To The Woman Who Once Tried To Kill Me

A part of me wishes I could hound you till you let loose of me, and then gently make cuts in your flesh just to watch your blood ooze and season your wounds generously with the salt of my tears. Marinate you in the guilt of watching me plunge into the deep hallows of unrequited love. You might ask me “How did I wrong you?” and if I am in a good mood I’d answer by telling you that the only wrong you did was remind me of my mistakes. And a part of me can’t help but nourish you in love.

Aren’t we bearers of sin? Women as a collective. We bear the world in our womb, tell them the stories our great grandmothers told us and nurse the world. Yet, we are owned by men who in turn are owned by the world we birth. A very cruel doctrine indeed.

Our fates have been decided when we were crouching inside those pink walls, canopied by safety and love. The hormonal love pervades uninvited as a camouflage to the cruelty that would be bestowed upon us. It was in the pink room, my great grandmother taught me the art of harvesting the right yams and the science of brewing the perfect suleimani tea. She spilled her secrets for a good life- to know that it is your man’s duty to love you and be less awake to the sins of your man. A man can choose whether to love you or not. A man can sin, because he is owned by the world. But a woman can’t afford to sin. My great grandmother trained me in the art of solving life’s issues with a huge bowl of rice and fish curry. She dutifully served her man, regardless of whether she was loved or not, till the day she floated in the village lake, face down, ending a life of etiolated dreams.

In the pink room, my grandmother told me that a woman is born impure. She can only be made pure by devoting her life for her man. In the act of devotion, her sins alchemise into virtues. And she becomes a virtuous woman.

My mother taught me how a woman could decide her fate. Her fate was the suitor she attracted. She taught me to embrace the pain of my body hair being pulled away by the sticky depilatory. She taught me the art of dousing myself in bleach. She also gave me the medicine to all the rage and bitterness- lipstick in the shade of blood.

I am angry, but the anger is not mine. My great grandmother fermented her rage for ages, which my grandmother distilled and my mother bottled for me in the pink room. The anger of unrequited love is my perfume. Notes of jealousy and rage with hints of desperation. That perfume which first allures and then suffocates men.

My mother had a string of lovers- each adding to her life like pearls on a string. I emulated my mother in my pursuit of love. I wore high heels, plucked my brows, painted my lips red and bathed in the perfume I inherited. I was a walking disaster- a woman on a suicide mission of finding passionate love. The warm mushy kind. And there I began my treasure hunt for mistakes. Till I found him.

He smelled of motorcycles and petrichor. His eyes told me the stories of small dusty town and his lips tasted of orange candy. He was the perfect kala khatta ice gola I relished on a furiously hot summer afternoon. My perfume seduced him, told him I was excitement and convinced him that I am lovable. And one day, he began to see all those places in my hearts that denied love out of fear that I am not good enough. Then, his love slowly melted away and he left me in the scorching heat of reality.

He gifted me my fate. Mothering a fatherless girl child. You must be wondering by now that couldn’t I have killed you and found another suitor. I could have killed myself citing you responsible for my death. But alas, I couldn’t. My brain was simmering in hope. Hope, a serious side effect of unrequited love. Psychotic hopes of reconciliation with your father. I kept you because I know you would remind me of him. Of youth and passion.

And the day will come when you make your way out of the pink walls. I will hear your first cry in the labour room, and I will somehow be unable to hate you the way I had anticipated. I would feed you, bathe you and change your diapers in the hope that your father would come to see you smiling in sleep, to witness divinity oblivious of sin.

And when you grow up, I would conceal any vestiges of rage and angst by juggling two jobs to save enough money for your university education. And on a mother’s day, you would make me a card telling me that I am the world’s best mother. You would make me understand that my rage has dissipated away. You are gifted with the ability of seeing only goodness in others. One evening, when you are at the helm of womanhood, I will not teach you the importance of plucked eyebrows, but the importance of being able to love yourself. You would then understand that it is easier for you to love yourself than it is easy for me to love myself.

And I am careful enough to not give you what my ancestors left for me. I would free you from all the ancestral doctrines that were imposed on me. You would be victorious in finding the stream of love within you. And a day would come, where you’d lead me to find the stream of love within me.

Dear child, forgive your mother if you find her as a creature spewing anger and jealousy. She had been taught that love was a coveted treasure, only to be received from a man. But a voice within, tells me that there is a stream of love within us which could quench even the thirstiest of humans. And to go to that stream, in a world that sells love, lust, hope and anger in a bottle is an act of rebellion. As you grow up you would notice that people derive pleasure from ensuring your self esteem has withered away. Forget the cruel world, and search for the stream like a thirsty human stranded on a desert would search for water. Baptise yourself in the elixir of self love. Come back home, and then help your mother too find the stream of love within her.

Beyond the pink walls where you find yourself safe, there exists a society that profits from self doubts. The only way to rebel is to find the stream of love within you and quench your thirst.

Yours truly,

Your mother.