Ahead.

So girl, what the hell. 

Put on that red lipstick, 

play that music, 

do a little dance, 

hold that wine glass steady, 

and 

walk right back into the scene...

There is going to be a tomorrow, 

There would be love,

There would be friends who care,

And none of that nonsensical fare.

Stride right in, love.

You're strong, 

there are other battles you won,

There is love ahead,

Go ahead, make that next mistake.

For it makes you, you.

Lovely, mysterious and honest.

Show that heart out.

Let the wolves eat it.

But you would grow it back.

Like you always have.

Silence now. Go! Now.

What's the Worst That Could Happen

I am an extremist - I cry and laugh silly. I get angry silly, and lose my mind over little things that probably don't matter, till someone points it out. Lately, I have been on this roller coaster, partly because it is tough to reason out my emotions with myself, and partly because I think I am losing myself in the mutt of things happening around me. Then, there are times I feel I am probably sane, and others are craving, snatching, proving, fighting, not know what the point of doing all that is. And then, I think, maybe I am the insane one - is my Zen like calm within me, coming out like different avatars, and affecting people around me?

The reason for this post, is another. In my recent conversations, with one of the best people I have in life now, he said, in an attempt to calm me, "What is the worst that could happen...". These words was a shock for me at first, because of the sheer unpredictability it brought along, and two, I would have to let go - which is so not me and my controlling self. As much I let my crazy mind fly to the heavens and rake a hell on earth, I don't let loose of my chain of actions - they are measured, wary, conscious, and very, VERY controlled.

So, these words, as cool as they sounded, liberated me of a deep need to control. Probably it was the way it was said, and I am sure whoever said it did not see too much into it, at that point. But for me, when I started applying it, everyday, to everything, I was calmer, and a lot less worried about what could go wrong.

So now, every time a situation comes up, I take a step back, breathe, and ask myself - "What's the Worst That Could Happen?"

Thank You, AK.

That Little Girl Has Grown Up, Finally!

Why is this being written now? Years after the ghosts have been exorcised from within, why now? Simple, I relate to that little girl, what she went through, and what she would go through rest of her life. Insecurities, mistrusts, fear, need for reassurance, over thinking – these are terrible things to hold within, it would take many years, many people, many experiences, to get rid of these from within.

I loved playing grown-up when I was little. Wearing sari, wrapping a blanket over my skirt, tying a piece of towel around my head pretending I had long hair, playing with my doll that would close her eyes when I put her to sleep. My father had gotten me a small handbag, which I would hang on my shoulder, and run like my mother always did to catch her bus. I was a single child, I invented my games, and learnt to talk to my dolls, and pretend there were people around. Till he came into our house. He was the cousin, my father’s sister’s son. He was big, many years bigger, and I don’t know how old he was then. With both my parents working, it was a boon to have him in the house. During daytime when I went to my school, he would go for his electrician course, and would come and pick me up in the afternoon when my bus dropped me. He always smelt of paan. He would get me bananas and sweet lime soda from Appoopan’s (grandfather) small shop. In Appoopan’s shop, my father deposited money every month, so my banana and lime soda is taken care of after school. I would hold my cousin’s hand, and hop, skip, jump, till we got home. I don’t remember if I ever spoke anything to him during our walk back. After reaching home, he would help me get into my favorite white frock with small blue, red and yellow flowers, (which I insisted to wear everyday, and many wars between my mother & I took place...), and then I am allowed to pick my favorite game. 

Excited like a buzzing bee, I chose to sit with my dolls, and play house-house, or teacher-student. Till he told me about a new game called father-mother. He would be the father, and I would be the mother, and the dolls were our children – just like I was to my parents. It was our little secret because I am a big girl, and big girls kept secrets. I would get him tea, like my mother did, and cook with my steel kitchen set, like my mother did. We would sleep on the bed like my parents did. He touched me, and I asked him if my parents did, and he said, all parents do, and it was part of the game. Everyday, he would want to play this game, and I was getting bored. I got threatened that I am a bad girl and a bad mother to my dolls. I told my mother one day, that my cousin peed under the bed – and she said I was making up a story. She asked him I presume, because he was more forceful later. I was told to do "things" - only those I remember now with a shudder and shock. It went on, for years, I forget the number. The scars remained.

