Seeta slept next to me, nuzzled modestly and fit perfectly against my arm, my side, my hands as I shifted through the night. A skinny girl, I didn't think she was older than 15, and her family calls her guriya, which means "doll" in Hindi. Her manner was so simple and curious, her eyes a dark shade of hazel brown; she did seem a living doll at times. But other times, those eyes flipped from dark to light and back again in a blink, and not without subtle hesitation and prolonged flickers of unknown sadness, doubt, anger.
Before we went to sleep, she gleamed enormous pleasure from painting my hands, and wrists in mehti (henna) and my cooing English, "Beauuutiful. Its so beautiful." Her responding smile held measures of grateful pride and joyful generosity. She looked at her hands, flipping them from front to back, then shifted her attention to mine, again smiling confidently.
The night before, she and I sat on the kitchen floor with Sarita, whose home it was, eating dinner and talking about women and marriage. I told them how frustrated I was at how it seemed a habit of some Indian men to completely ignore what I said.
"I like you very much," Seeta had said, after I had spent a good several minutes blowing off some steam about it. She nodded at my anger with understanding and relief.
It wasn't until the morning after sleeping next to her that I wondered about her age. Her brother who seemed old enough to be her mother, mentioned in passing as we sat on the kitchen floor waiting for breakfast, that he couldn't make travel plans because of family responsibilities.
"Like what?" I asked, having left the States for India while my Dad had back surgery and turned 60 and my sister graduated from college.
"Seeta has to be married," he said as she stood just beside us, her thin, gangly body lightly hovered over a pan of potato and oil. She turned to us, frowning.
"Hmmm?" her tone rising at the end in a bit of fiery apprehension and adolescent denial.
"What?" I said, becoming monosalabic at the thought of this seemingly very young girl being married off in the middle of her schooling. It happens more often than not in India, but this was my Seeta. I looked to her for confirmation, but she just swayed over the pan uneasily.
"Husband? But how old is she?" When I had repeated the question 4 or 5 times, which was the required number to get a response to any question in this family, her brother finally responded, "22."
My eyes shot over to her slender frame, almost invisible under her colorful cotton kurti and pajama pants, and her simple, long ponytail tied at the nape of her neck. When she turned, she still said nothing, but looked as though she smelled something foul and bobbled her head a bit.
Sarita yelled loud and harsh at one of the boys outside the kitchen in Marwati. Sarita was 30 years old with 2 sons, 13 and 11, had married at 19, and housed 3 to 5 other children (depending on the night) in two small rooms and two beds. In addition, another small family with a baby--Sarita's brother and his wife and child--as well as her own husband and at times Seeta's grown brother would also stay at the house, filling it with 10. Sarita ran the women's empowerment program at an NGO outside Jaipur, kept the house clean, studied to finish high school, worshiped Pavarati fevorishly morning and night, and, while I stayed with her, fasted, consuming only chai and water, for yet another Indian festival lasting 9 days. Staying with her, I made the 11th person in her home that night after being locked out of my guest house, and was welcomed with open arms, as is Indian custom. I thought of her because she seemed a real women, ready and armed for the requirements of marriage and family, and I couldn't help but compare her strength to Seeta's simple, delicate nature. I wondered if Sarita would be the woman she is without all the weight she bore and I wondered if marriage would make Seeta stronger or make as little sense in practice as it made in theory.
A woman completely outside the context but between them both in age, I compared my experience to theirs. Flitting around a foreign country with no ties and no pressure except to support myself, often feeling lost or lonely or without direction, I have the luxury to wonder if what I miss is a sense of duty and responsibility. In India, there seem to be a plethora of holes to fill (as well as riches to be had) which could potentially be filled by work from my own hands, but it doesn't seem to make much difference as I am still exiled to the edge of the wild, bursting, and unfamiliar party and war that is India. The attendees begin from a context I have no map to find and not enough experience to trust.
