“Nice!! Pls convey our regards to them and we look forward to meeting them”, reads a message my mother forwarded to me. It is from her friend Jaya with whom she just reconnected after years.
When I was 10, Jaya aunty lent me ‘The Endless Steppe’ by Esther Hautzig—it became my favourite book for years, its pages still etched in my brain 22 years later—and was the only living example I had of a woman who was in a profession of her choice and free will.
“Jaya asked about you and was so happy to hear your updates”. My heart skips a beat as I eagerly wait to hear from my mother what Jaya aunty said about my big new job, about the article I recently published, about the art I’ve been making. “She would like to meet Nelson one day. What course did he do at TISS? I couldn’t remember”.
I kick myself for thinking this conversation would be any different from all the others in the last few years. My life partner Nelson, my decision to never get married, and my choice to share a home with a man outside of marriage, have been the only subjects of conversations around me.
I taste that acrid bile of memory. I find myself playing an eternal game of hide and seek, looking under the cobwebs of my brain for those whispers of validation that would reassure me that I deserve to exist. Momentarily, I am that child, a girl, believing that toe-ing every line drawn in front of me will mean that one day I will be granted my autonomy. They hold my value in their palms, letting me peek at it as a reward for my obedience. No sleeveless, no straying, no defiant looseness of attire or personality permitted.
In my childhood I strove to be the picture of discipline, perseverance, and academic excellence. I was always the responsible older sister, and the youngest person allowed into adult conversations. Even as my mother stayed continually disappointed in my shortcomings, imaginary and otherwise, I was expected to be their collective success story.
Today, I am a deviant in their world. 32, unmarried, bisexual.
“Nelson has a great interest in agriculture”. My grandmother grunts in response to this as she tends to her collection of seeds.
“Yes, she is lucky to have found him”. My mother fumbles to find acceptable aspects of my life to talk about, and my aunt stretches her lips into a smile. My cousin married at 24 and has just brought home a new baby for the summer vacation.
“No no, she will get married soon. Before October definitely”. Nods fill the room as they revel in their collective denial of my agency and choice.
“She was such a bright child. Who could have guessed it would turn out like this”. They all tut and sigh.
Last weekend I travelled back there to attend my much-younger-cousin’s wedding. I had on my armour to deflect their judgement, but unexpectedly, I was met with my own grief instead.
At the wedding, I wore a pretty new sari. Women from all generations started hoarding hard-earned praises for their looks, they all cooed together at the baby boys’ antics, shared surplus strands of mullappoo with each other, gripped the sweaty arms of their fellow soldiers while sharing battle stories of domesticity. The warmth of companionship they felt turned to ice as it hit my chair at the outer ring of their gathering.
I didn’t realise that there is grief that comes with deviance. Grief in hearing once proud voices sour with disgust and pity. Grief in knowing that a whole group of people, all the people who share my connection to that specific patch of land, are now alien to me and me to them. Grief in the distance between me and them, between me and there. Grief in trying to forget the few warm moments I remember from my childhood. Grief in having to distrust my memories that store their warped worldviews.
I sat next to my mother, in evident horror, when she lied about my age, telling relatives that I had only just finished college. My voice, literally and metaphorically, was ignored as it tried to protest. My hair was yanked into place, my sari pulled up to cover my chest, my politeness promised to uncles who slut-shame me. Time squished and I watched my childhood scenes being replayed. My policed body was reluctantly accommodated in their space, and my thoughts were most unwelcome. Unseen, my dismay quickly turned into a surreal stupor and I floated away like an errant balloon from their parade of conformity.
I turned my chair around, focussing my attention on a younger generation, remembering once again my responsibilities as the older sister, and hoping to share with them a different way of life. I asked Indu, my bold and intelligent little cousin, about her job and her life in the city. She told me about her matrimonial profile and her wanting to stay at home. She didn’t ask me about my job or my life in the city.
Less than 20 hours after I landed there, I got on a flight back, fighting back my claustrophobia. But not before I jotted down my rage and tears in the notes app of my mobile phone, not wanting to risk losing my fire in the swamp of my memories. I underline that my autonomy is mine, not granted.
It was Vishu yesterday, and it was the first time I didn’t celebrate it. I still feel untethered. Vishu reminds me of the intimately familiar smells, sounds, and faces of that homeland. There’s a lot in those memories I want to forget. And yet, somehow I cannot help but mourn the loss of the superficial familial warmth of a homeland where I never belonged. They are my injury. And my crutch.
“Tell Nelson Happy Vishu”
I taste the acrid bile again. Maybe I am not deviant enough. Yet.
Urmila is a communications consultant in the development sector. I write, paint, and design about themes of social justice and hope to continue learning from home grown art activism ventures.
