Pratap Chatterjee, Senior Advocate, Barrister-at-law.

Pratapda. My husband’s senior. 

An imposing figure, I heard stories about him from my soon-to-be husband. I even had the occasion to work with him and I found him frightening. I will not hesitate to admit it. His booming voice and quick questions almost had me hiding under his large cavernous desk which seemed to be filled with every conceivable thing ranging from churan to bottles of palm-candy to books on medicine and homeopathy and computers. He came for my “ashirbad” to bless me and I dared not look up to see his face. I was a shy bride-to-be, made more shy because of the strangeness of the proceedings combined with the amount of strangers in the room.  And trust Vaishali to start laughing and giggling because he wore a wig. I later came to know he suffered from a rare disease that ensured he lost all his hair and hence the wig. 

Over the years, I slowly came to know him better. He was the rock solid senior we could depend upon in a heavy case. He would ensure he was there at the cost of other matters if he sensed that you were nervous and wanted him there. He never let down his juniors. But that never stopped him from letting you come into your own. I remember this one time there was a serious case and he and my own senior were leading me. On the other side was a heavyweight Barrister. My own senior (another gentleman and a different story altogether) was out of town (as usual) and I was (as usual) tongue-tied. When the case was called, there was no sign of Pratapda. I fumbled, I hummed, I hawed, I started arguing. And miraculously, we won. I ran to Pratapda to tell him. "see, you were ready," he said. That was that.
BUT, if Pratapda was on the other side (speaking for myself), I was mortified and feeling thoroughly rattled and unprepared. I wished the earth would swallow me...
I saw his humane side a few years into my marriage when my husband had broken his leg and Pratapda himself came to our house for a conference. It was unheard of, that such a senior man would visit the Chamber of a junior. But Pratapda was just not any other senior. He was gregarious and loud, he had a heart that he tried too hard to conceal, he was a diamond in the rough: he regaled us with stories that made us laugh and he openly announced that women should never be educated, or be allowed to join the profession! Don’t get me wrong. He came from a very erudite and renowned family and both his sisters are highly educated. His wife too was a member of the legal profession. It’s just that he said it to get a reaction from the women advocates around him! He used to be a mite disappointed when I refused to react saying that then he better ensure he found his sons illiterate wives from the villages … those days, (in the 90s) such conversations were not politically incorrect and we got away with it.

If you go around court and chat with people, you will find that everyone has a story to say about Pratapda. I agree that not all of them may be to your liking but everyone will have something to say. Because Pratapda was larger than life, he was the one with the wisecracks, the asides in the audible hearing of the judges and even the oft scornful laugh that he barely concealed. He sometimes used to complain that work wasn’t challenging enough. He grasped matters quickly and got bored. There’s this story where a client, a solicitor and a junior went for a conference to Pratapda. They spent three minutes discussing the case and forty minutes gossiping about everything under the sun. Pratapda told the client that he was dishonest and nothing could save him. The client went home most distraught despite the assurances of the junior and the solicitor. That night and the next day, the client was wondering if he had chosen the wrong lawyer for his case. Pratapda appeared in Court and argued the client’s case and it seemed like he could do no wrong. He came away smelling of roses, he went away happy, having gotten the orders he wanted and shaking his head out of bewilderment. There are many such stories of Pratapda. He was quick, he was witty, he bailed you out of trouble. What could be more important?

Personally, we knew Pratapda a little better. His father, Somnath Chatterjee (yes, the ex-speaker of the Lok Sabha) had been my father-in-law’s senior, so the families went back a long way. Pratapda loved good food and he didn’t need an excuse to call us out for lunch or dinner. He always claimed that the food at his place was lousy. Once he served tea (or was it coffee?) and asked everyone what it was. Trust me, even now we are not sure! I cannot keep count of the number of times we have gone out with him and over the years I found myself becoming comfortable around him, even daring to tell him, only a few weeks ago that I had been scared of him because he used to bully us. I still can hear his resounding laughter ringing in my ears. He loved it!