Before leaving their house for the last time to continue my travels, I gave Seeta a tight, American hug in the privacy of one of the two bedrooms in the middle of the hot day, when most of the family was at work or studying. Her sweet heart unexpectedly welled in her eyes and, when pressed, she finally said, "I'm sorry that you go." I felt compassion for her sentiment and melted at her vulnerability and love, but my heart had already left and sitting there with her in tears almost felt silly, as I had hardly felt truly there to being with. Not until a few days later did I feel understanding through and through for her sadness. And more than anyone else, Seeta taught me more than anyone I've met in India so far without saying a word. She gave me her heart in its most untainted form, untouched by romantic love, hard labor, or trajedy. I remembered myself in that state and somehow, it seemed newly accessable and a starting place for something new.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Ooooh Farida
"I'm going to tell you something and you can't ever, never, ever forget it."
Farida looked up at me with a seriousness unavoidable because she's always smiles and jokes.
"One day, you will need a man." She paused. "You will find the right one and I will pray for you that you do.
Her eyes were wide above her orange sari. I let the stone bench, the shade, and a short breeze cool me a minute. She held my gaze and waited for an acknowledgement that, yes, I know, she was right. But I couldn't figure out what she was breaking to me exactly. Wasn't what she said obvious? Something most people wish someone else would tell them? It made it hard for me to take her words to heart; it was the first time I doubted the advice she gave me. Farida is also 24 and was married and pregnant by age 13--a Hindu girl swept up into an Indian "love marriage" (as opposed to an arranged one) with a Muslim man of 20 years--and has four children. She has an energy and smile I have trouble understanding and I listen when she gets serious. But my doubt at this statement, by my estimation, grew from her own.
First of all, how well did she really know me? Maybe there is no "right" man and it's all a decision we make in the end. After all, how do all these arranged marriages work out anyway? Also is she promised prayer doesn't that show doubt on her part? And does it work to pray for something like romantic love anyway? Isn't that almost like praying for a TV set--just another object of desire? Isn't true, eternal love meant to be and the universe is either in on it or it isn't? I thought that was in the cosmic rule book somewhere.
More doubt about this Man of My Dreams is that she saw something in me that would prevent me from finding him. It was that, "one day," as though there weren't already days I thought I needed one, like when I landed in Mumbai at 2am and foudn my way to a filthy, flea bag hotel and slept on stained sheets, greeted by 4 or 5 men with very little English asking for my documents and money. Or the other day when i took off on a motorbike to find a new beach and discovered a perfect seat on a rock with a first class sunset view. Were these times I needed a man? I don't really think so. So when then?
Then again, is this the attitude she saw that would block me from the love of my life? Did I need "a man" or "the man"?
Doing gardening work at the eco hotel where I met Farida (she is on staff there), I found there were simple, clear times when I needed a man and when I didn't. I absolutely could not use a blunt machete to pull three long trees of bamboo fromt he groun, but Sangapa, my fellow gardener with a body any yogi and/or weight lifter would kill for, could do it in a few blows. Then again, there is a woman, many women, somewhere out there who could do it. Maybe even Farida could do it.
Then there were times I just wanted to fight it out. Like when I rooted 2 very larged weed trees that had become home to a planet of red ants. The trees were growing in buses with leaves brushing against neck like little green super-highways to my flesh. Or there was the time when I decided it was my place to haul large slabs of stone and marble across the grounds to set up for a party. What was I trying to prove? That I could do it myself! I can do it too damn it!
So is it when I won't let a man help me that I'm most in danger of passing "the one" by? Is it when I just want to wear something frumpy that I'm blocking my love from finding me? Is it my occassionally apathetic attitude about politics or my lack of committment to yoga or my ability to stuff myself blue and then complain about it?
It can't be. Even Farida added later in a hushed voice, "Love is blind Kate."
The comfort in her initial piece of insight was sandwiched in all that doubt: "You will find the right one." If that's what I want, then that's all that needs my attention.
Farida looked up at me with a seriousness unavoidable because she's always smiles and jokes.
"One day, you will need a man." She paused. "You will find the right one and I will pray for you that you do.
Her eyes were wide above her orange sari. I let the stone bench, the shade, and a short breeze cool me a minute. She held my gaze and waited for an acknowledgement that, yes, I know, she was right. But I couldn't figure out what she was breaking to me exactly. Wasn't what she said obvious? Something most people wish someone else would tell them? It made it hard for me to take her words to heart; it was the first time I doubted the advice she gave me. Farida is also 24 and was married and pregnant by age 13--a Hindu girl swept up into an Indian "love marriage" (as opposed to an arranged one) with a Muslim man of 20 years--and has four children. She has an energy and smile I have trouble understanding and I listen when she gets serious. But my doubt at this statement, by my estimation, grew from her own.