Till I was in my ninth standard, I carried the secret with me, till I read about what had really happened to me. I was scarred, violated, my body was used against my will – I sat my parents down and told them what had happened. I was let down, when they sat there numb listening to me. I was told not to bring it up, I was told to forget it, and move on. Little did they know how much it had scarred me, how much of it was going to live with me, how much of it would become my worst nightmare and source of my terrible insecurities in years to come.

Have I forgiven him? No, Never. I am not large-hearted. I am human. But beyond that, have I forgiven my parents – No, Never. I still have my anger against them – but according to them, they were trying to protect me from society. What they did not think of, was protecting me from myself – my fear and anxieties. How I wish they had told me to fight back, and given me courage to do so, instead of telling me “what would others say, if they heard it.” How I wish, they had understood how traumatized I was. 

That's where I drew my strength from. So what; it was my life, and I owed that courage to myself. Didn't I?

Today, I feel happy when thousands of parents stand up for the rights of their children, and fight for justice. In all that you do in your fight for justice, dear reader, think of her, her little dreams, dolls and doll houses, that childhood that she would hate, and the smells that would haunt her forever...she needs you too, just like I needed someone too…

I said earlier, that the ghosts were long exorcised. No, I realize now. They live within me, my insecurities start there. The 4 year old me, peep from within, and tell me, ‘it’s ok, and you will be fine now.” I would try and believe it, for now.

[It took me immense courage to write this down. I re-read it a million times, maybe. But I had to, for her, and for me.]

Letting It Go (As published in Tehelka)

The reasons seem pretty silly now, as I look back. But back then, for an 18-year-old, they were very strong reasons to have lost hope forever. My parents were not very educated. They were, as we call them in India, ‘middle-class’, working to earn a living, without the cushion of any great legacy of wealth or power. But none of that stopped them from giving me a good education in a premium institution where I studied with children who boasted of a much more illustrious lineage than mine. What my parents also did was to let me follow my dream to study English literature. However, what they did not do, was choose to tell me the truth. The truth that pricked my subconscious every once in a while, but one which I brushed aside always.
But it got unbearable after a point — the differences of culture, thinking, behaviour. I was so different from all of them around me, my own family. The contrast kept gnawing at me all the time and eventually one day I screamed at my parents.

Sobbing, trembling, my mother told me, “Yes, you are right, you are adopted.” I had known all this while, of course, but now it was no longer unsaid. I was not prepared for this part of my life to come out in the open like this and didn’t know how to react. I didn’t know how to reconcile with the naked truth.

So here I was, 18 years old, rebellious, not wanting to live, tired, let down, cheated… and most importantly, unwanted by someone as soon as I was born. It killed me inside each day. I lost my zest for life.

I used to be the first bencher in my class, eyes shining and catching every word from the teacher’s mouth as they fell. But all that changed. Tears now rolled down uncontrollably without stopping. I didn’t know how to stop them. One of my teachers noticed, and called me to his room. I told him. I shared my misery, my sense of failure, about being cheated. He listened carefully and finally, he said, “Think of what you have now. Forget about what you lost.” Was it easy for him to say it? Yes. But was it as simple as that? Perhaps, it was. I decided to try living my life by forgetting the losses of the past and concentrating on what I did have at the moment. Then I realised my debt to the people who chose me over the other baby born with me — a boy. They were not educated enough perhaps, but they knew they wanted a girl. I knew I had to repay the debt. Though it was silly of me to even try I guess.

Life moved on after that. I studied hard, and stopped thinking too much about it. But I still had to go far — distance myself from the emotional turmoil that engulfed my nights. I left my hometown on the pretext of studying further, which I fully intended to, as well. I knew I had to stay away — be myself, and carve out my own identity. What I did not realise was, how I would look at elderly women in buses, trains, on streets and search for an identity that echoes my own in someway. That search continues still… but now I am comfortable being me. I am comfortable sharing a bond with the people who chose me. I am able to neutrally think of adoption as an act of want, rather than an act of rejection.

It bothers me at times still. But I am much more courageous. Which is why it was so important to address this niggling question of self-identity. At my lowest, I cry out aloud for the biggest rejection in my life. But then I coax myself soon after — I have done myself proud. Another year to being 30, and I know the truth which has made me grounded. I know deep within — I am me. I can finally feel the sense of relief I have craved for, the desire to come out of the shroud of self-doubt that enveloped my childhood has been satiated at last. I once stood on the crossroads of life wondering which would be the best way forward. Now I know.