Pratapda lost his sister about a year or so ago. I still remember his aghast face as he returned to work, he was heart-broken. Cruelly, he lost his father soon thereafter; last August. I was laid in bed with a slipped disc and could not attend, so I really did not feel the loss. But Pratapda never got over it. He abandoned his wig and seemed more than a little lost. He also hadn’t been keeping well and had to undergo many dietary restrictions, inter alia. Often he would make his way over to our table and we would talk, I would tell him recipes and suggest meals and he would get me to pass on instructions to his cook! He bought every single book that I wrote and read them and complimented me. He teased me about hammering away at my computer in the busy Bar Library and not paying attention to him. He still joked and told his stories but a little light was missing. It was as if he never could get away from that cloak of grief that he wore. 

For my part, I would everyday make my way to his table at some point of time and chatter with him for a few moments. Share something, ask him a legal point that was troubling me, anything. My biggest regret is that on the day of his stroke, I did not go to him. I had been busy and had a headache. I left early, even skipping a rather important meeting because I really wasn’t feeling well. Less than an hour later I heard of the stroke he suffered in the Bar Library. At our table, where he often used to come and sit. I wish I had been there. I don’t know what would have turned differently, but I just wish I was there. 

For when I saw Pratapda again, after his operation, in the ICU, on a ventilator, it wasn’t our Pratapda. It wasn’t the man who laughed and joked and told us innumerable stories in that loud imposing voice. It was a man I sadly barely recognised, on a ventilator: something I am sure he never would have wanted. I was leaving town the next day….I heard what the doctors said, I wondered if I would see him again. 

Sure enough, he passed away a day after I left. My husband rushed back to be with the family as they performed the last rites. I didn’t because I had other unavoidable obligations. I still am away and have not returned home. I still haven’t returned to the Bar Library. I still cannot believe that Pratapda will not come and sit across me and tell me to stop typing. 

The shradh is on Sunday. I will be there. I know I need to pay my last respects to the most unlikely figure that has come to mean so much to me. 

But the Courts will be that much emptier because we shall not hear his booming voice. The Bar Library will fall silent because we will not hear his familiar tread. And I know that out of the corner of my eye, I will always be wondering if Pratapda is somewhere nearby. Maybe the door to the Courtroom will open and he will be rushing in … Or maybe if I look around just one more time again, surely, he will be at his seat?
For I cannot imagine that I will not see him again. 

It hurts to have to say goodbye. 

The parenting journey.

Warning: this is a longish read. Because parenting is like that: longish and feels like it has no end. 
Why do they call it a “parenting journey”, have you ever wondered? It’s a journey all right, but it’s not one of those last minute ones where you stuff some stuff into a back pack and ride off into the sunset… Parenting is like going on a (sometimes long and arduous) foreign vacation that calls for meticulous planning and visas and serious stuff like that. Let me explain:

 

 

1.     THE PLAN: Of course, you have to choose the destination. You might want to be scuba diving off the Amalfi Coast and your husband wants to check out the night life and cabarets in Paris. So you need to come to an arrangement which has a bit of everything. When do we go, where do we go? Shall we book ourselves or get a travel agent? Do we need visas? How much money do we need? Of course, planning is everything. Likewise, when do we have the baby? (Is it really in your hands?) How many will we have? What will it do to the budget? Do we need help? Speaking for myself, I had no body clock issues. I was happy without children. I knew someday maybe I would have them but was in no hurry. Then I got married and met my nephew and niece (all of almost 3 and 4 years old!) and I fell in love with them, I would load them in the dicky of this van we had and go off on adventures together. It got to a stage when I would stand in the shop and fall in love with tiny toddler clothes. (Yes, that tiny little t’shirt that says “trouble maker” or the cute dress with embroidered smocking!) I thought we should plan for children of our own. So we did and sooner or later, there they were. Now you know what’s the best thing about other people’s children? You play with them and have fun and all and you’re done. Someone else takes care of the serious stuff. With your own children, now, you cannot just pass them off, they are yours to keep! You think you're perpared for the little devils but you never really are! I need to mention here that not all parents have the luxury of planning, it’s like going on a package tour where an agent hands you an itinerary and brochures and you have a vague idea of where you are going, but not exactly what you are doing there. No matter how you get there, welcome to parenthood! 

