. She wanted to hear how this conversation in the living room went. So, with one ear still within earshot, she slowly walked towards the kitchen.

‘Who is going to make tea for your parents?’ The mother-in-law hissed.

‘I will, Athai.’ She says, glaring back at her.

In Lilian’s head, Tinkerbell was now pacing back and forth restlessly in her pod. ‘I will? Seriously, Lil? Don't you have a backbone? Your oarents are here, these people can't touch you right now! Can't you give your mother-in-law a piece of your mind?' she shrieked, with aggressive hand motions accompanying her sentences.

‘I just wish Appa convinces them to let me shift to Delhi alright? I don't wanna mess things up!' Lilian consoles herself with that thought justifying her cowardly actions.

‘Don’t you think it is better if the kids are right in front of our eyes?’ She could hear her father-in-law’s deep voice voicing his opinion on the matter.

‘Also, if they move out and become too successful, they will forget their roots.’ Mother-in-law continued, supporting her husband. ‘Children are like trees. If we keep nipping them in the bud, they will flourish horizontally and never leave the ground. But once we let them grow tall, we can never bend them to our standards.’ She finished with a satisfied toothless grin.

As Lilian watched the tea foaming up in the kettle, she knew this silence in the other room is her father’s anger effervescing up to form words.

‘Why do we need to bend the tree at all? Didn’t we give birth to them to watch them grow? Also, with all due respect, dear sister, only bushes are nipped, trimmed and pruned. If my child is meant to be a tree, no amount of nipping shall contain her. And I know my daughter, she is definitely a tree; because I am the one who watered her roots.’

Tears threatened to slide down as she heard her father’s calm reply. Brushing it off, pulling down the sleeve to hide the nail cutter’s incision on her right forearm and with all the chambers of her heart replete with love for her father, she poured the tea in cups and walked out of the kitchen with a smile hinting at her lips.

DIVORCE : A TABOO

This is the story of an ordinary girl, Lilian. Her journey. Her struggles. Her joys. Her dreams. Her longing for happy endings. Her weak moments and her ferocious comebacks.


CHAPTER ONE

08th March 2015: Her Birthday: The day she wished she was never born.

‘Did you ask for Mom’s permission to retire for the night?’ He blocked her way at their bedroom door after a long evening in the kitchen.

‘What?!’ her confused eyes met his steely glare. She knew another episode of inevitable violence was about to begin. But she was not breaking tonight. She would stand her ground.

‘Why should I take permission from anybody to go to MY bedroom?’

‘Mom and dad are the heads of this house. Haven’t you noticed me seeking my dad’s permission every time I leave the house? Likewise, you have to ask mom. Now, go.’

The last two words in his sentence were delivered with supreme command. And the second thing she hated the most, first being Chetan Bhagat’s novels, was being told what to do; being commanded.

‘I am not going anywhere. I am tired and I am going to sleep now. It’s quarter past eleven for Christ’s sake!’

She says firmly and takes a brave step to walk past him. His muscular arm on the bedroom doorframe now swung swiftly at her shoulder, harshly thrusting her out of the door.

‘I said, GO.’ He stared her down. His dusky, well-sculpted face now displaying dominance.

The rebellious little Tinkerbell woman in her head stirred from slumber. She half-yawned, half-laughed as she witnessed Lilian’s pathetic condition.

'Just punch him on the face, Lil.' She laughs, now lying flat on her stomach, resting the face on the back of her palms, one on the other.

'I would have, if he wasn’t my husband.' Lilian clenched her fists.

'Oh, just punch him. He’s just a husband, not God.' She laughs yet again, cupping her chin in her hands, her cute little horns holding up her halo.

‘Just let me inside, Joshua. I am dead tired. I just finished cooking and doing the dishes after serving fifty people. It’s my birthday for crying out loud and I didn’t even want a party.’

‘You may sleep out on the road for all I care. But you’re not entering MY bedroom if you didn’t make my mother happy.’ He smirked. 

