She closed her eyes yet again. Hoping that the dark that shielded the eyes would act as a shield and shut out the voices coming through the door. She pressed them shut tight. Tighter. A bit more. That was the best she could do. It changed nothing. The voices continued. Got louder. Voices raised. Things crashing menacingly on the floor. This went on for a while; and then ….. Silence. Dead silence. She opened her eye. Just the one. A little. And waited. . Body stiffened under her covers. Breath caught somewhere between the lungs. As if she was half terrified that if she opened them both, the clanging and the yelling would start again. But, nothing. That was wrapped up quickly than usual, she thought. She heard her mom open the door and peep in. She knew that it was her mom from her scent that drafted in through the crack in the door and the simple logic that her dad didn’t bother much with the worry that the ruckus he created would wake up his children in the adjacent room.
24 years. 24 years she had lived like this. And her mom, 26. Sometimes things got a little better, but most of times, they got a lot worse.
Her mom is a doctor. So was her dad. Her mom is a mom. Her dad could never be one. He was the one who made sure he was the only one who earned with the hope of buying their love.
She wondered many a times what it meant to live in a patriarchal society. She was too tiny to realise that she was living in a family that was the embodiment of male chauvinism. An ideal example, if you will. Quite a realistic, contempory and pathetic example. She would realise, of course. But to break through the phase where your dad is your hero even though he scares the beegeeses out of you and to discover the reality takes a little growing up to do.
You shouldn’t work. Who cares if you earn!? I am earning enough for all of us. Take care of the children instead. Our son needs you. You should quit your practice and stay with him the whole day while I earn the big bucks. Why do you talk to everyone and joke around them? You always laugh when you are with other men. Let’s buy a huge house and then crib and blame you for the loan I have taken. Let’s also pile on to that by blaming you for not being able to help me redeem the loan (since here, I can conveniently forget I that I am the reason you don’t earn to begin with)…
Words that made the heart bleed. You don’t forget them so easily. Probably never. Stories like these leave traces behind. Like a scar that didn’t heal the way it should cause it was neglected. Like a bad hip that aches in the winter and reminds you of an old injury that you try hard to bury and forget. But it’s always there. Somewhere. Deep within you.
These words played a great part in moulding her into what she is today and making choices that were radically different from what society would expect a woman to make. Ironically enough, the patronising words gave her wings of courage to change things. On her terms. To give a life to her mom that she deserved. To fight for what she wanted. For the way she believed a woman should live.
SO one day, instead of trying to shut her eyes tight, she opened them. Wide. As wide as they could possibly open and stared hard at reality. At what was happening. At the injustice. At the unwarranted and unreasonable chauvinist subset of a society she lived in. Stared at her father. Into his eyes. For a long time. Until her whole life and in retrospect her mom’s life flashed before her eyes.
And then, she left. Took her mom, took her dog and left. Shutting the door behind her.
She had no money, no job that paid enough to feed three mouths. No society that would support this choice of leaving the father’s and the husband’s house.
But she wasn’t looking for approval. She wasn’t expecting any support. She wasn’t hoping for acceptance. She was in pursuit of happiness. Chasing after justice and hoping to give her mom and herself a life of respect and equality. Where the women in the house are free. To do what they want. To eat what they want. To work where they want. To talk as much as they want. To say what they feel. To cry. To laugh! To laugh out loud! Loudly. Louder! Until all the memories of the yelling and clanging were drowned by the maniacal laughter. To be buried under piles and piles and piles of the jokes that would be told and memories that would be created in a world where they would be respected, acknowledged and loved for what they are and want to be.
The first night in their tiny, new flat was commemorated by unbelievably delicious chocolate that she had been saving for a special occasion. Little did she know that it would end up giving her a taste of freedom and peace.