2.     THE TAKE OFF: So you have woken up at an ungodly hour, you’ve cleared immigration, killed the two interminable hours at the airport, your boarding pass and passports are all organised and boarding is announced. You look around, one child is standing next to the water cooler watching with glee as water puddles around her, the other is under the seat hunting for a crayon that has rolled away. You smack one, drag the other out by the feet and board the flight. Parenting is nothing without its share of surprises. Just when you think you have one thing sorted, another will hit you smack between the eyes. You think the breast-feeding stage is over, the bottle-sterilization saga starts. You’ve moved on from Lactogen and Cerelac, but the pureed peas have been pasted on the floor. You congratulate yourself that the Pediasure has gone down the hatch, don’t worry, some of it was just regurgitated on your new sofa! And what can I say about toilet training? I do not think there is a single loo in any restaurant or hotel or airport or Mall or even shop that I have visited with the kids that I do not know. All of a sudden, a perfectly happy child will press her legs together and look at you with such an expression that you will be compelled to run… to the nearest washroom! I recall this time when I left the house with a toddler to visit my in laws who stayed quite a distance away. She was in the back seat and barely had we gone halfway that she said "potty" in that voice that any mother will know. Luckily it was a Sunday and I floored the accelerator. A cop on a bike decided to follow. He finally caught up with me just as I reached a red light near my destination. He looked angry, he tapped on my glass. I just pointed to the child and said 'potty'. He looked at my daughter who still had that expression on her face and muttered something about going too fast and waved me on. Thankfully we made the pot in time.  

3.     THE FLIGHT: the flights are long and cramped. You have planned to settle down, enjoy the in-flight service, grab a nap and reach your destination feeling refreshed. No. There is nothing relaxing about a long haul flight. There are too many distractions. All those movies to watch, the meals, the constant chatter of people as uncomfortable as you, the fat guy in front who has reclined his seat so far back that it feels like his head is on your chest, the child whose feet keep kicking the back of your seat. It's impossible to relax. Parenting is like that. No matter how much you propose that you will sit back and relax, there are too many distractions, be it in the form of friends, pre-school, cuts, bruises or just storytelling. There's always something more to do. I am an avid reader. For years I have been reading, specially at bedtime. When the girls were small I forgot what it was like to read. I couldn't go past a page without a plaintive "ma" cutting in. Other times I was too exhausted. And for those who think escaping to the loo is a solution, banish the thought. That is exactly when the child will decide to stuff cotton up her nose or break something.  

4.     CULTURE SHOCK So you've read volumes on the places you are visiting. You know they have nude beaches in Spain and PDA is common all over the West. But nothing prepares you as you as you round a small dune on a beach in Barcelona and find a whole beach covered with naked bodies just sunning themselves. You are unprepared for the passionate kissing on the subway escalator in London. Of course you stare. Till you remind yourself that that is no way to behave. And you teach your children to pop their eyeballs back into their heads and look away. Children are a bit of a culture shock too. They are nothing like you expect them to be. Nothing that Dr Spock can tell you can prepare you for your own children each of who are utterly unique and react to situations differently. If you thought what was good for one child will be good for another, think again. The only good rule is that there are no rules. Right from their personalities to their likes, dislikes, taste in food to music to entertainment, each one is different. And they will not let you overlook it. They will fight about things you did not know existed (like whether Justin Bieber is better than Zayn Something or the dress that someone wore at Cannes was too flashy or whether chocolate fountains are cooler than softy ice-creams!) till you are shocked into silence and learn to look away! Trivial, you say? Nothing is trivial about sibling rivalry, trust me.  