His tall, muscular, gym trainer body was blocking 90% of the 900 millimeter door. She knew it was futile to argue with his thickhead and she had a long day ahead. He knew she was excited about this new project. It was her first resort project with an amazing client who gave her ultimate design liberty. She was to survey the 10 acres site tomorrow which was an hour’s ferry ride away. But she didn’t want to say the word ‘please’ tonight. She turned towards her mother-in-law’s bedroom and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see him moving away from the door towards their bed.

 'To hell with his commands, just go for it, Lil.' Her alter ego now cheered her excitedly, punching her tiny fists in the air. 

With an evil grin, Lilian turned around, broke into a run, dashed past him in lightning speed, grabbing the towel on the way, into the bathroom. 

Heavy thuds were raining on the bathroom door. She was singing loudly, ignoring the commotion, like a queen. 'Am I going crazy?' She wondered. Tears streaming down, even before water strands landed on her already wet cheeks, she sang. 

There’s a fire starting in my heart. 

Reaching a fever pitch and it’s bringing me out the dark

‘You better open the door or you’re dead meat tonight.’ Joshua hollered.

Finally I can see you crystal clear

Go ‘head and sell me out and I’ll lay your ship bare

 ‘You think you are so smart? You will have to come out eventually, right?! Let’s see how long you can be in there.’

See how I leave with every piece of you

Don’t underestimate the things that I will do

There’s a fire starting in my heart

Reaching a fever pitch and its bringing me out the dark

As tears gushed out, the grief was uprooting from the pit of her stomach. She could feel her hollow insides being squeezed for more tears. Not today, please. She pleaded in her head. But she’d not let herself beg him tonight. I just want to sleep peacefully for one damn night. Her eyes shut tightly, she sat under running shower for minutes together.

' You are not going to sit at his feet tonight.' Her alter ego reprimanded her in her head. 'You are not going to submit yourself to his fetishes. He is not touching you tonight, Lil. I will fuckin’ kill him if he does. It’s your birthday, Lil!'

 She lost track of time, sitting on the cold bathroom floor, head resting on the wall, water tracing her lean, dusky body. She stood up with determination and got dressed. Pressing an ear on the door, she tried to listen to gauge his current activity. There was complete silence but the bedroom lights were not out yet. She could sense that he was still awake. Like a predator waiting for his prey. Naked. On their desecrated marriage bed, carved of Padauk, the finest wood on the island, that her dad gifted them on their wedding. 

'Why did you do this to me, Appa? I trusted you with the biggest decision of my life. Why did you give me away to a monster? I am scared of stepping out of the bathroom, Appa. I am scared of the things he does to me on the bed you gifted for us to be happy.'

Spreading the towel on the bathroom floor, she curled herself on it, gearing herself for an uncomfortable night ahead. 

It was four in the morning. Stealthily, she unlatched the bathroom door and cautiously stepped inside the bedroom. Joshua’s heavy breathing could be heard over the ceiling fan’s hum and the realization that he’s asleep washed a fresh wave of relief over her. Dropping the towel in the laundry bag, she tiptoed her way out of the bedroom towards the kitchen, silently grabbing her phone from the night stand. Mentally preparing a time table for the day, she proceeded to begin cooking for six people’s breakfast and lunch. She has to finish the chores early today, so that she has time for some homework. She planned to Google extensively about resort design, for small talks with her client today as she cannot freak him out by disclosing the fact that she has never designed a resort before. Adele cooing inside her ears through her earphones, she finished cooking around seven and walked nonchalantly back towards the bedroom with a steaming mug of tea for Joshua. Her mind was so full of her hypothetical conversation with her client that she totally forgot the previous night’s episode. 

As she entered, the mug slipped from her hand, spilling all over her, searing her skin, as she rushed to stop him. Her laptop was beyond her reach in his hands, up high in the air already. Before she could move any further, he swung it across the room, at the wall and they both watched it shatter mercilessly within nanoseconds. 

‘NOOO’ she screamed and ran to pick up the pieces. 

‘You monster! All my life’s work is in this laptop.’ She cried harder than ever. Her voice thickening with each sentence. ‘My parents bought this for me with their hard earned money.’ She was not a loud crier. But this broke her. She howled, more than she wept. It felt like the end of the world. 

‘You need not work anymore.’ He says calmly looking down at her, staring her in the eye, with no remorse whatsoever.

