Lesley
Lesley
Aug 8, 2017 · 4 min read

In the absence of scars

Saroja Kumar has lived fifty summers in her lifetime. Her South Indian roots in glorious manifestation as she excitedly ushers my mum and I into her dining room, to serve us dinner she has begun preparation for the night before. As we dip appams in the curry leaves-garnished chicken curry, Saroja tells us how grateful she is that we came over. Her apartment is the only residential space in the neighbourhood, with corporate offices and art galleries for company. The professional frenzy of her locality often leaves Saroja with her pet canine for company. I couldn’t help but reminisce of the conversations I’ve had with mum about her friend.Mum would repeatedly tell me how Saroja was born to be a teacher. Back in college, everyone thought she’d probably even crack the civil services examination. It was the same sense of awe for her friend that led my mother to despise Saroja’s husband. For a man who had made a living out of sugar coated dubiousness, he personified the stereotypical Indian male. Over a period of time, he had developed a certain modus operandi that enabled him to subscribe to all of patriarchy’s diktats, masked by modernism. The very same camouflage had pushed Saroja to resign from her rewarding vocation only to tend to her household, while her husband enjoyed all-expenses paid business trips with his white pawns.

Image is for representational purpose only

Society today may seem to have finally woken up to years of suppressed voices championing women’s empowerment in the mainstream conscience. Café discussions have inched towards total intolerance to abuse against women. About time. Some even justifiably argue that these voices are meek in comparison to the echoes of age old regressive practices that perforce birthed such movements.

However, these discussions tend to get slightly myopic and buttery to the run-of-the-mill ‘feminist’ narrative. It fails to recognize the more subtle and muted oppression women face owing to their ‘celebrated’ virtue of unwarranted patience. When every discussion today revolving around abuse against women requires the ‘victim’ to adorn the table with proof, evidence, accounts and tangible facts, narrating a tale of psychological warfare that leaves her mind and entire living rotten, is stuff fantasies are made of.

Violence and abuse harming the psychological well-being of a woman is hardly voiced and even if it is, the rigorous need to justify its credibility presents the victim with an overarching set of vulgar stress.

My mother’s friend that this article speaks of, for example, was a teacher until a few years into her marriage. But her husband soon ensured she left her job and sat put within the four walls of their apartment. Now the problem here is, he didn’t have to hit her or verbally abuse her to have his way. He would do things like, simply refuse to have dinner all by himself while his wife sat by a night lamp, going through the assignments of her students. On the contrary he successfully made her feel guilty night after night for not accompanying him at the dinner table.

Not once did he have to use the slap of his hand or the swipe of his belt to silence his wife. Because he didn’t have to. He never did. A loose hold over an orthodox set of values stemming from an equally stale culture system was all he required. Just like the umpteen number of men who are guarded by silence and patience by their counterparts.

I wonder, in the far-fetched event that I have a daughter of my own tomorrow, whether I’d want to fit in crucial enough attributes of being well-off, well-settled and well-educated into a prospective groom. Crucial, yes but are they enough?

The article by no means attempts to downplay the demanding role of a housewife. It stands with reason, the rightful shift in terminology from housewife to homemaker. Living the role of a homemaker requires skill and capabilities from a supreme arena. But my problem is this — if the same homemaker wishes to use the same skill set to achieve goals that require her to step out of her home, why should that be a thorn enough for the men in her life to lay down roadblocks? They would probably understand the toxicity of living within four walls all through the 24 hour tick of the clock.

Not the kill that the stab of knife goes for, but the one attributed to slow poison. Being locked up within the curtain adorned walls of a home, not only does it leave the person devoid of any outlet of feelings and emotions but is coupled with the decay of intelligence, curiosity and eagerness to live that a person is intrinsically laced with. Most dangerously, it kills all hope and want to see yet another dawn. Who would want to get up in the morning to greet furniture and upholstery?

I write this article with the sheer disappointment of my repetitive experiences. The article prides itself of no statistical data nor does it base itself on research. But then neither did the pain and anguish I speak of here. I write solely with a dream that hopefully tomorrow doesn’t witness yet another Saroja prepare appams and chicken curry for a bait to attract visitors.

Lesley

Lesley

Learning from life, one heartbreak at a time | Culture | People | Stories

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