5.     MISSED CONNECTIONS: Of course, on any long vacation, there are missed connections. Cancelled flights, delays, lousy hotel rooms, mistaken itineraries. Despite the best of intentions and planning, anything can go wrong. And usually something does. At a conducted tour in Venice, the spouse and I missed the bus. After a bit of a panic we reached the gondola station and ultimately had a wonderful experience touring the grand canal before meeting up with our group but that was a happy ending. Not all endings are happy. Having small kids mean not only vaccinations, but also the flu, head lice, tummy aches, abscesses, cuts, scrapes, sprains and sometimes even serious stuff like Kawasaki disease and gastroenteritis and appendicitis and even cancer. What can I say? Shit happens. That’s an important part of parenting; to take things in your stride and do the needful. Visit the doctor, in fact make friends with your pediatrician if you can, chat with him if you meet socially. It will come to use. I remember long sleepless nights of sitting with a sick child; there is nothing quite as heart wrenching. Nothing makes you feel as helpless. The older child was diagnosed with Kawasaki disease at age 3. No, despite her having gone through a surgery at age one to a hospitalization for gastroenteritis at age 2, nothing prepared us for that night at the hospital when the drip was changed every hour as a special injection was flown in from Bombay and we basically sat there helplessly. Don’t forget I had another child at home who was distressed that her sibling and parents were missing. The younger one was diagnosed with cancer. She was older but nothing prepared us for that either. Get used to it. I would not wish it on anyone but being a parent means wearing your heart on your sleeve and having your feet firmly on the ground. One does not know when life will serve a curve ball to you. 

6.     COMMUNICATION ISSUES: So you’ve gone for a holiday to Europe. You have your smile and a few Ouis and Mercis and Gracias and Dankes in your dictionary. You think your English will see you through. Mostly, it probably will, but prepare to be surprised, there is always that Greek shaking his fist when you haggle too much or that Swiss lady who mutters away incomprehensibly when you have not finished all the potatoes on your plate. Raising children sometimes feels like communication in a foreign language. No matter what you say or how you say it, you are better off talking to a wall. You tell them to clean their room, they hear ‘shove the stuff under the bed and watch TV’. You tell them to come for dinner and they hear “start a video chat with friends”. And school is a whole new ball game of Double Dutch. Half the time you feel the teachers are speaking in some foreign language. To my girls it sounded like gibberish, they never could understand anything said to them in class. At parent teacher meetings I used to squirm as if I was in class three again and being punished for some naughty escapade. And teaching them to write? They came up with a script unknown to man. There was a stage when there were so many letters of the alphabet facing the other way that I thought my girls were dyslexic. Trust me, that feeling passes, just like that feeling when you get back to the hotel room after haggling with the cute Italian shopkeeper only to find the same souvenir at half the price at another shop the next day! 

7.     THE SIGHTSEEING: After all the trials and tribulations and fussing and everything, sightseeing is what you have taken this trip for. And it makes it all worth it. Just as you were awestruck sleeping under the stars at Wadi Rum to the sheer magnificence of the sunset at Oban to the chaotic bustle at Times Square to the imposing silence of Glen Coe to the thrilling rides at the Oktoberfest to the serene underwater experience in Gili T, these are the things that remain long after the holiday is over. Every parent has a fair share of these, through their children’s joys and achievements, their successes and their triumphs. Most of all through their laughter and the joy of moments shared together. You will forget what you were squabbling about but you will remember forever that tiny hand that clutched yours when you took her swimming that first time, or that smile that greeted you when you came home from work, or the cheeky grin when you caught her stealing Nutella from the jar! These moments together make everything new again. Not all experiences are all fun, like that time when my daughter dragged her feet and complained that the Grand Canyon was just a rock and she would rather be walking on Fifth avenue. (Trust me, I wanted to whack her privileged backside all the way to Mars!) But all in all, the shared experiences make parenting worth every paisa and more. Hold on to these, share experiences and make memories for these are all that remain, snapshot forever in your heart, and theirs. I remember after particularly trying days after battling the girls with their spellings and math and dinner and routines and what-not, I would quietly go to their room and from the darkness, a voice would call out, “love you, Ma”, little arms would reach out and hug me goodnight. Moments like these make you want the world to stop. But it never does, does it? 