‘Who are you to decide that?’ She screamed at him. 

‘I am your HUSBAND.’ He screamed back, wagging a thick index finger at her, his tee-shirt tightening at his flexing bicep.

‘Did you give birth to me? Did you dream of my future? Did you pay for my studies working over time? Did you? DID YOU?’ Her voice now shrill and unbearable. 

‘What’s happening here?’ Joshua’s mother entered, pushing the door wider. ‘What drama is she creating now?’ she asks Joshua, eyeing Lilian slumped on the floor with the remnants of her broken laptop. 

‘I just asked her to stop working, mom.’ Joshua shrugged and sat himself on the chair near her worktop. 

‘It has been three months since you both got married and you’re not pregnant yet.’ His mom hissed, walking towards Lilian. ‘Prioritize. Work is not important right now. First, give me a grandson, then you do whatever you want. You get that?’ she asks, leaning in to look into her eyes. 

‘He broke my laptop.’ A feeble voice escaped her lips as she continued staring at her laptop like it was her baby. Dead baby. It was as though she lost her voice after all the screaming. Body drenched with sweat, her face wet with tears, her tired eyes slowly looked up at them both, one at a time.

‘It’s just a laptop. Get over it. Stop creating a scene now. Go get my blue sari and iron it quickly. I have to preach at Women’s Prayer Meeting at ten.’

DIGITAL FUNERAL

What will happen to our digital identities after we pass away? An uncomfortable inarticulate silence answers this question aptly. Multiple Email IDs, Facebook profile, Instagram, Twitter, websites, blogs and million other individually password protected part identities that we create for expressing ourselves and to communicate with fellow digital Homo sapiens; what is their fate? Half a century later, there will be millions of dead profiles on Facebook. Imagine tumbling on a super hot guy/ babe and sending a friend request, only to find his/her wall posts that say Rest in Peace. How creepy is that?! Oh how many old people’s profiles will be up there! Because, mate, we will all be old and still posting our ramblings up there! The Digital Age and its downsides! I wish we arrive at a point where not having a digital identity becomes the new “cool”.  We are all sharing parts of us to be thieved, misused and intruded. Yes, there are umpteen advantages of them as well. They have definitely made our lives easier; but at the cost of what? Reduced life span, reduced brain usage and a million new diseases, especially ergonomic ones. Are they all worth our health, relationships and time?

I say, bring back the nineties. The chivalry. Courtship. Coffee dates. Occasional Rave. Throwing-the-head-in-the-air laughter instead of “haha” with a straight face. Old school thoughts. We are a repressed product of a buffer generation. We live in the delusion that we got the best of both worlds. But the reality is, we grew up only to discover that the nineties are well past us and we get called old school if we preferred coffee dates and text messages over Facetime. And then, drastically, one day we wake up to Nokia 1100. It did feel totally harmless. A telephone we can carry. We need not be home waiting for a trunk call anymore. Oh how handy! How portable! How magical! Before we knew it, smart phones walked in unannounced! Then frequent updates to make things “upgraded” for us. Services upon services! The world shrank. But the people didn’t come any closer. From food to camisole, everything arrives at our doorstep. Simultaneously, we didn’t have to meet him face to face to say ‘it’s over’. We can break his heart over a text, not even a voice call. How convenient yet how satanic! How easy it is to cheat on her! Just carry two phones with two different digital identities. You didn’t meet her. You didn’t touch her. Hence, technically you did not outrage her modesty. Yet you have the power within a few taps of your thumb tip reach, to hurt multiple people immensely. Oh that was just a casual chat, you see. No commitment! Words don’t have the same weight anymore. They have degraded to just inklessly typed alphabets. ‘Men of words’ and ‘Women of words’ are exponentially inching towards extinction. Promises don’t have the same gravity anymore. Broken vows are met with an emotionlessly typed, damage-control sorry.  What are we heading towards? Are we making digital creations or are the digital innovations making/ altering us?! What will become of us two decades from now? Only our digital images will remain. Our originality and individuality will be lost in the mindless decisions of our finger tips. We will be a generation that will be unable to hold a decent face to face conversation without the aid of Google or YouTube. How sorry does that sound?