First of all, how well did she really know me? Maybe there is no "right" man and it's all a decision we make in the end. After all, how do all these arranged marriages work out anyway? Also is she promised prayer doesn't that show doubt on her part? And does it work to pray for something like romantic love anyway? Isn't that almost like praying for a TV set--just another object of desire? Isn't true, eternal love meant to be and the universe is either in on it or it isn't? I thought that was in the cosmic rule book somewhere.
More doubt about this Man of My Dreams is that she saw something in me that would prevent me from finding him. It was that, "one day," as though there weren't already days I thought I needed one, like when I landed in Mumbai at 2am and foudn my way to a filthy, flea bag hotel and slept on stained sheets, greeted by 4 or 5 men with very little English asking for my documents and money. Or the other day when i took off on a motorbike to find a new beach and discovered a perfect seat on a rock with a first class sunset view. Were these times I needed a man? I don't really think so. So when then?
Then again, is this the attitude she saw that would block me from the love of my life? Did I need "a man" or "the man"?
Doing gardening work at the eco hotel where I met Farida (she is on staff there), I found there were simple, clear times when I needed a man and when I didn't. I absolutely could not use a blunt machete to pull three long trees of bamboo fromt he groun, but Sangapa, my fellow gardener with a body any yogi and/or weight lifter would kill for, could do it in a few blows. Then again, there is a woman, many women, somewhere out there who could do it. Maybe even Farida could do it.
Then there were times I just wanted to fight it out. Like when I rooted 2 very larged weed trees that had become home to a planet of red ants. The trees were growing in buses with leaves brushing against neck like little green super-highways to my flesh. Or there was the time when I decided it was my place to haul large slabs of stone and marble across the grounds to set up for a party. What was I trying to prove? That I could do it myself! I can do it too damn it!
So is it when I won't let a man help me that I'm most in danger of passing "the one" by? Is it when I just want to wear something frumpy that I'm blocking my love from finding me? Is it my occassionally apathetic attitude about politics or my lack of committment to yoga or my ability to stuff myself blue and then complain about it?
It can't be. Even Farida added later in a hushed voice, "Love is blind Kate."
The comfort in her initial piece of insight was sandwiched in all that doubt: "You will find the right one." If that's what I want, then that's all that needs my attention.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
You Lookin at Me?
There is a war on in the streets, subways, parks, and public meeting grounds of New York City. It is fought mainly between women. I was enlisted on, and I have yet to meet a single American woman to escape it entirely. This fight is won and lost every day, all day long, and often, when there are enough of us to pick up our weapons, throughout the night. We battle each other, not to the death, but slowly wear away at each other and only the wise, resourceful, and reflective make it out alive and kicking.
A typical battle scene will progress in the following way. A woman will be sitting on the train reading perhaps, or listening to music; sometimes fighting sleep or not doing anything at all, when another woman will enter her car. Depending on the degree of insecurity in each woman--determined by how they were raised, the amount of exposure to popular culture at a young age, their own chemical balance, and/or a variety of other known and unknown factors--they will size each other up with varying degrees of interest. Who is wearing nicer jeans? Who has better skin? is taller? seems happier? seems more "together"? The battle is often quickly won or lost, except if the two are closely matched, or one is very wrapped up in whatever she is doing on the train to engage right away. The winner is determined by who is more distracted, interested, jealous essentially of the other. It sucks to be the loser, as you are hypnotized by the other's power, staring helplessly while she remains aloof, cool, seemingly oblivious or disinterested in your attention. Winning isn't so great either, as it feeds the ego but lends no sense of strength or stability. There is always another battle as soon as you step off the train, or someone else steps on.