8.     THE SHOPPING: Ah. Everyone loves to shop on vacation. Even a die-hard non-shopper like me goes on a holiday and feels like I would not survive another day without that cuckoo clock hanging in my living room, or that porcelain doll that whistles “Memories’ or that crystal hookah that looks so gorgeous. The girls too love to explore the shops, they have their eyes set of things that are beyond our reach. I told them you can look but we cannot buy. Imagine my disappointment when, in Saks, one child actually told the other that when she dies, some of her ashes should be scattered there! Anyway, shopping comes to a whole new level when you are a parent. First of course the diapers and stuff. When I became a mother a single diaper cost 15 rupees, you got it in packets of tens. I don’t know about you but I used to think Rs. 15 was too much for a bit of poop. But buy it we did, specially when we were travelling! We had a friend whose brother-in-law worked with Johnsons and Johnsons and sent them diapers in bulk, how I envied them! Thank heavens there was no Mothercare and all the fancy baby brands you see nowadays, half my life’s savings would have been spent on stuff my kids would outgrow in three months! Having said that, shopping patterns do change as we become parents. At one time it was cheese, at another it was cereals. I think at one point of time every conceivable brand, flavor and shape of cereal took up residence in my house only to be rejected after two helpings. One was bought for the ad, another for the free gift, yet another because a sipper was free! How we fell for those. And you do want the best for your child, so there were health drinks. The children claimed Milo was tasty, so Milo came home. The doctor recommended Pediasure so there it was. The in-laws said Horlicks was best, so Horlicks it was. Someone swore by Complan, do you think I wanted to deprive my child? No way! Of course, don’t even ask about what happened to it all, but early on, the budget went through the roof. As they grew their needs changed. Chocolates, marshmallows, cocoa, peppermint, chips, Maggi, Thumsup, popcorn, pasta, bhujia, the list never ended. It became a part of life. I only realized it fully after the children left home for college. I went grocery shopping and bought only the necessities. The shop-keeper gave me a sad smile, “the girls are away,” he said. And of course, girls and their clothes shopping! I’m not going there at all as it would justify a whole new blog-post but it beats me how such tiny strips of cloth masquerading as ‘tops’ can cost so much!

9.     THE FOOD: You visit new places, you try their food. But of course. Why go to Jordan if you will not taste the Maqloba? Or the macaroons in France, or the black pudding in Scotland or the Paella in Spain? It’s like going to Kashmir and not having Kahwa! Parenting is also largely about food. At first you are only trying to get them to eat, then you are trying to get them to develop a taste for food, then you are trying to get them to eat what they ordered and stop wasting their own food and eating your food. And lastly its only about food. I remember there were days on end that I only ate their leftovers, by the time I finished theirs, I had no space for whatever I had wanted to eat! Nowadays too, life centers around food. We can also blame social media and TV for that. In the lockdown whether a day will go well or not depends on what will be served for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. One wants cookies, the other wants cake. One likes kadhi, the other will only pick at it. One loves mutton, the other is bored. The other day we made muttar paneer at home, everyone agreed it was good. I told the maid to make it again today. (I’m also running out of ideas). One daughter suddenly declared at the lunch table that, “if I see muttar paneer again, I will throw up!” Ouch. When they were small and they said they did not like something I used to sternly tell them that I asked them to eat it, not like it. Apparently that does not work anymore! 