I “type” this statement distressingly. I just wish we meet with graceful valetudinarianism instead of digital incapacitation.

Xoxo,

Old soul.

That Black Woman

I was leisurely editing my prospective Facebook profile picture when a wonderful friend of mine sent me an article on how beautiful dark skin is. Well, she usually sends me stuff on this topic to boost my confidence and God forbid if someone argues otherwise, you can see the vehemently protective side of her. The article was what inspired this blog post in the first place. I have never voiced my experiences extremely openly before. But as I read it, I realized that speaking of my journey could actually inspire many women and men out there who have been endowed with an extra dollop of melanin like me.

To foreign eyes, India might be a country of perfectly homogeneous brown people, but the root reality is quite the opposite. Inside India, people fall within a broader colour spectrum…ranging from pitch dark to wheatish to pale white. This diversity in skin colour has created a hierarchy of beauty…a hierarchy that claims that the fair skinned people are the paradigm of beauty, while the dark skinned people are plain ugly. I was seriously unaware of this until I was in the fifth grade. My fair complexioned classmates constantly clapperclawed my skin shade. One of them used to sing “kalloo Jarawa Baratang” like a rhyme almost every day on the school bus. The tune still haunts me sometimes. (Explanation: Jarawans are beautiful and exotic Negroid native tribe of my island and Baratang is the name of the jungle where their settlement dwells. You may Google them for visual effects!) In the tenth grade, when I was at a house warming party at a family friend’s place, one girl refused to drink tea when offered and instead pointed at me and said, “I don’t want to drink tea because I don’t want to look like her.” I didn’t understand what she meant until an Auntie replied to her, “You don’t get dark by drinking tea.” And then the evening continued peacefully as the Auntie gracefully smoothened the awkward moment; but I just sat there quiet and embarrassed among a roomful of people, wishing for Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility.

I loathed the sun with a passion. I hated going out. Every time someone pitched a plan to picnic on the beach, I’d come up with clever pranks to ruin the plan. I’d do anything and everything to not go to the beach. Well, to this, my friends from college are a huge witness. The amount of persuasion (sometimes blackmailing) needed to get me on a train to Goa is almost equal to the money I spend on shoes!

I hated wearing white and black. White made my skin look darker while black attracted comments like ‘saakshaat kaali maata’, ‘kalooty’, etc. I hated clicking pictures in a poorly lit room because I knew that while the faces of all my friends would show up in the picture, mine wouldn't  Well, now one of my best friends Anshul aka AnshOle has a huge collection of many such pictures of mine and proudly posts it on social media every once in a while when he gets bored with his totally useless and non – happening life. Well, I comment fake – anger on it, claim that it will be avenged…then I post a nice pimply potato – nose close – up shot of his face…people have a good laugh…call us by our famous nickname – Tom and Jerry…him Tom, me Jerry…chapter closed…no self – esteem harmed…all in good humour. To get to this state of mind and this attitude, trust me, I swam an ocean of inferiority complex.

I was not just a dark – skinned girl in the classroom, but a pariah since I was a Tamilian. To my north Indian classmates, the definition of a Tamilian was this: a dark – skinned person who eats only idlis and dosas and who speaks English and Hindi with a drawling heavy Tamil accent. Luckily, I didn't have a Tamil accent while speaking Hindi or English, so I was spared from any ridicule in that department. Growing up in the Island that is proudly tagged Mini India, I got used to Hindi. In a way, it became my first language, the language I am most comfortable in. English followed. But Tamil was nowhere in sight. My skin colour, the stereotyped Tamil culture and the people making fun of Tamil accents pulled me away from anything Tamil. So much so that I could understand what my parents said to me in Tamil but I couldn't reply to them in the same language fluently. I didn't know how to speak Tamil properly and I didn't want to. I didn't want to celebrate any Tamil festival or watch Tamil movies or listen to Tamil songs. To feel good about myself, sometimes I looked down upon my parents when they expressed their Tamil identity. During most of my teenage years, I put on a mask, trying to hide where I came from. I told people I didn't know anything about the culture I belonged to so that they could think I was just like them. At every chance I could, I tried withdrawing my affiliation with my culture. Because I was brought up in a place where I experienced the culture  of my friends more than that of my parents, I felt the culture I saw around me was somehow cooler and better than the one I belonged to. I now know that it wasn't cooler or any better, but just different. I didn't know it then. Back then, I just wanted to be light – skinned so that I could be beautiful because the message was that anything that was not fair was ugly.

