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.