MATCHBOX

Cassandra is a series of reflections on international women writers whose works have proven prophetic, insightful, and courageous enough to transcend borders and remain relevant across time and cultures.

 What would history and the world look like if these voices had been heard?

Through this monthly series, I aim to amplify voices too often silenced, inspiring women to speak their truth. My goal is to craft a personal global genealogy of women’s thought—through reading, reflecting, and sharing their stories.

Mandakini Pachauri, poet, writer, women’s activist, and Yoga and meditation teacher of Indian origin, living at the edge of the Viennese Woods

On Reading Malika Amar Shaikh’s I Want to Destroy Myself, translated from Marathi by Jerry Pinto

Until the age of 14, Malika Amar Shaikh’s family was instructed to prevent her from crying, fearing it might harm her fragile health. Married at 17 to Namdeo Dhasal, a Communist poet and leader of the Dalit Panther movement, she endured betrayal, domestic violence, sexually transmitted disease, and social isolation.

In 1984 and at the age of 27, a decade into her marriage, Shaikh wrote I Want to Destroy Myself, a searing account of her experiences, the Dalit Panther movement, and the gendered dynamics within social activism. But the book is much more than reportage; it’s a deeply personal exploration of her psyche during a period of significant social and political upheaval in Bombay.

Shaikh confronts the most challenging questions head-on:

What was true? What was real? The twisted and poisoned society around me? The women who bore rape and abuse at the hands of their husbands while concealing the evidence of being brutalized? The buying and selling of ideals in the political marketplace? The leaders who wore the badge of revolution to cover their price tags? The artists who wanted to live off their art but were ignored and eked out a half-starved life? Or was reality the outsider I had become? Was my incomplete, neglected existence a reality? Was my personal sorrow to be my jail? What could I do for myself? And what could I do for those around me?

Throughout the text, Shaikh’s keen observations often transcend her years. She examines her own motivations and those of the people around her, unflinchingly calling them out with remarkable clarity.

I had one advantage. Because I had not been brought up with any caste or religious influences, because my family had not observed the rites and rituals of any faith, I could observe them all in a dispassionate manner. The man-woman relationship in the entire community seemed to be terribly unjust and unfair to women.

Despite living within environments committed to ideals of equality and justice—both in her birth family and marriage—Shaikh discovered that these principles were rarely extended to women.

My dream: that the much-vaunted patience and endurance of my nation’s women should die as quick and clean a death as possible.

A quick search online revealed something disconcerting: an excerpt from her autobiography displayed a large image of her late husband above her words. Clicking her name only led me back to a thumbnail of the man, a quote with his name, referring to Shaikh as his wife. I was reminded of her own words:

The world of men fills me with curiosity…and jealousy. How different their world is. They can live anywhere, they can go anywhere. And regardless of what they have done, in their declining years, they command respect and good will from the community.

In her autobiography, Shaikh reflects on her efforts to maintain marital harmony, achieve economic balance, and contribute meaningfully to society through her involvement in the Dalit Panther movement. Yet, beneath these weighty themes lies a stream of personal introspection and creativity, where she finds joy in writing—her own form of liberation.

In doing so, she takes possession of herself, becoming the main character of her life and literally writing her own story. At 27, an age when many artist’s voices are often extinguished through silencing, mental illness, or self-destruction, her writing stands as proof of the redemptive power of storytelling, even in the face of failure and disappointment.

Women’s autobiographies are often framed as tales of triumph over adversity. But Shaikh ends her book differently:

This is the story of a lonely defeat. In the time I have been speaking to all of you, I could put down my mask for a while. That’s all…

Her words remind me of Maureen Murdoch’s The Heroine’s Journey, where defeat can be the beginning of self-discovery. For Shaikh, her declaration of defeat may, in fact, mark the start of something greater.

Drawn deeper into her narrative, I explored the few poems available in English translation, including Venus, which begins:

“She doesn’t have arms / like me”

— Venus, translated from Marathi by Sachin Ketkar

Here, Shaikh evokes the Roman goddess and, in just a few words, bridges cultures and eras to express the oppression and objectification of women. The “disarmed” Venus becomes a metaphor for the disempowerment of women, her sharp poetic compression leaving a lasting impact.

In an interview with Mihir Chitre, Shaikh speaks to her fierce independence in 2020:

Chitre: You are one of the strongest women I know. You have fought for your rights, for your existence, for a place in the world. What is your idea of feminism?

Shaikh: I do not subscribe to any school of thought. I do not believe in any “ism”. I think, being a staunch follower of any school of thought limits our objectivity. That said, a mother-in-law who sets her daughter on fire is doubtlessly a person I hate. Also, I am sure that women are subjected to more injustice than men and that’s why I have written more about women. But that doesn’t mean I write only about women. I write about birds, trees – whatever I think is not spoken about as much as it should be. I write about anyone or anything that nobody writes about. I cannot lose my objectivity when it comes to injustice. My responsibility as a writer is doing exactly that.

Shaikh’s body of work spans poetry collections, short stories, and a biography of her father, yet it is her autobiography that has garnered the most attention, particularly for its insights into her marriage and her late husband. Her discerning grasp of social and political movements, combined with her personal discipline, offers a wealth of knowledge for anyone seeking to change minds or the world. I hope more of her work is translated to allow broader access to her development as both a thinker and a creator.

For now, I’ll let Malika Amar Shaikh have the last word:

The woman who knows where to stop is a woman of independent mind.

Freedom is an elastic word. It grows as much as you stretch it. If you relax the tension, it snaps

back into smallness. You must insist on your freedom while still retaining your humanity.