Yet at the same time, I wanted to be just as I was because I liked who I was and also because I felt that the people making fun of dark – skinned people were doing something insensitive and hurtful, that they were wrong. And I didn't want to change for the wrong people. Back then, even the TV advertisements for fairness creams were about the dark – skinned girl failing to get the guy, get the job, and get the life of her dreams. The idea was to make you buy into that threatening future of never amounting to anything with the colour that coats you, and then make you buy the magic cream that could give your life the right amount of pinkish/ whitish glow it needs. If anything has changed in the fairness cream industry since then, it is that today the advertisements are less about making you feel bad about what colour you are born in and more about fair – skinned girls aiming for empowerment and gender equality at the same time being a visual delight to onlookers.

I remember innocently asking a girl at school ‘Your lips are so pink, do you apply lipstick?’ To which the girl replied ‘Your lips are so black, do you apply koyla?’ Well, that little incident happened when I was in the seventh or eighth grade. That cute little girl has grown to be a beautiful woman and she probably doesn't even remember this little incident that is so deeply engraved on my mind. She is a friend on my Facebook Account and I’d like to thank her immensely because that incident mercilessly dug out the other hidden talents in me. That night, I filled my diary with all the hatred a twelve year old can conjure. But as I wrote, I somehow unfortunately believed that I was an ugly duckling and that, if I cannot be beautiful I had to shine some other way; but I simply had to…have to shine! Instead of being intimidated by the fair – skinned bullies, I researched the ways to outshine them in some other arena. I got good grades; I became the first kid in my school to play keyboard and guitar in the School Assembly; I read almost every book in my school’s library and State Library’s Children’s section…I explored my sketching talent, picked on my creative side; I participated in almost all the singing and writing competitions. Be it essay or poem or story writing; I was there on the front row writing my heart out…I brought fame to my school’s threshold. My school was proud to have me. I was that silent girl who was absent minded and knew only a handful of people; but every student in the school knew her name. Most importantly, I didn't let the bullies find the satisfaction of belittling my culture. I started learning to read and write Tamil. I started speaking to my parents only in Tamil. I began addressing them Amma Appa instead of Mummy Daddy. Although I still am not completely aware of everything about my culture, but I am not ashamed of it...In fact, I am rather proud belonging to such a traditionally rich acculturation.

I wasn't satisfied yet. People who had the guts to make me feel small pointing out my colour or culture still existed in my classroom and their bullying was only getting more creative with each passing day. That was when I took this creative lunacy to the next level. I wanted to be seen, yet be invisible. I decided to send my poems and articles to certain magazine competitions and local newspapers. I was persistent. After a year or so, I received a letter. It was from the then Prime Minister of India Dr. Manmohan Singh praising my flair for language English and thanking the gesture of having composed a poem on him as well. At the age of fourteen, I was all over the local news. I had made my point. My school was proud. My parents were proud. Now, at school, before someone passed a comment on my skin, they hesitated. The next milestone was nailing the Island Topper position in the All India Engineering Entrance Examination and securing a seat in a prestigious college NIT, Bhopal. This one was unexpected yet this was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me till date. It was in this college’s premises that I was gifted with priceless friends who made me realize that I was no ugly duckling. There was no particular melodramatic turning point in my life. It was a gradual mutation. I began working on my self – esteem. I swept the space within me where I once had locked up pain. I kept writing about my dreams in my journal. I shut out the voices of the world and listened to my wonderful friends and to myself, and finally I heard what I always knew – I am beautiful.