LINK TO TEHELKA ARTICLE

Wearing a Burqa

We live in a premium apartment in Bangalore, where the educated and upper middle class live. My maid, Roohi has been working with me for the past eight months now. She comes twice a day - in the morning to help clean the house and evening to make rotis. Sometimes, in the evening, I chop the veggies for the night, while she makes the rotis, and in my Hindi and her Urdu, we manage a conversation surrounding food.

Of late, Roohi has been looking tired, and today I asked her the reason. They have been asked to move out of her in-laws place, her husband lost his job, and now, she does not have money to buy ration for her kids and husband. I gave her some money, and asked her if she was willing to take up a job in one more house. Her answer was this: "I went to many places asking for a job. But when they see my burqa, they say they don't want me to work for them."

I was angry, agitated, and a certain remorse and disregard for this society nagged me from within. These are educated people. People who go to premium institution. People who work in multinational companies. Would they have a problem if their manager was a Muslim? Would they have a problem if they worked in UAE under a sheikh? Why the bias?

All I could do was reassure Roohi that there would be somebody willing to be a human being and offer her a job. All she did was give me a smile, and then she went back to making rotis.

Salty Chocolate Cake!

It takes tremendous courage to write about things that bother. Remember, sometime back I wrote about that tightness of the heart. Today, it almost killed me that I thought it was a chest pain to kill me. I can't control them, my tears. They just keep falling, pitter patter - the rain sounds within.

After all that is over, I mix up all my love and hate into a chocolate cake batter, lick the batter off my fingers, and bake it - my chocolate sorrow, baked in my small yellow bowl. And as I dip my spoon into the moistness of the cake, I almost know that it was really the salt of my tears that made it soft, and the hate in my heart is what made it brown.

I am still a child at heart, right?

The demons, haunt and taunt - but my fearlessness, that beautiful facade that I have created around me, shivers and trembles. Then runs away, taking the cloak of strength with it.

All I can do then is to bake, that brown moist cake - I can almost taste the salt.

Terrible!

One of these days, my mood swings would kill me.
I am not scared. I am just very unhappy.

Worst is, I can't even demand what I need. 

Moving on...

I hate this sense of helplessness. You know, that feeling of not knowing. There were so many things I could do, so many places, but I keep seeking - for I don't know what.

It was easy to feel the way I did. But then, what stops them? There are so many things I could erase off - but the ones that stay - they are so painful, etched within.

My need to be acknowledged - I don't need to do any thinking to know where it stems from. Who would know it, who could let me get away from it? Don't only sympathize. And THAT, I don't want. I wish someone knew. I wish there was hope to move on...without being tied to the mundane thoughts.

I am so dumb to believe all this - how difficult is it really? To know that this is not real. It is just what it is - the way it is, with everyone. But then, there are times, when I am confused, and then I am told - it's different, with you. What does that mean? But the wall - that needs to be broken down, becomes stronger. I wish I could just be held, and told once, meaningfully - there is someone who loves you, there is someone who really thinks that you matter, there is someone who knows that you need to be cared for too, there is someone who could make you feel happy!

A friend said, I write honestly - all she sees are my words. I wish I could open up and show my self - the need to be real - it is such a dilemma. People act so well - to fit in. What are misfits then?

I sound so doped to myself - all I am doing is let my thoughts flow, just like the tears from my eyes now. I wish blogs would smudge the way diaries did...I wish I could read back all my diary posts, and post some good ones here - maybe I should. What if I find some old writing, smudged with tears? What an eventful life!

Time to sleep - the thoughts are floating about - not knowing where to park. I have been thinking of dead poets for some time now. Like Plath, she had two lovely children, and a husband. She still ended life because she had an extreme need for love, and life was not being fair. I have only been thinking of dead poets. The extreme need to be real - like Madhavikutty - how innocent was she when I met her. Didn't she convert because of her need for love...that way, madness is a trait. Isn't it?

Colorful balloons, and a pain shooting from my heel, like sending signals to the universe - it shoots to my brain. Lands somewhere where I have used rope to tie my colorful balloons (think movie "Up"). Ok, yes. I need to go sleep. This is good.

I feel exhausted. Parting words:

Between your love, and lovelessness,

your closeness and your distance,

there is me.

Celebrating Sadness

It is pretty depressing around me all the time? This is the thought that came to me when I read my blog posts once. Well not really. I am the most happiest person on the planet - or so I like to believe. I do have a tendency to spread love and happiness, and at least try to make an effort. I smile easily.

