Uh-oh, it's an I-want-to-write night!

I hate reading medical sites. They always convince me that I have ALL symptoms for the worst kind of diseases. Current afflictions I am convinced of: uterine cancer, suspicious lumps in the breasts -- or possibly the last of the adipose tissue left that make my booblets -- and perhaps tuberculosis of the bone, thanks to the horrid little tail bone I have sticking out. It seems bigger everyday. And since I seem to believe in all the signs, I could be a borderline hypochondriac as well. And let's not forget the weight loss...

What bothers me more than the illness itself is: who will look after me and how will I pay? Because I need to work to pay and if I am ill and not working, where's the money going to come from? My parents are there for me and there are no two doubts about that. However, I cannot be a burden on them...or anyone. They of course don't see it like that, but I cannot explain it. I have done things my way and I have ensured that if anyone has had to pay or suffer, it is me for as far as possible. I have tried that my actions don't reflect on my parents or don't hurt them. Like I was very clear that if I wanted to live on my own -- which Papa was against -- it would be on my own money. Being able to 'earn' was all about being responsible for your own self.

And then, Papa had said on my 18th birthday, "Legally now, you can do anything. But not under this roof." Those two years were the worst between him and me... dating the boys he expressedly pointed out as 'bad' boys, not consulting him on ANYTHING, announced the college I had joined, announced the first job I took, announced I would be coming late, announced I wouldn't stay with any relatives... And we fought. I think I have been angry since. But not at him anymore. It was never his fault.

Are we what our parents make us? Do we somewhere choose what we want and conveniently blame them? Are they who they really are or what their parents made them? Mine did not teach me to smoke or skip meals or  use bad language... Wait till he sees this. Once he sees the use of f*ck, dad won't be seeing much else in my blog. Like the first time he discovered that not only did I know the word f*ck, but my vocabulary also included 'horny'. And ALL that because even then, I liked to write. The scene goes thus:

Eve*, 19, typing on a Word document in her 2-year-old computer. It's early-on in second year of college and she's writing her diary entry, a la Doogie Howser, M.D. (well yes, and loved Wonder Years too, preferred it actually) And it's a sensitive post: happily writing about this "new dude at her new and first-ever summer job who's really 'f*cking' cute and how the other girls say he is always 'horny' and".... (Hears door open and sees intimidating father figure walking inside room in her peripheral vision) (turns out the father figure is indeed the father)
(Acting quickly, and in blind panic, Eve* quickly switches off the monitor. Unfortunately, a) she's not swift enough b) the act in itself is too loud an announcement of I-was-doing-something-you-won't-like)
Dad: What were you doing?
Eve*: Finished a college project, now going to help Ma in the kitchen
Dad: What project?
Eve*: Since when did we start discussing my projects? (In hindsight, now, 10 years later, I think THAT sentence should have been avoided)
Dad: Hmm. Show me.
(Sh!t) (Eve* of course instantly switches the monitor on, she's always one to take the bull-y by the horns. )
Dad: (reading, eyes moving up and down, pupils constricting at offending words, then becoming pin-points in anger) Hmmm. What trashy language is this? We need to talk. Come out.
(we go to the 'court': that's the outside verandah in our ground floor house, there's a cane hammock-swing and he is sitting in it, in his pin-striped, tweed housecoat and white, cotton pyjamas, looking every bit the army man he is... )

Dad: What do you mean by 'fucking'? And what are you writing?
Eve*: 'very' and fiction story
Dad: what?
eve*: It means 'very': he's 'fucking' cute means he's 'very' cute and it's write fiction project
Dad: (left brow raised, looking very threatening, he directs look at Ma, who's standing behind Eve*, trying to put in a word) --> "and what do you mean by horny?"
Eve*: It means stupid.
Dad: WHAT? Who told you that?
Eve*: The seniors in college. They use both the words frequently, so one day I asked, they laughed at the fact that I didn't know the words at 19 and told me the meaning."
Dad: And that's what they told you?
Eve*: Yes, fucking means very and horny means stupid.

And that was it. He let me go. I still don't know why. There's no way in hell he could have believed that... but WHY did he let me go?

Like I really want to know: Are they disappointed in me? In the way things turned out? Because if they spent their entire life wanting good things for their kid and just when said kid is supposed to take hold of the reins, she keeps doing things that are worrying and downright freaking out... WHAT do they think? I asked Ma and she said, "Dont ask stupid questions, we are your parents. We will always love you and be by you." And well, there's no point asking Dad because he will say, "Dont get melodramatic on me, go ask your mother, " and when (obviously) irritated I will remind him that I am 30 and an adult and we need to have a conversation, he would say, "You are 28, not 30, dont teach me your age; and even though you ARE 28, I am still your father." That would be the end of the conversation with me really angry.

And yet, even though he doesn't even know the brand I wear, he would say: "Baba, do you want a new pair of jeans? Let me buy you a TV, birthday present, eh?" And I would have to politely find a way out - so he sends gift cheques instead - and ma would still call every alternate day - because I yell if she calls everyday -- to ask the same questions. They really dont seem to care about the shit that I keep doing, or the things I should be doing and don't do, or the trouble I get into or me just being stubborn. I wonder: if this is Love, do I have it in me?



Many people, and I mean many people have been asking---> "What's with clit-chatting?"
Well, I don't suppose those who come on to the blog necessarily go to the first post... but here's the reason all over again.

My Vagina Monologues

After having heard about Eve Ensler's celebrated play, The Vagina Monologues, I finally got to see it -- performed by Mahabanoo Modi Kotwani and her team of actors. Four women talking about other women and their stories from the world over. Did I like it? Yes, it was well presented. Did I love it? Pause.

I could understand the story about the rape of Bosnian women. I could understand the story about the 72-year-old Parsi woman. But what about the women of TODAY? The apparently sexually liberated, knowing-her-mind, ball-breaking, board-moving, 21st century woman of today.

I am one. Supposedly all of the above. Or I was. Break-ups, child loss and physical abuse later: I really don't know. Am I emancipated? Finding myself, finding my Eve, finding my vagina. Literally and figuratively. Go figure.

I am, therefore I start...


Why did Cinderella stay?

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?

Why did Snow White bite into that apple?
When there were choices out there, in ample?

Or Sita who chose to walk on fire,
Despite sitting through situations, many dire?

I am not Sita, 'ella or White,
But am a woman in every right.

I could be all that you want me to be,
But you would still want more, and not just me.

So I sit up and watch and look and wonder
And hear the whisper in the distant thunder…

Why did Cinderella stay?
When she could've held the world at her sway?
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