I taught myself confidence. I learned that not being ashamed is the first step towards complete confidence about one’s self, one’s bones and flesh. So I became open about my feelings instead of keeping them inside. I told my friends when something hurt. I embraced having a voice. I must say, I could never have done it without my friends. They were always there like a family…in every walk of my life. There are few memories that people create only during their childhood; my friends gave me those memories in my adulthood. They helped me with everything that I felt less confident about; not just my skin colour…my flakiness, my irresponsibleness  my carelessness…everything. Right from getting my ears pierced to riding a bicycle to a scooty to a 100 CC motorbike to RX 100…my friends taught me self – reliance. My friends taught me everything. They made me believe that I am not supposed to be playing the supporting role in my life, I am the lead actress of my life and that I am to grow my own spine instead of hiding behind their protection. They saw more than what I saw in the mirror every day. I remember my friends fighting for me passionately whenever I was wronged…be it social media or on the road or in the market square or in the campus, anywhere! And later they’d scream at me for not standing up for myself. They never saw my impulsiveness as a bane. They respected me for who I was. They taught me not to change for any damn person in this world. They were there with truckloads of logical crap whenever I was in the juncture where I had to take important life changing decisions. They were still there when I heard them all and still did whatever the hell I wanted to do in the first place. They were still hanging around when I paid the consequences. AnshOle even has a special name for me – Askhole…a person who constantly asks for your advice, yet always does the opposite of what you told them. Though life sometimes used to get very sarcastic, their humour and unconditional love kept me glued in one piece. Oh, by the way, their wicked sense of humour wasn't restricted to anything; believe me, they are an expert in cracking racist jokes. They taught me to laugh through it. Statutory Warning: Please do not try cracking one if you aren't a friend; ’cause you’ll hear war cry! Together we redefined fun in the five years of togetherness gifted to us and we still are so freaking awesomely on fire every time we meet!

I understood that being ashamed of how you look or where you belong is being ashamed of your genes, being ashamed of your parents and their childhoods, their struggles and their existence. It took years of practicing self – esteem before my attitude towards my identity changed completely. Today at 24 years of age, I am not ashamed. I don’t fear being seen. Today I can reject a saleswoman’s attempts to sell me a new fairness product that promises to remove the “dark spots” (that’s what they call my skin colour sometimes) or make the Parlour woman see sense when she persistently tries to convince me to get that Whitening Face Pack or answer people where I come from without being ashamed. I still struggle with confidence sometimes, but it is the kind of struggle that has nothing to do with my background, or looks, or skin colour. I don’t feel inferior to fair girls anymore. I am not conscious of my looks while talking to boys. I am no longer bitter towards those who hurt me in the past or those who robbed me of a healthy self – esteem during my teen years. Today I am at peace with all that. I now know that if I had the right amount of self – esteem and power within me, then I no longer needed to avoid buying clothes in colours such as white, yellow, orange and black – the colours that people said would look too bright on me or too dull or too ugly. I realized that it was possible for me to wear whatever colours I liked. I learned that if I had the right amount of confidence and personality, I could pull off a neon – coloured top just like Noemi Campbell.

Surprisingly, my low self – esteem never hampered my dream of finding true love. Somehow I always believed that there was a guy who was above the petty concepts of the world, a guy to whom I would not be an exception to the hollow definition of beauty, but to whom I will be an authentic part of beauty in its truest essence.

This colour consciousness among Indians and the resultant ragging doesn't attract much attention in India since it doesn't qualify as racism. Also, Indian laws provide equal rights to everyone irrespective of race, colour, caste, creed and sex. So, colour consciousness is not part of the system or institution. It is acceptable to make a dark – skinned person feel bad about his or her skin colour because being light – skinned is what is preferred and damages to self – esteem don’t count.

India has not changed since I have grown up. It is still colour conscious. Its fairness cream industry is still booming. Strangers still sometimes poke fun or act plain nasty. But now I know which comments to react to and which ones to faze out, for nothing can now change the way I see myself and the way I define beauty.

I now know that fair and dark are not two sides of a coin called beauty. Neither of them are standards of beauty because beauty in its essence has no standards. The only thing ugly in this world are thoughts and actions that rob us or others of love, peace and joy. Everything else is…beautiful.

xOxo,

Jency John Charles.

Architect of her life and destiny.

