Morticia is Okay

As a kid, as a teenager, and as an adult – I’ve always been awed by stories. My earliest source of stories came from a book titled ‘The Life of Jesus’. I was in second grade and we’d gotten it from school. I was fascinated by it, to say the least. A dude curing diseases, bringing back people from the dead, and walking on water, only to be betrayed with a kiss? What's not to like? I moved from Champak, Chacha Choudhary and Billu, to Tinkle, Archie, The Famous Five, and eventually to Agatha Christie, John Grisham and Neil Gaiman. This was also why I always loved history as a subject in school. I remember people falling asleep in history class and cribbing about how much they hated it because it was so difficult to memorize the details of every battle fought and every king slaughtered.

To me, it was never lousy information to memorize. They were stories to me. Chances are, if you quiz me about Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, King Louis XVI’s downfall in 18^th century France, or how Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination led to the initiation of World War I, I may still be able to describe them to you, to the minutest detail. I was so enthusiastic in Ms. Banerjee’s class that I had half a mind to be an archaeologist when I grew up. My friend Tits and I even made a stupid pact – I would be an archaeologist and take her on tours of excavation sites around the world, and she would become a fashion designer and make personalized clothing for me. She actually passed her NIFT exam and graduated from NIFT Bombay just last year, but I couldn’t keep my end of the bargain. My dad wanted me to take math and become an engineer. Instead, I sat for a law entrance exam, did 5 years of law school, and then, settled for doing what I do best – write.

But my love for stories began even before the stories of Jesus, comic books, and crime fiction. Back then, my sister and I used to sleep with our grandparents, and grandma used to always request Baba to tell stories at night, and he loved to acquiesce. Sometimes Baba would fall asleep in the midst of narration, and either my sister or I would ask, “aage?” or “fir kya hua?”, only for Baba to mumble something and tell us to go to sleep. His stories were mostly your basic dose of Ramayana- Mahabharata every night, but with very quaint Sanskrit verses that went along with the story. I still remember chanting to myself the following verse every time I was afraid to go pee at night:

“Bhoot-pishach nikat nahi aave, Mahavir jab naam sunave”

(Loose translation: ghosts/monsters are terrified of Lord Hanuman and will leave you alone if you call out his name)

It sounds super stupid, I agree, but for a terrified second grader, it really helped me pee without the fear of getting killed by the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

Only later I would realize, real monsters don’t lurk in the shadows. They walk in broad daylight and masquerade as your relatives, sometimes strangers, sometimes even as your house-cook. My first brush of violence was as subtle as my house cook unzipping my pants and flicking his fingers on my clitoris. Sometimes, he’d smell his fingers afterward. I don’t exactly remember when this happened, but it definitely was before my third grade.

I don’t think I've ever felt comfortable enough to share this. For the longest time, I didn’t even remember this happening. Like a protective Mr. Robot protected Elliot Alderson from his trauma, I suppose my brain decided to lock this memory in a deep corner of my brain and only brought it back when it thought I’d be strong enough to handle it- I don’t know. And one day when I was busy doing something else, it just came to me. Just like that. Like a wave crashing on a sea-shore. A brief flashback. Like a blinking torchlight. Like Al-Zaidi’s flying shoe hitting President Bush. For the first 15-20 times this happened, I dismissed it and distracted myself. Then, it would just come to me while I would be sitting in a lecture, or watching something, or taking a bath – only more intense. Longer. Higher definition. I remember thinking to myself, I don’t think it’s important enough to talk about. That it wasn't that big a deal. That it was a long time ago, and  I don’t need to think about it. It’s trivial.

It wasn’t. I was trying to completely deny its occurrence. I was trying to ignore an entire event that was a part of me. I was being a coward. And then, I would think about the Srishti in second grade. One who actually went through it. One who didn’t even know something wrong was being done to her. She was me - she became me. I couldn’t do this to her. I have to remember. I had to talk.

Today, as I wrote about it, I really, really thought about it. And I couldn’t hold it in. And like blood gushing out of bullet wounds in a Tarantino movie, it came flooding. And for the first time in about 16-17 years since it happened, I soaked it in. I remember exactly how it happened and how weird I felt every time he would touch me like that. He would kiss me on the cheek, make me sit on his lap, talk to me, and while doing so, slowly unbutton and unzip my pants. He would keep talking and keep flicking his finger on my vagina. Sometimes, our other domestic help would also be around, but Shobhan used to do it anyway, as if to ask them, “you want a go at this?” I don’t think I remember anything else. I don’t know if anyone ever found out about him, or if I was the only one he did this to. I don’t know if this is the only thing he did because I really cannot remember what else happened; at all.