Then why the depressive posts? I just need to vent, I like to be real. When I say real, it means being in the present, feeling, crying, laughing, singing, cooking, breathing in every smell, you know like the smell of the air, when it is about to rain, or the smell of garlic roasted in butter, or the smell of some people - my favorite people. It could be simple things that make me happy. Really happy.

But then, I feel the void - of not being cared for enough. Maybe it stems from the fact that the feeling of having been lost began with the day when I was born - it stemmed out, grew its roots, leaves, and now, it stands within me as a huge tree, its shadows swaying with every gust of wind.

For my first birthday after our wedding, I being the romantic one expected a gift, a sweet wish, and a hug. Not the diamond girl, I don't like them. But instead, I got to hear, "You have celebrated your birthdays all your life, let's see what happens if you don't celebrate one this year." I did not know how to react to it. I still don't know what made him say that. But six years into the marriage, if I still have to think of it, and feel the same stab of pain and disappointment, it should have been really bad. 

But this was expected. Every time I have brought this up, or any other disdainful thought up, love blooms, and it then goes back to normal. I stop trying to change, or to even ask for a change - it is not within him to know. There are poets who died wishing for eternal love. Am I going the same way? I am not celebrated as a poet, but in my head, I am a good one.

I wish it would change. I wish it could stop lunging me, deep within my heart. I wish it would not fall as tears, unwelcome at most times. I wish, I could make it all go away - like sweeping white marks off my tap, they are where water has been, leaving the residues behind...I wish, I could just wish to be happy.

I could go on wishing, right? I could go on...

Name

I wish I could put a name to what I feel.

It is love, but not the one that needs you by flesh.

It is need, but not the one that clings and is chaotic.

It is peace, that feeling you bring to me every time.

It is madness, the twinkle in your eyes, and that smile.

It is friendship, beyond ages, that could describe. 

It is laughter, that surrounds me all the time.

It is warmth, like a blanket that I could shroud myself in.

It is hope, that I could long and look forward to.

I wish I could put a name to what I feel. 

And call you only by that name in the lives to come.

To know you love me so...

I love it that you smile at me,

That way you do,

My heart brims with pride,

To know you love me so.

Your eyes like a child,

Twinkling like Christmas lights,

That smile, meant for me,

And me alone.

I can't stop this tightness in my chest,

Knowing and feeling your love,

Words only we know, 

Those are not spoken,

My heart brims with pride,

To know you love me so...

Until the End?

There was never a better time, to walk away from this dirt. 

But I am holding on. 

For what, I wish I knew.

When his madness seems justified, why not mine. 

When his fear is justified, why not mine. 

When his adventures are justified, why defy mine.

When love gets captured in a cage,

Is the urge to flap the wings and crave for freedom justified?

When my freedom has to be curbed, my freedom to live my life,

What should I do other than walk away?

How many more times do I walk away? 

How many times will I return?

My patience is running out,

So is my love, my beloved,

For you, I have given up,

A life that I dreamt to have,

My freedom, and soon, I would,

Give up my breath and life too! 

The Mother's Day Battle

When that first cry came out, 

What did you do, I wonder

Did you eagerly look down to see,

Or did you turn away and ignore?

Was it not pain, to bring me here,

Did you not carry me through,

Was letting go so easy,

Or was it just plain old fear?

A small bundle of blood and liquid,

With little hands and feet,

I too would have wanted that warmth,

That boys and girls who had it all, 

When they were born.

Now, I really do wonder,

Did you eagerly look down?

Did you shed a tear?

Or turned away your head,

Like what came was never yours.

Happy Mother's Day, Mommy dearest,

Just letting you know,

I am the brave child who is special,

For I fought this battle on my own,

Without the sweetness of your milk,

Or the caress of your warmth,

I am proud, for the battle was mine,

Mine alone, and never yours.

Train journeys and long winding tracks

It was on the pretext of meeting my parents that I started a two hour journey, on my own. After marriage, I really never travelled alone, apart for work. This time, I wanted it. Alone.

Umpteen number of tea vendors passed by, eyeing every passenger. What held me back from calling out to one, savoring the sweet strong taste of tea, I still don't know. I panicked everytime a vendor passed by. And I kept telling myself - you will reach soon, and your reluctance is one you will regret. But no. I didn't. Till...