I came to India, among many other reasons, to escape this particular battle. I expected new kinds of unsettling stares and was attracted to the idea of a new society, a new war. What I've found thus far a fighting style not nearly as subtle and at times laughable, other times quite scary. At about five feet nine inches, of European descent, and a normal build certainly doesn't help me to blend in here, but I've found many women are ogled to an uncomfortable degree regardless of their skin color, size, shape, language, or style. The staring is indiscriminate. What's more, practically any response is inviting, with the exception of an outright scream which will often cause the offenders to run and hide in shame.
In spending time with a wonderful family in a suburb of Pune, I've heard 's stories about what happens every day in their village. A boss in the mob lives across the street from them and is very friendly, smiling and waving at them in the mornings, but inside his home, beats his wife and daughters regularly. Another family that lives in their building a few floors up (the village has recently seen vast development), runs a mother-daughter sex service business, with all monies collected by the father and husband. The young woman in the family with whom I'm staying has a best friend locked in a five year relationship with a man who hits her. She is under pressure from her parents to get married at 20 years old, and her boyfriend has threatened to tell them of her abortion she had while with him a year ago. She is also attempting to finish her degree in biology and work as an anchor at a local news station.
All this bubbles under the stares in the street. It makes me thank god I'm American and free from the underbelly of this foreign war. But I hesitate to believe that things are "better" in the States. In New York City, we battle for each others' attention and a woman's self worth is measured, with a few highly-evolved and admirable exceptions, by the length of her legs, the shape of her hips, the elegance of her walk, essentially, how well she plays the role of "woman" in our society.
Of course a cease fire on all fronts would be preferable. Peace, love, and happiness all around would be great. In the meantime, it seems both wars must first be overcome from within...
A typical battle scene will progress in the following way. A woman will be sitting on the train reading perhaps, or listening to music; sometimes fighting sleep or not doing anything at all, when another woman will enter her car. Depending on the degree of insecurity in each woman--determined by how they were raised, the amount of exposure to popular culture at a young age, their own chemical balance, and/or a variety of other known and unknown factors--they will size each other up with varying degrees of interest. Who is wearing nicer jeans? Who has better skin? is taller? seems happier? seems more "together"? The battle is often quickly won or lost, except if the two are closely matched, or one is very wrapped up in whatever she is doing on the train to engage right away. The winner is determined by who is more distracted, interested, jealous essentially of the other. It sucks to be the loser, as you are hypnotized by the other's power, staring helplessly while she remains aloof, cool, seemingly oblivious or disinterested in your attention. Winning isn't so great either, as it feeds the ego but lends no sense of strength or stability. There is always another battle as soon as you step off the train, or someone else steps on.
I came to India, among many other reasons, to escape this particular battle. I expected new kinds of unsettling stares and was attracted to the idea of a new society, a new war. What I've found thus far a fighting style not nearly as subtle and at times laughable, other times quite scary. At about five feet nine inches, of European descent, and a normal build certainly doesn't help me to blend in here, but I've found many women are ogled to an uncomfortable degree regardless of their skin color, size, shape, language, or style. The staring is indiscriminate. What's more, practically any response is inviting, with the exception of an outright scream which will often cause the offenders to run and hide in shame.
In spending time with a wonderful family in a suburb of Pune, I've heard 's stories about what happens every day in their village. A boss in the mob lives across the street from them and is very friendly, smiling and waving at them in the mornings, but inside his home, beats his wife and daughters regularly. Another family that lives in their building a few floors up (the village has recently seen vast development), runs a mother-daughter sex service business, with all monies collected by the father and husband. The young woman in the family with whom I'm staying has a best friend locked in a five year relationship with a man who hits her. She is under pressure from her parents to get married at 20 years old, and her boyfriend has threatened to tell them of her abortion she had while with him a year ago. She is also attempting to finish her degree in biology and work as an anchor at a local news station.
All this bubbles under the stares in the street. It makes me thank god I'm American and free from the underbelly of this foreign war. But I hesitate to believe that things are "better" in the States. In New York City, we battle for each others' attention and a woman's self worth is measured, with a few highly-evolved and admirable exceptions, by the length of her legs, the shape of her hips, the elegance of her walk, essentially, how well she plays the role of "woman" in our society.
Of course a cease fire on all fronts would be preferable. Peace, love, and happiness all around would be great. In the meantime, it seems both wars must first be overcome from within...
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