When I think about it, even as I write this, I stopped for a moment and realized that this might be uncomfortable to read. It sure as hell was uncomfortable to write. I’ve written this blog over the course of three months, and it took so long because every time I sat down to write it, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. It hurt too much. I wouldn’t say it doesn’t hurt today or that it doesn’t send me on a sad thought spiral; that it doesn’t make me mad that I didn’t even know that what happened was violative of my person; that I couldn’t tell the grown-ups what was being done to me. I'm not sure if I feel stronger today, but it definitely hurts a lot less. It’s not that I never tried to tell anyone about this. I tried. But every time I did, I put in extra effort to divert them from the topic instantaneously. This may be largely because it was before I had sat down and accepted that it happened; and how could I tell someone about it when I had tried so hard to deny its existence to myself? I’m not sure if I’m getting the point across but look at it this way – you won’t tell someone you’re a shoplifter if you think that by sneaking chocolate bars in the sleeves of your shirt, you’re not shoplifting, but just refusing to pay for it because you think that body corporates have already stolen from you a hundred times over.

Anyway. While Shobhan touching me inappropriately was terrible and traumatic and disgusting, I, being a curious person, thought about it a lot. Why would he do that? Is that supposed to feel good? He certainly seemed to enjoy it. I wanted to see for myself. And I did.

This may sound weird, but in a way, I had accidentally started to sexually explore myself. In the beginning, I didn’t even know what the fuck I was doing. I just remember that it felt absurdly good. Sometimes I wish we had Google back then. I wonder what I would’ve put in the search. “Why do I feel good when I touch myself down there?” “Where does the sticky liquid in my vagina come from?” “Why do people put fingers in my panties and smell it afterward?” I don’t know. But I think that would’ve definitely helped.

As I grew up, I began to realize what was happening to me. It's not that I wasn't aware of hormonal changes. I'd read all about them. But it's one thing to read about them and an entirely different one to go through it. In fifth grade, I once weirded out a classmate by asking her why her chest was 'like that' (she already had her boobs in). The rest of us were still flat-chested back then. As hard as it may be to believe this, I used to be an extrovert until fifth grade. I was as confident and outspoken and upfront and brazen – now I can only imagine how that must’ve felt like.

Anyway, I was uber confused with why this person’s chest is like my mom’s. I also remember thinking whether it was going to happen to me as well.  Now that I think of it, I cannot bring myself to admit what an idiot I was to ask someone something like that. And as long as we’re talking about asking weird questions, I’ll tell you another story.

When I was still in primary school (3^rd grade, I think), I was sleeping in my parents’ bedroom one night. We were watching a Manisha Koirala movie. Not sure which one it was. I fell asleep in the midst of the movie and woke up to the bed shaking. I was really weirded out, but went to sleep nevertheless. The next day, while I was sitting with my grandpa, my uncle and my cousin at the dining table for breakfast, with my mother and aunt serving it, I asked, “Mommy, why was the bed shaking last night?”

My mother froze for a moment, then replied, “Because we were watching a ghost movie last night, and the ghost came out of the TV.”

I was a third-grader, but I remember thinking that that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard. Ghosts aren’t real, are they? And even if they had to pick a house, they’d pick a more peaceful household, not ours.

I remember I put people in tight spots like that all the time, without even knowing that I was being an asshole. Although, one exception to this is the one time I asked my mom to help me make notes of a chapter in biology. She sat down with me and asked me what chapter I was having trouble understanding. Sexual Reproduction. The chapter was sexual reproduction. That one, I did on purpose. I gotta tell you though, it was fun to sit through it with my mom struggling very hard to explain sexual reproduction to me, with cross-section diagrams of penises. In your face, mom.

In sixth grade, I remember feeling a weird lump on the right side of my chest – which became a fully-alive boob over the year. All this while, I hadn’t stopped touching myself. I think I had just started to get more and more intense every time I did it. I think I’d begun to realize what it was. And every time I think about it, I like to tell myself that I was way ahead of my time. I think my body was already giving me signs of what it likes, and I had started to listen. And while most organized religions will tell you it is a sin to pleasure yourself, both by ways of self or a partner, the Pagan religion has very interesting insights to offer in this regard.

