Soulful Tales

Observing fresh morning acts on fresh mornings by the river-bed -- washermen stretch out limp sarees and place them on the ground, are wishes I cannot afford. Yet, ever since I have begun to write, I cry often at the movies, I pause longer and I itch till a story has been told. Today I share one from the depths of my womb. It is called, "Failed Feminists" and like the unwanted child, I dare not give birth to it. So long. Sometimes, conveniently I call it "Flawed Feminists" to sound a little less sharp. But, like unborn children, they have a pulse which beat at unwarranted moments. I had to let it go, out in the wild, one with the history of spoken words.

To trace the history of any movement is easier than that of clouds, even though clouds change consistently. The academic papers ended with my serious name, Aamodini Vaishnabh, which soon became Dr Aamodini Vaishnabh. I liked to root out the unearthed, scoop them diligently off the dust and then place them on the pedestal, turning them out after a good haircut. People liked listening to me, and what I had conjured on any occasion. They were intrigued by me, I could read that in their admiration. I never disrespected that, but failed relationships and abortions were mishaps I preferred to keep to myself. Those belonged to the history of one of the un-s -- the unspoken, the unearthed, the unwarranted and to my greatest belief, the unbelievable.

Theories were the borrowed ornaments with which I decorated my findings. Others' theories. Yet, I failed my own beauty when I chose to cover my doormat survival. I did not have it in me to become an activist, who could alter perspectives. I was only a scholar who ensured thickening of books. One of the things which it did not permit me was to write. How I wished to become like Arundhati Roy, to be able to write a God of Small Things and how devastatingly I had to criticize The Algebra of Infinite Justice. So, I kept a serene notebook for my wild shrubs, and let them grow where intruders weren't welcome. Till I found out that the intruders were those who would not approve of my inflated belly. 

I killed my child, it was murder. It was murder. And the next day I showed up at a seminar, gleaming with the intruders, now, warm hosts to my speckless personal memoir, one that did not have any obscene entry on a serene notebook. Such shadows of guilt clawed upon my fingers. And my thoughts, and the interaction between my fingers and my thoughts, and did not allow me to write. I decided this would be my last entry as Aamodini. She is easily flawed without her surname, without any surname for that matter. Dr Aamodini Vaishnabh, on the other hand, was celebrated for more years to come. She ploughed, but she did not plant. 

On nights that are starless, as a writer, I take the liberty to shower my anger on the paper. Without the paper at hand, I sketch on the skies. And somewhere when the crimson touches the prussian blue, a violet emerges, a defiant brushstroke of the soul, painting words that could never be held within pages. 

Aamodini, 2016.