10.  EXHAUSTION: That wonderful much awaited vacation is almost over. Your camera is bursting with captured moments, your heart is full of memories, you have shopped for all it is worth and your suitcase is full of souvenirs and stuff that you have bought for yourself, friends, relatives and others and you are frantically trying to stay within the weight limit. There is a feeling of happy exhaustion. To looking forward to going home. Remember that feeling? That’s parenting too. You go through the bad grades and sports days and report cards and investiture ceremonies and school plays and choir concerts knowing that one day the children will fly the nest. It’s a happy exhaustion. You have given it your all and done what you were meant to do. You may not know it but you have been waiting for this day from the beginning: for when your children will let go of your hands and fly on their own wings and test their own strengths. The world waits for them, you wait in the wings, ready to catch them if they fall, in case they need you again. Its not exhaustion, really although it may feel that way sometimes. Its happiness. Mingled with sorrow. A bitter-sweet joy. 

11.  HOMECOMING: Finally, you have made it through the security checks and duty-free shops and you come back home. Your fancy vacation is over and you have unpacked all your stuff and life is returning to normal. You have discovered that there is no place like home and one’s own bed is the most comfortable place where one can rest one’s head. You love the soft contours of your pillow, the blanket is familiar and slips on you comfortably. But don’t get too comfortable. Children grow up and leave home but keep coming back. Look at my two. As I keep saying they went away to college only to complain that they miss home and finding any excuse to come back. With the pandemic and the national lockdown I can’t even complain. I feel for those mothers whose children are stuck in places far from home, no matter how grown up they may be. For our children will always be our children and nothing can still the worried heart of a parent, whether the child is 5 or 50! It’s a lifetime job, no holidays, no respite. They say it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Parenting is something like that. The journey twists and turns and takes you through a roller-coaster of emotions and experiences that you never thought you would have but don’t forget to stop ever so often and enjoy it. For children will grow up and children will leave home but they will keep returning and your lives will be richer for it.

 

 Long live the journey!

Worry lines...

I have been ignoring this blog for too long. I've been busy scheduling posts elsewhere (I have been too lazy to post all the links here) and writing poetry and this little sliver of light has been dwindling away in the corner.
In the meantime, a lot of water has flown under the bridge. One girl (Isha) has actually cleared her board exams and managed to go away to college in Pune. Yes, she seems to have settled in nicely with her hostel and classes. The younger one (Amisha) is poised on the brink of her half-yearly exams and soon shall be taking her boards as well. If all goes according to plan, by this time next year she too will be studying in some college away from home and I shall be wondering whose head I can chew up next!
Predictably, Amisha continues to give me a lot of grief... I never see her studying, she is always chattering with her friends or watching some stupid "Blacklist" on Netflix or up to no good on whatever is the trending app of the day! But you know what? I've learnt to just smile it away. Isha always complained that she got all the brunt of my anger and I was much more relaxed when it came to Amisha and I finally think she might have been right. After going through the throes of dragging one child up I guess we are better equipped (read calmer) to handle the second one!
Having said that, I've also been learning a lot from the girls. They are now at an age where I can have a half decent conversation without either of us flying into a screaming rage and they enrich and scandalise me with snippets of their lives. Amisha is now writing a blog (!!!!) and I find her ideas innovative and interesting... despite the fact that her cellphone has now become an extension of her hand! Isha of course is far away and what they say about distance making hearts fonder is completely true. She is also coping on her own, had to visit a dentist without me being there to hold her hand and all in all I'm quite ready to pat myself on the back and say that I can almost see the finishing line!!!
Almost. Because don't forget there's a whole round of college entrance tests etc yet to be scheduled and poked at.
Poked at because you know teenagers. There's a slew of emails from the school regarding college entrance and when I ask she all she does is shrug and say, "Chill." You bet!!! This morning I asked her which colleges she will be applying to and she mumbled two names and there I was having a cardiac arrest because we all know about the rat race and the stiff competition to get into these places. I suspect this girl actually derives intense pleasure from seeing the worry lines on my face!
My bad back has ensured I am in bed most of the time. In a way that is a blessing for Amisha, I cannot hound her as much as I want to, lying in bed and calling for her is no competition to plonking myself in her room and eating her head and she knows it! She also runs away to the guest room to "study" because then she cannot hear me when I call. I am so tempted to get a remote bell.
So I read books and I think. I also worry about all the things I could have told Isha but didn't... you know those pearls of wisdom, like potato cooks faster if there is no tomato or sour thing in it? That if oil catches fire she should never pour water on it? Like if she rides pillion on a bike theres that little thing you put your foot on, she should not drag her feet about like I've seen people do?
So I groan and grunt and get up and go and tell Amisha. She looks at me like I just grew a second nose!