A stack of books, all my favorite authors. The seller had long hands, because the stacked books reminded me of the old librarian in the public library - like his hands were made for carrying huge stacks of books. Anyways, this seller plonked the stack next to me. Most of the seats were empty, and I really got a window seat with two empty seats next to me. I eyed the books curiously, and my eyes landed on his face. Tired, is that an emotion? I choose to keep it that way, because he was tired and his face, his eyes screamed 'tired'. I took a book out of the pile, and took my wallet out to pay him, not a word exchanged between us. And just then, the tea vendor came again.

This time, I didn't let him go...I needed the tea. I needed the book. I needed this journey. Alone. One tea after another, one banana fry after another, one page after another, one station after another...my need was satiated. It was not nirvana that I was seeking, all I needed was a moment to myself, loving myself, that one moment, I had.

The need ended. Atleast, for now.

Let me go, Leave it.

Don't try now.

The spirit is squished and dead.

I traded my insanity, 

For hope and love.

Embers of a long lost warmth,

Hold me together, 

Keeps me going, 

Today, tomorrow and forever.

what i felt from last night...

Sleeping is in the high priority list these days. And finally when I hit the bed, I feel, this is what I wanted to do my entire life. Last night was no great exception. I was trying hard to listen to him talking, but my eyes gave away…I was dazed into a world that snored away to glory. Then I dreamt of sweetened thick sugar syrup flowing…I was in the low-ceiling-ed room of his house that he described to me, He came to me and asked me to take bath before his amma came…what was the sugar syrup for then?

I woke up to find him cosied to himself, that sweet slumber and peaceful face. The newly trimmed short hair that fell on his forehead and the soft snore escaped through his nostrils. I got up, went up to the loo…switched on the light, wondering what the time was. My newly grown left finger nails that had a silver polish glistened as I turned the tap on. 

Coming out, I checked the time in my mobile…5:30. Wondered whether I should go back to the room, that cold, some-smell filled room of mine. But I didn’t feel like leaving him then. I snuggled back into his arms. He mumbled something to me. I kissed him on his eyes, on his lips and softly told him that I loved him…

I kept waking up, at 6, 6:05…he pulled me back, put his hands and leg around me and said, “Don’t go now…” I smiled and lay back again. The sweet sugary syrup didn’t flow, but I saw myself walking down a lane, shaded with yellow leaved trees. I went walking, and then the alarm went off again. 

I walked back to my hostel, my head was swinging slightly. I lie in my bed for a minute, I knew I was getting late for my office , but I just wanted to sleep again.

This Love Thing

This love thing, 

I realize now, 

is not just a rose, red and hot.

It has thorns, and it wilts, 

In time, and in sun.

Tomorrow, you water it, 

Feed it with care, 

And it blooms, 

In time, and in sun.

To a Brother's Loss

He died. 

A memory now. 

Was he ever there?

No. 

But I do feel tired. Forlorn.

A small, sad tear, slowly escaped the eye.

A forceful gulp went down the throat.

The heart stops,

and hands freeze.

A memory, so soon.

I didn't know.

No one told me.

He died.

I hugged the wet pillow, 

And thought of him, 

As a memory.

Today

Today is not what I would call a boring day.

Today is a day that I feel conquered by emotions - which is usually a sign that the monthly shedding of a bloody layer is due.

Today, also happens to be the day I decided finally to keep my promise to myself and just write. To satisfy a craving, a hunger to yell out loud. It has been a nagging thought in my head to do what brings me happiness - even if it means drinking tea. Strong, flavored, which could transport me to the green luscious minty cold mountains of Nilgiris.

Today, is the day I felt jealous of a friend who converted an old run down bungalow, into a rustic hotel of sorts, and lives there with his girlfriend.

Today, is the day I had resentment in my heart and my brain for a change agreed to the resentment - towards someone who spoiled my birthday. I should have been angry then - instead I had to apologize. Was it really so bad?

Is it just today?
Is it me being very self-centered, and thinking only of me?
Is it true that I am hiding my deepest secrets within myself?

Yes, it is true.

I have my deep dark secrets. But let them rest, in peace, within those gallows that are built deep within me.

