Autobiography Of An Omnipresent Indian Girl

[Yes, you read the title right! What follows is the story of most Indian girls, sadly if you ask me but true nevertheless in most cases.

When we were school going age our teachers asked us to write all sorts of autobiographies; of a pen, a book, tree, desk or a bench. It is my firm belief that if our teachers would have asked us to write one of the opposite sex, things could have been better for each one of us;

For one, if we could think like a blackboard or a chalk, we could have done well knowing the grossly misunderstood opposite sex, and two, given the hypocrisy and apathy that breeds all around, a little empathy of another human would enlighten rotten minds to reason our living.]

Here it goes; autobiography of a girl written by a boy…

I was born in a middle class family in one of the many small cities that dot the confused Indian landscape. A landscape filled with contradictions of what represents our culture and what is foreign to us. A vast gathering of souls, living on blurred lines that separate western inheritance and strong local identity. A gathering which believes in its right to decide for its women kind, just as it believed in its right to enforce the Sati practice, more than a century ago. After all, both were/are a part of the 'sacrosanct traditions' of our culture.

My birth brought unfathomable joy to my mother, a rarity in her life. Ironically, she was the only female genuinely happy by my presence. The others, like my grandparents, relatives or to some extent even my father could have done with ‘the better option.’ Anyway, my father set out distributing sweets and simultaneously calculating many more future costs, I had brought forth by my existence.

Gradually, I was introduced to pretty frocks and dresses which delighted me. These very dresses, I came to know, had limited ‘cute-ability.’ As I grew, these innocent pieces suddenly became obscene, they say! Moving on, I was admitted to a lovely school where I met some other sweet little girls and boys. Some of these became friends for life.

In my seventh grade, I had my first encounter with something strange. There was a boy in my class; Rohit; who used to stay behind my house and sat a few benches behind me. One day a paper missile from behind landed straight on my desk. 

It was a proposal in horrible words and writing. I was terrified and also excited at the same time. Things moved and we used to meet secretly after tuitions. It felt wonderful and scary all at once to simply hold hands and be in close proximity of him. It was my first brush with love.

By the time I was in college, he was already a non entity. I clearly remember the day; I had cried my heart out as he left the city because his parents got transferred to some other place. My mom believed it was some 'girl' friend of mine who was leaving the city. Meanwhile, life moved on.

I completed my graduation with flying colours and went on to do 'Masters in Gender Studies’ from a reputed foreign university. 

This one time, when I was 25, I had come home to my parents for vacation. They had sat me down to a long session explaining ‘the processes' which I must go through being a decent, well brought up and a homely girl. As though all these qualities had all been saved up for this time and will be rendered useless, if not for, what was to follow.

A secret I wish to share at this point; I had met a guy who I looked forward to marry until the weight of what was brought forth on me, crushed my ideas without even a hint of murmur. I was repulsed by the process that I encountered soon after that fateful talk with my parents. 

I felt commoditized as I was put through weight adjustment programme, photographed in various poses and put up on matrimonial sites. The treatment was comparable to an I-phone with highlighted specifications being displayed after grand polishing to make ‘a sale;' complete with columns like height, weight, colour, built-in features and so on.

The analogy might make you laugh but that was the exact feeling running through me during all those days. They say that is how it is, for us, girls. I was never sure about who these ‘they’ were or what credentials they held in ensuring that state of affairs for me. But I rigorously adhered to everything because of all that I was, back in those hypnotic times. 

In my gender studies course, I had learnt about woman specific cultural practices across countries and cultures. Then, I could objectively evaluate those cases as an independent and free mind. A few days later, I woke up to the fact that I was going to be a subject of someone else’s case study!

I dragged on as a mechanized toy conforming to all that was required of me. My dreams and ambitions were going to be subject of many conditions, least of which would be my wishes. All because I was dutiful enough to care; an emotion, seemingly lost on everyone else around me. 

The search for me, by my parents yielded a match, a decent man. I got married to the relief of everybody around and hence me, supposedly. After all, a few strangleholds and some bickerings along the way are a decent bargain, ‘they' say.

Children (yes, a multiple is almost always the norm in India) brought unadulterated joy, just like the one on my mother’s face, when she had held me for the first time. They eased my life by a combination of greater work, responsibility and care, which left little time to reflect on me, myself. You see, getting involved in something you immensely care about is the best way to forget something you had just cared for!

Days turned quickly into years and one cold morning, when they were all grown up, I fell sick. Now, I won’t tell you the gender of my children because I don’t want you to judge them with any particular frame of reference, and therefore, expectations, as were borne by me. 

As I near my last breath, all I can tell you is that I raised them to be good humans. By whose standards, you ask?

Too late, I have already breathed my last…