I swear, I have worry lines running up my arms because of these two! 

To Isha.

Words are superfluous

They roll off my tongue

Like the sweat on a labourer's back

Toiling in the midday sun.

Over and over words failed me

When I first held you on my breast

Unimagined pain, unbridled joy

As you wailed your first little breath.

Words were never adequate

Watching you evolve

From tiny steps to hands that let go

Rippled images that quickly dissolve

Yet my words reached you

I feel them in your heady laugh

Sharp and warm, there were a lot of those

Yet I wonder, were they enough?

You wait for my words

You are certain they will be there

Another throw of hands, another shrug

This mother 'wisdom', another lecture.

But words tire me now

They strip bare this old soul

Forever searching this weary heart

For words that will keep you whole.

I wish I had the magic words

That would keep you forever safe

But I only have only the words I left unsaid

Silence to heal when life will chafe.

Go then, I hold no words for you

Content to watch you take flight

For fly you must and fly you will

On wings that will carry you through the night.

Thoughts from a vagina. 

I am a woman and I have a vagina.

Did I just make you uncomfortable?

That's the idea.

You know, last night I went to watch a performance of the Vagina Monologues (Bangla) by The Shriek of Silence at the ICCR as part of the Youth Theatre Festival 2018 in Calcutta. Actually it does not really matter who performed or why or where. Neither am I here to discuss or laud Eve Ensler as an activist or her ground-breaking attempts to globally stop violence against women. You will get all that on the internet. I am here to talk about my reactions, my fears and my hopes: as a regular working woman, as a woman in her late forties, as a mother of teenage girls poised to fly, as a mature woman with no time for people who judge her, and also as a woman, who, by reason of her profession, is well aware of and acquainted with the awful violence (subtle and not-so-subtle) perpetrated on women every day.

Yes, the Vagina Monologues make you think. Of yourself as a woman, of other women , of your mothers and daughters and thousands of women you have known, perhaps closely, perhaps fleetingly, who have shaped your life.

There is much that resonated with me. You know, at first I was hesitant to go when I heard it was in Bengali. I admit that I am not as fluent in my mother tongue as I should be. I confided in a friend and she laughingly told me I should carry a dictionary, in case I needed it. Turns out, throughout the ninety odd minutes of the play that had me glued to my seat, there was not a single vernacular word that I did not understand. You do not need a language to understand when another woman speaks, you only need a heart. I know it was all playacting, but why then did the words of those women stay with me long after I left the theatre? Was it only because I knew that this was no fiction but the real words of women across ages and times and continents?

I remembered so many things that we hide within ourselves. Like when I got my first period. I have never told anyone but my girls about it. Or maybe I have. Maybe it's not relevant. Maybe nobody cares. Or maybe THAT is what is wrong with our society. The fact that nobody cares.

I found myself reliving each of those times in the labor room when I gave birth to my two daughters. I remembered once again the joy that burst through me when I held that blood slicked body of my first-born in my arms. I remembered being oblivious to the surgeon's needle in me for there had been no time for an anesthesia when my second child was born, she was a week early and chose her own pace (she still does). I also remembered the horror of a PAP smear, it was the first time I ever called a friend just to sit by my side and hold my hand for a stupid test. I remembered feeling small and helpless when I was groped on the road, I remembered the safety-pins and elbows that were never enough to keep us safe. I remembered every client or friend who has cried to me that she has been molested or beaten by her husband, I remembered the drug induced smiling eyes of the pretty prostitute I chatted with on the streets of Pattaya, the one who taught me locusts are tasty too! I remembered those women on the supermarket aisles urging me to buy V-wash. AND then I remembered the harsh lights of the OT and the gynecologist smiling down at me and telling me I was doing the right thing. "God will bless you," he said, his exact words. So did He?

