Carved, With Love
My mother used to tell me that, her mother (my grandmother that is) would carve initials on every utensil she was going to give away to her daughters. It was important that women had things to their name — whether it was precious jewels, mundane utensils, a run-of-the-mill husband or kids who would eventually turn from demanding to ungrateful, women had to have ‘something’ with their names on it.
Amma was around my age when she had me. Most of my sisters have chosen to get married in their early twenties too. I am at the cusp of turning 27 and I can assure you that the only thing I have to my name is a very expensive degree from what you can consider “a decent business school” on the verge of a failing economy. A year back when I decided to put myself into debt for going to college, I disappointed many people that I did not spend all that money on gold and an expensive wedding feast. The disappointment was profound because my family had just gone through an unfortunate financial debacle that put us out of business and in a lot of debt.
Have you ever wondered why movies like Queen do so well in India? It is because the idea of a woman, doing something alone, by herself, still terrifies a lot of people. We have conditioned women in so many ways to move with one pack or another — accompanying your best friend to the “ladies’ room!” (even if you really do not want to pee). And therefore, they genuinely believe that a woman needs someone at every stage in her life — a father, a brother, a best friend, a partner, a husband, a son. This is perhaps why even as I went on to do things my way — whether it was college, building strong friendships, or picking a partner — I am always conscious about never giving away too much. While I do believe that everyone is interdependent and vulnerability is an important trait to have, my self-worth has started to emerge from a place of doing things by myself, being comfortable around my own self, and overseeing my own life. I am far from perfect, I will admit. However, each attempt at loving my own company is liberating rather than shattering and crippling.
The world fears women who can mind themselves and their own business — their aloofness almost sets ringing alarms in the minds of the onlookers. Why is she so comfortable driving, cooking, changing the bulb (Or using urban clap to change the bulb) and so in her own skin just being by herself? Is she not worried about her biological clock ticking that I seem to be able to hear from the sofa in my house?
In the years before, there were always these one or two women in the family who chose the unmarried path and there would be multiple taboos around them — a story of heartbreak, a story of a bad father who never cared or just about how unfortunate their life is. Somehow mothers who bred would vehemently believe that these spinsters looked at their families with green eyes. Sometimes I wonder if the dream is really having just a space of my own — a beautiful home, with furniture and indoor plants and tall stools for chairs and my selfish Pinterest board come alive.
And no utensils with my name on it. Why? Because, who would have the audacity to walk into my home and claim a right to the things I own, when I pretty much own everything in my life.