SHOAL BAY – MY HAKUNA MATATA

SHOAL BAY – the land of my ancestors. Not many have heard about this pretty little village spread linearly in the suburbs of our island territory. The Reverend who brought my people from Myanmar and settled them in the village called it ‘Canaan’ which means a land where milk and honey flows. Take a leisure drive from Bambooflat (a jetty on the opposite of Port Blair) on the road that point towards the less crowded place. As you cross Wimberligunj (the town’s market place), you will realize that the breeze that is gently caressing your cheeks right now is very different from where you came. Its chillness won’t dry your skin or mess up your mane. If you are on a two – wheeler, you wouldn’t want to pillion. You’ll want to feel the zephyr first hand as it softly plays with your hair. And if you are on a four wheeler, you’ll want to take the backseat, roll the windows down, hang your head and limbs out of the window like a happy puppy and feel the rustling padauk forest sing lullabies to the dark mist – drenched slithery road.

As you pass by Shoal Bay Camp No. 8, fresh sun – kissed fields peek out of the landscape every now and then. You don’t want to drive anymore. You just want to jump out of your car and sink your feet into the rich chocolaty soil in the field. I say, ‘not yet, my friend. Drive on!’

Shoal Bay is divided into 19 camps. They are called camps because after independence when people (the freedom fighters released from the Cellular Jail and settlers like us) were allotted plots in the dense tropical jungle, they obviously camped :P The Government numbered the camps to keep track. Well they did create clearings, eco-friendly huts and kachha roads later…but the name remained as a reminder of their humble beginnings.  

The next milestone reads Shoal Bay Camp No. 9. The same view osculates your eyes. Just that; little concrete cutely painted houses emerge from the green canopy every now and then. The humble effort of the villagers trying hard at the baby steps towards urbanization spills a ghost of a smile on your face. As you drive on, you’ll reach Shoal Bay Camp No. 10. Now you park your car. Well, for no particular reason; just that my Great Grandma lives here. The tiny semi eco friendly house is a welcome sight after a long drive. You can go in if you want to. My folks are a friendly lot. When the Reverend nicknamed the village ‘Canaan’, he knew what he was talking about. Take a sip of the naturally cold water from a humble aluminium tumbler that my Great Grandma would offer you. You’ll understand what I am telling you about. Its earthly chill and natural sweetness instantly quenches your thirst yet leaving you craving for more. Relaxed much? Now hop into your car before my ninety year old great grandma starts narrating you tales of her life in Burma. It is a culturally rich interesting chronicle though. I grew up listening to it intently. You can come in some other time to hear the story. Just enjoy the beauty for now. Driving ahead, you’ll cross the ancient burial ground and the Methodist Church of the Burma Indian Settlers. It is quite a sight if you would drive by during Christmas. The whole village throngs to the tinselly dressed Church singing soothing carols. Moving on…you got to drive much further until you reach the end of the pucca road. Now you drive through the thick forest. Brace yourselves! You are in for a bumpy ride. Only experienced drivers, drive ahead. No, don’t pluck anything! It is our forest. I don’t want to go preachy on you but if you touch anything because it is ‘Oh-so-beautiful’, I might change my mind. There! There! Hold on to something. I told you it is going to be a very bumpy ride. Don’t worry, the road construction is underway. Thanks to our Lieutenant Governor, we at least have a kachha road.

Now slowly look around…let the greenery around you imbue serenity into your soul. Close your eyes and revel in the mellow melody of the wild birds…now will be a good time to daydream, you know. After a good hour or so, open your eyes. You have reached the verge of the village i.e. Shoal Bay Camp No. 19. The cool ocean invites your tired feet with open arms. Kick back your shoes and dive right in. A cold dip on a warm sunny day is always refreshing. You wouldn’t want to leave the sea. But all the splashing and riding the waves will make your tummy grumble violently. Pat yourself dry and lazily flump on the fresh dry rug that your mom has spread under the huge tree. Now savour the delicious picnic lunch with your family being thankful for the beautiful life you have been endowed with. I promise, you will call it ‘the best day of your life’ for many years to come. 

~ Ar. Jency John

The Great Granddaughter of Late Shri. Joseph (The Chaudhry of Shoal Bay)