Did He bless all of the other women too, when he gave them vaginas?

What about the woman who is forced to have sex with her husband even when she does not want to? What about the one that got raped and thrown by the roadside, the ones that are abandoned after childbirth? What about the 18 month old baby, did you read about that? How wondrous and enticing was that mound of flesh on that tiny girl? It doesn't matter if it was in India or Pakistan or in Timbucktoo, do spare a thought for the teenager on the bus, the hands that grope her and violate her in the crowd. You know, we cannot forget, we cannot let ourselves forget. We need to think about these things, we need to remember. I won't even mention sticks or rods or glass bottles, I promise I won't talk about how the bodies were dumped. Forget the cases you read in the newspapers. Read your own life. Read the lives of the women around you. 

In a book I read by Stephen King as a teenager, I remember there was this expression: "Woman: a life support system for a c**t." Indeed.

From a very early age, women are conditioned to be suppliant, to play second fiddle, to place the needs of others before theirs. Why do women have to prove their worth, either by bearing male children or by earning or by career? Men prove themselves just by being born: they are worthy. Women, on the other hand are constantly being judged. It is not enough to be "just" a housewife. If you have a career, aspersions are cast on your home. Are the children being looked after? Ooh, obviously, she has to keep three maids. She? Her mother-in-law takes care of the children! Have you seen how messily they live? She cannot cook, can you imagine! If the child is unwell, or does badly in studies, everyone looks accusingly at the mother, so THAT's what happens when you are a working woman, see, she cannot even look after her children! Being a woman is like 'heads you win, tails I lose', there's just no way out. People love to point fingers and of course, the woman is to blame. 

And in addition, women are judged on the way they look. The colour of the skin, the contours of the hair, the size of the breasts, the dent of the stomach, the curvature of the thighs, everything is up for scrutiny. On the other hand, the man may be stick-like or paunchy, hairless or beady eyed, sport hair like King Kong or have breasts the size of Madh Island, he is still a prize catch. Just because.

No, don't stop caring. But do find a balance. Stop, pause and think. Find time for the things you love, for things that matter to you. Laugh with your friends, take time out alone, make time to explore yourself and your needs and teach the women you know and your daughters to do the same. Make sure you look back one day and are happy with the woman you are and not just a receptacle for the whims of men!

Eating the worm.

The early bird eats the worm. That's nourishment, and opportunity. The fish eats the worm on a hook and is captured. That means death, being served on someone's plate for their nourishment. The tequila drinker who eats the worm: he is wasted, there is no nourishment there.  Then there's that children's rhyme that goes "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I'll go eat worms…" that’s not really born of a fear of not belonging, of desperation, of loneliness despite what you think; it is typical to the sort of delightfully disgusting  things that children get pleasure out of. Yes, those eensy, weensy, squeensy, wriggly, squirmy worms: nourishment for the child in you. And while you're at it, do spare a thought for the poor worm, so low in the pecking order: the early worm always gets eaten!

My poems are like that. They are happy and sad, born of joy and protest, written with care and thoughtlessness: some may provide your  soul with nourishment and some may make you squirm....

To order, please go to any of the following links.( Or you could just search "Ipsita Banerjee Eating the worm" in the amazon link closest to you!)  

In India, the link is: https://www.amazon.in/Eating-Worm-Poems-Ipsita-Banerjee/dp/1979921369/ref=sr_1_4_twi_pap_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511936697&sr=8-4&keywords=Ipsita+Banerjee

In UK, go to https://www.amazon.co.uk/Eating-Worm-poems-Ipsita-Banerjee/dp/1979921369/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1511873711&sr=8-2&keywords=ipsita+banerjee

And in the the US, https://www.amazon.com/Eating-Worm-poems-Ipsita-Banerjee/dp/1979921369/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1511936638&sr=8-2&keywords=Ipsita+Banerjee

Come, let's eat the worm!