Madhatter

On how much I love writing. That is what came to my mind when I wrote the first line. Have you felt like words could liberate? Liberate from a thought stuck in your head...a loud scream captured in a blog that I hope no one ever reads...except you. But only after i am long gone. Maybe, my secret hope is that you could print it all...and make money. And give it away. My books...need to go to a library, called Madhatter. I am a madhatter you know. 

Birthday Blues: How I wished her

When I called her, she said she was talking to the moon -asking him how the year would be for her. She said she had a neat shot of vodka in her hand, and lot of memories in her head.

I asked her what she had in her heart…she laughed it off…

I told her to quit drinking. She said she would. Obedience was never for her. But when she told me she would, I knew she meant it.
She told me about the gift he had given her, a sketch of them holding each other.
She told me about the people who had already wished her.
She told me her anxieties of becoming a year closer to death.
She laughed at the awkward feeling in her that she called insanity.
She told me about her sleepless nights, how she thought about her real parents.
She told me about the tears that come out of her eyes, ‘just like that…’
She told me about her new office, about the mallu community there.
She told me she hasn’t been reading or listening to anything.
She told me how she has put on weight.

She said, she finally said, Wish Me My Birthday!
That’s when I wished her…
She said Thank You
I hung up.
I knew I should not be wishing her birthdays again.
I felt relieved...she had grown up!

What went in my head...and then...

I don’t think I can blame her, if she feels extremely depressed about her birthday. The only reason being that until last year, her birthdays were an occasion for her.

She came to know she was adopted last year.

She had left home. When I called to wish her on her last birthday, she told me she was planning to drink till she loses touch with the earth. I told her not to, but in the evening, when I called her again, she was drunk. She cried out to me, said she bought muffins and cans of beer. Not that I think beer could make one any high…but she was. Any intoxication mixed with grief can make one high. That was, at least my experience.

Tomorrow is her birthday, yet again. I do not feel like wishing her this time. But I love her so much that I can not stop myself from wishing her. Ever since I have known her, I have. She has laughed, cried and frowned on different occasions. Reasons were weird. Sometimes, she was delighted thinking she was becoming older, sometimes, the thought of becoming more mature, sometimes, that I was late in calling her up.

Tomorrow, I should…do not know if she is still alive though. I call her only for her birthdays.
This year maybe she has lots more stories to tell me…

Happy birthday to her!

Strangers on a Bed

We sleep like strangers.

Our backs facing each other.

Never searching for a warm spot.

As night spreads out in darkness, 

I hug your back tight...

Counting your heartbeats, 

and the snores that escape...

My nightmares return, 

And demons make love, 

And I hug them too...

A Small Thought

A silent thought goes out to that cup of tea,

and round butter biscuits, had before brushing,
sitting cross legged on a red oxide floor...
counting mangoes, small, medium, big...
like bright green bulbs.

A small wind sashays through the leaves,
and a mango falls, and running to take it before a naughty crow can peck on it.
Getting scolded for running without chappals on my feet,
and later
forgetting grief in pancakes filled with sugared grated coconut, spiced with cardamom...
rolled and had with hot sweet tea...

Memories of childhood,
smell of cardamom and mangoes,
and a small thought escapes like a tear from my eyes.

Two of Us

There really is two of us, 

one who knows, 

breathes and lives within a body. 

The other, 

who dreams, 

wanders off with a favorite word, 

a sweet scent,

an act of love, 

and buttery morsel of food.

Not afraid, 

passionate and unbeaten, 

willing to try, 

and not to escape.

And the other, 

quiet and measured, 

scared and scarred, 

weak and mellow.

I love the second one, who do you?

Stereotypes

Yesterday, yet again, there was a heated discussion between my husband and my mother in law.

For the past few days, the discussion was about an uncle whose son got married recently. Apparently, the new bride does not seem to be taking any interest in getting up in the morning, cooking or even talking to the people in the house. The uncle being a widower, used to do all the work in the house, including the cooking, because he felt that because his sons lost their mother, they should not feel the lack of one...

The hunt for a girl suited to the family was on full swing. But here is what I thought...she is educated, good looking and smart. Sadly, she did not have a job. For her, the life that seems to be ahead lies in the kitchen of a house filled with three men.

Which brings me to why I am writing this - - I am educated, I have struggled my way through to sit on the chair that I sit now. But am I the stereotype of the working woman - career oriented, strong headed, who does not care for her family etc?

I am not. Not for me. And do I need to care of what others think? Yes, my mother would say - all her life has been about "what would they say?". But really, do I care? Should you care?