Slipping into Columbus | Art, Poetry and Finding the Community I Sought After

(I’ve been trying to write this in several ways and forms. I already two very different drafts of what I want to say but haven’t quite been able to coherently put together in word. I think I have finally written what I want to say. It’s a tad bit long but it’s directly from my heart.)

I’ve been making art, and mainly, been indulging in live-sketches for several years now. I have seen myself grow as an artist and a person, used art as a conversation-starter and indulge in discussions with people about community, tangible and intangible heritage, and what it means to have something so significant to themselves stand in a place as a testimony to their life experiences. Walking around the city and drawing places and buildings, making art is my way of comprehending how the city functions, how it lives, the styles and characters it comes to acquire, the way tangible and intangible heritage, people and stories morph to present an entire picture; it has been my way of connecting with the city and its people, to feel like I belong, perhaps? Art for me, as a process, is slipping myself into familiarity from the unfamiliar. It is my means of putting myself out there, vulnerable and in public eye; for possible criticism and rejection. Art means pushing the extents of my comfort zone to make it even bigger, to accommodate the new, and forge new connections. I’ve been doing these live-sketches for all those reasons in addition to actually wanting to document the tangible heritage of the city, its stories and what it means to the community to have a piece of them in something so physical- as a trained architect with a proclivity to support conservation and adaptive re-use of historic and community-inclined spaces.

With all that in mind and hand, I have been actively seeking community in the last two years of my stay in Columbus. I moved from Madras, a city I had lived in for two decades, a place I knew like the back of my hand. Community for me in Madras was a given. I has lived in the same neighbourhood all my life and I knew every other person in the area, and even as I moved outside in the city; or sometimes even across state lines. I’d bump into people on the road: classmates, friends, family, the grocer, the rice-merchant, the electrician, the flower-seller, my father's barber, the beauticians from the saloon down the road, the street-side tailor, the guy who fixes my bike, the mechanic, the auto-drivers in the stand close to my house, teachers, acquaintances, the dogs...community was a given for me. I was an established gymnast and athlete and I had different circles of acquaintances: school, training peers, music class peers, so and so forth. I could stop at any point in my city and never feel odd about wanting a glass of water from a local establishment or a public group. That, in fact, was the first thing that was offered when you walked through anyone’s doors: food and drink, if not anything- some water. It was a sign of inclusion. I was never an outsider to have to actively seek relationships, friendships or functioning people of the community because I acquired them in time—through school, through college, through friends and family. So, when I had to literally leave everything that I knew and built over the course of time behind in my coming to a new city and a new country to pursue new goals- I knew then, that this was my chance to actively seek community. This time, it was going to be different because America has a different culture than India. I had to make an effort to reach out, I had to decide who I was going to be associated with, what I was going to do and where I was going to start in this entire pursuit. I was excited in a way to be in a city where no one knew me—it’s a fresh slate. I was even a tad bit happy to be away from the sometimes prying eyes of the community I was a part of, in Madras.

I want to tell you to be careful what you wish for at this point, because sometimes you get it. My initial honeymoon phase with self-sufficiency and independence (different from Madras’s version of the same) was joyful. I loved the anonymity I had. No one knew me and I was completely on my own—in full, (Though was I complete? That was another question altogether) It faded soon though, not the joyful learning in independence or self-sufficiency but in the lacking of a strong foothold—a space to go to for more learning, support and sharing. I lacked a community outside of my graduate life the first six months I was here. I don’t want to beat myself up about it because grad-life is all-consuming. Every single bit of extra project, art or poetry I do outside school takes all the remaining energy and sleep I could have potentially garnered. But those interactions I’ve come to build is also sustenance I’m grateful for. With a brief interim (not in art though), I resumed going after what I have always wanted to do in this search for a good community to be a part of. I started exploring the campus at the time and started doing live-sketches. See, I’ve done this before—but with different end-results. When I used to work on the live sketches back in Madras/India, every single sketch had a story. I had local tea-masters give me free tea, watchmen who gave me his spare chair to sit on, a badass flower-seller who made me a makeshift chair from her carton boxes on a temporary bridge outside the railway station, a savoury shop owner who let me sit in her shop next to her-gave me water and food, little kids from school scattered all along, conversations with other street wall painters and church pastors...it's a huge list. I've almost never sat through a sketch session without talking to the people local from the area and that was wonderful because I love talking to people about these spaces, to get to know little anecdotes and share the process with them. I lived in that city for twenty years and I knew the place, I knew the people: I constantly kept running in to people I knew; and yet, every time I went out to sketch in a different area, I saw the city with a new pair of eyes and through new people. Coming back to Columbus and engaging in the same process here, I met with more nonchalant reactions. Campus is a bustling space with shuffling feet and no time to stop. I didn’t exactly get the community I was seeking in this space in those initial months of my stay in the city. Winter set in and so did the first phase of disconnect and unrest. I was also living with a roommate at the time with whom I was not on good terms with and had to return to a hostile environment every night. I spent long hours in the studio making peace with all the work I had but something was still missing. I felt like I needed to throw this net out further in the sea, while afraid of drowning.