“Unlike other religious traditions that have advocated celibacy, prohibited all sexual expression outside of marriage, and encouraged married couples to limit or restrict their sexual behavior, Pagan religions often reflect the permissiveness of the 1960s-era sexual revolution in regard to extramarital sexuality, homosexuality, swinging or non-monogamous relationships, fetishes or BDSM, use of contraceptives, and abortion. Although many adherents of Paganism adopt lifestyles consistent with mainstream liberal society, those who choose alternative lifestyles generally are accepted within the Pagan community with no need to hide or apologize for their lifestyle choice.”

Pretty interesting, right? I absolutely love how Pagans celebrate diversity in human sexuality as an ode to diversity in nature itself. However, while Paganism advocates monogamy and polyamory – (basically, whatever suits you) it still doesn’t give you the license to cheat. You don’t have to be a Pagan to cheat on your partners, you just have to be a dick.

Over the years, I’ve had a lot of discussions with my body. I never really felt like it belonged to me. Sometimes I’d feel sorry for it, for not being as attractive as the others; sometimes I’d be sorry for what I was doing to it. If I could, I would apologize to it for not taking care of it sooner. For not eating better. For not exercising. And especially for taking those horrible morning-after pills. For not realizing sooner that it’s not about what I have or don’t have, but it’s about what I do with it. I can’t blame my parents for being underweight when they got married or my mom who practically stopped eating while she was pregnant with me because she was depressed about her marriage. I can’t blame the first dude I fell for, for thinking he could date someone better. I can’t blame all the dudes who I hooked up with for not dating me, thinking I wasn’t good enough to be their girlfriend. I don’t blame all those numerous relatives from my fucked-up extended family who kept telling me how I need to start eating. Point is, you cannot blame the excess or absence of body fat on anything/anyone else. You can always work on yourself. Like Shuri would say to T’Challa, “How many times have I told you, brother? Just because something works, doesn’t mean it can’t be better.”

It’s funny how someone’s body, a completely personal asset(just flesh and bones if you ask me), becomes a public object of discourse just because some idiot born 50 years ago thinks it isn’t covered properly or that it’s covered too much. It’s also funny how people will never ignore and stop talking about a provocatively dressed woman’s bra strap or cleavage; but will always avoid talking about a woman’s blood-caked ears caused by her drunk-tard husband yanking her gold earring the previous night. And when I say people, I mean both men and women – because, admit it, we’re both a part of the problem. Women, more so than men, open their retarded mouths to talk about how ‘that girl spent the entire night at a college senior’s house’ or how ‘that woman from the top floor apartment had swollen eyes at the grocery store’, or ‘you only think all men are not trash because you want a man’s validation’ or that ‘you dress like a slut so men would look at you’, or that ‘college girls in our apartment are tempting our husbands to cheat on us, let’s get them evicted’, and while doing so, aiding the physical, mental and societal deterioration of every woman everywhere, including their own. 

I never intended to talk about everything I did, but I’m glad I did. Thank you for sitting through all of it. I apologize if it triggered any unpleasant memories. I sat down to write something else, ended up with something else entirely; frankly, I’m not sure why I even decide to write about this. I first began writing this blog because I wanted to tell you how the smallest of the choices you make can turn your life around; how about a year ago, I felt like I was shooting arrows in the dark when I made a bold decision to give up a career in law; and how a small decision in that direction led me to the most wonderful 50 days of my life, to me meeting one of the most beautiful human beings I’ve ever come across, and how it changed me as a person; all because I decided to burn lavender candles and light lavender incense sticks and meditate to an old Pagan goddess one full moon night.

I feel writing is tricky. You may feel like you’re in control of your writing, but it may be the other way round. One doesn’t just sit down and decide, “I will be a writer” and then become one – you don’t choose writing, writing chooses you. It’s a slow, long, but a wonderful process where your soul begins to form words and starts to stuff them in your head. It’s when you’ve bled in every other way possible, and it still hurts, but when you bleed your words onto the paper is when the pain finally begins to subside.

I, for one, can definitely vouch for that.