#southasianwomen

This isn’t one of those horribly romantic posts. This one is one that probably won’t be seen for the one that inspired it, not for some time anyway. We past the checking each other’s social ish.. lol well; most of the time.

My heart feels heavy and I feel like the things that offer me so much strength are now making less sense to me.. I look at my mother’s life and the dynamic that rests between her and my father and it breaks my spirit. 

She is so accustomed to behaviour that makes me want to scream the house down. I try and be the good Indian daughter, but now my silence seeps out of me in ways I cannot control.

So I sit on a swivel leather chair in the living room, with my aunt and parents and think of you.. I feel calm and I even begin to feel a small smirk turning into a smile hanging from my lips.

I didn’t handle the situation as you would have done; I couldn’t sit and bite my tongue. Not meeing fire with fire, but dousing hatred with water the way you said I should. I didn’t do it, I lashed out and stood my ground and the antlers were coming for me. Reminding me of being young, afraid, without voice.

Things are different now; I feel a slight pang of fear but it subsides. A victory for my spirit and a coat hanger for this ego.

Ego Death has been on repeat in my car, Praise the Lord for an aux output and youtube videos on how to install your own “sounds”. Moving on, writing this I feel lighter. Knowing in a few days I will be back in the sanctuary we made together. 

“[Jasmin] All you need in life is love and a cat.” 

By Meera Seshadri

It’s a new house. I walk through its shadows. Moonlight falls on a picture, and shimmers over a brass lamp, calling me near. The tile is cool beneath my feat. I love dark wood. Teakwood, rosewood. There’s an old grace, tinged with melancholy, that lies just beneath its proud gleam. Wood that carries itself like a Great Grandmother. Family heirlooms watch me knowingly, stranger and friend. High ceilings … and lofty, long-forgotten dreams. Memories I want to push away. And then the tears come.

My house in Bangalore is an old house. I went there for a weekend, not long ago. A bungalow with peeling paint, erratic electricity, and a gray gloom that settles into everything. It has been so, so long since the noise of happiness filled the rooms and floated out onto the verandah. I try my best to bring the house back to life. I fluff the cushions and put them on the swing every morning, only to realize the covers are torn beyond repair. I open the curtains all the way, urging sunlight to warm the walls … but the trees are dense and overgrown, resentful of my eagerness. Heavy padlocks protect rooms and cupboards that haven’t seen the light of day for years. That Sunday morning, I sat out on the swing with a cup of green tea. The lady who sells the flowers walked by the gate, colorful blossoms perched in a straw basket on her head. She eyed me strangely. “Indira? Indira?” she asked. I let her in, and bought two marams of jasmine. I told her I was Indira’s granddaughter, only here for the weekend. With a faraway look in her eye, she reminded me of when the house was filled with women, and my grandmother bought jasmine, marigolds, and “even 10-12 roses”. I remembered.

It used to be so different. Bougainvillea trees and jasmine creepers on the wrought-iron gates, always in bloom. Children playing in the monsoon – hide and seek, dodgeball, lock and key. Grandmothers standing by their gates, calling out pleasantries into the evening. My grandfather in his regal armchair, kettle-cooked chips on the table and a weepy Rajesh Khanna film playing in the background. My hands tracing the zig zags of granite countertops, stealing pakodas and handfuls of murukku from the kitchen. Women hurrying in and out of rooms, armoire doors banging, tea cups clinking, sneaky laughter and morsels of gossip exchanged like hot sweets. A house, all abuzz. My house.

But the best time is afternoon. After lunch. When the women make a big show of clearing away the pots and pans, wiping the table clean, and gathering in the living room under a furiously turning fan. Some women have pillows under their heads, hands clasped over their hearts. Others lie on the carpet and read ‘Anandha Vigadan’, a Tamil magazine devoted to celebrity gossip, articles on “home and hearth”, and general advice to keep yourself fair and lovely all year long. “Put neem on your face,” reads my grandmother. She frowns slightly. “No no … papaya … that is the best fruit for skin,” she decides. I shake my head and sigh happily. Their bellies are full and so are their minds, eyes staring up at a ceiling fan that seems to turn their thoughts and worries around and around and around. Then someone cracks a joke. Another remembers a story. And the room erupts into laughter for a few minutes before we hear a disapproving groan from my grandfather’s room. Shushed smiles. I know he loves the banter … straining his ears to hear our whispers. The quiet takes our minds back to the ceiling fan and the worries, but the laughter makes everything easier.

That Sunday afternoon, I lay on the carpet and stared up at the ceiling fan. But it was just me, turning

around

and around

and around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meera Seshadri is a public health professional working at the intersection of sexual health promotion and sexual violence prevention. Although a Bay Area native (and fierce West Coast loyalist!), she has lived and worked extensively across the United States from Atlanta to Washington DC, and abroad in Japan, Nicaragua, the Philippines, and India. She holds a Masters of Science in Public Health (MSPH) in Health Communication and Adolescent Health and Development from Johns Hopkins University, and a Bachelor of Arts in Global Public Health and Dance. Meera is a lover of all things fantastical and unconventional, inspired by the romance of travel, food, dance, and the sea. Follow her on Twitter @MeeraSeshadri