After those initial six months, I decided to seek what I had on my list of things-to-do when I arrived at Columbus: attend poetry open mics, ‘artist’ and be self-sufficient. One Wednesday night, I picked myself up and went out to the closest poetry night with a poem in my pocket. I didn’t know how this was going to pan out, but I had to try. It might have been my best decision and venture ever since I came to Columbus, hands-down (more on that later). Another day, I hopped on to the COTA bus and went Downtown, randomly walking the streets with a flask full of chai in my hand. That felt in-sync with who I was as a person: to seek encounters and spaces, to go after what I want once I knew that it was what I wanted.  I sought this in the most intimate way I knew: through art.

It’s been an intriguing journey: to explore a city I’ve moved to and making art of and in these spaces. It’s been funny too, sometimes, because I would be standing around a building and sketching it while someone from the locality would ask me why I was doing it and if I knew the history of the place. It baffled me that they would ask me, an outsider, about the history of a place that they have lived in for so long. I had the answers but I still did feel like an outsider. I was still looking at the city as an outsider,  I was still not belonging despite being a part of two different communities here. I belonged to the community, but did I feel like I belonged to the city? I wasn’t quite sure of that. So, I kept doing what I did because most often, art has a way of revealing thought processes and our seeking in repetition and constant pursuit. I must say the poetry community in Columbus was an amazing place to have started this journey. I have found some incredible people I dearly love and a community that has been nothing short of supportive and in equal parts jestful- they take the time to explain cultural contexts I don’t understand, have long discussions about the greatness of PB&J sandwiches (I’m still not convinced of that combination) or apple ‘sauce’, be there when I have features somewhere else in poetry or at art exhibitions I’m a part of, a bunch of people being willing participants in my Masters research, and of course—making fun of my accent that I didn’t think I had, but in retrospect, what was I thinking! These were people that supported my art too, and suggested places I could go out and visit, and how to possibly get there. They are people who are more than willing to drive me to places should I need it, though it’s not something I am comfortable asking of everyone as I have always been the kind of person who took care of herself (I don’t always like asking for help or feeling inadequate, especially when it lies within the fringes of coming in the way of my perception of being ‘self-sufficient’).  

Columbus has its communities intersecting intimately: I run into people from the design community at poetry readings or art shows or interesting lectures/talks around the city. Columbus is a large city with a small sense of Madras that I grew up with, while I still felt like I didn’t entirely fit in. Columbus was that pair of gloves that had me cozy and warm, though not completely comfortable. By virtue of many poets being artists themselves or organizers, by them being interested in a wide range of artistic pursuits; I found my circle expanding—and still do. I started learning new things about myself in the way other people perceived me: someone called me a ‘mover and shaker’ last month. I had no idea what that meant and when they said it meant I was good at networking, I laughed because it was the last thing I thought I was good at. I am good with people- but at networking (You should see me at professional networking events; I’m the one sipping on my lemonade in the corner of the room)? But I also realized that now, I attend events and know people there, and they know me. The recognition and friendship was validating. I realized my art was rooted in physical, tangible means that later translated to larger conversations and intangible ideas. I learnt that I was trying to combine worlds in this process. With some people, I learnt to be vulnerable and open; it’s not my usual way of being. I like being collected and together at all times, but I have a select few that I go to when I need to be my raw self. I have seen friendships and a bunch of my relationships in India drift away, and I am finally at the point where I have let it all go. I no longer hold on to toxic relationships, I extricate myself from conversations that barge into my mental space. I have started learning to take care of myself. These were all discoveries and learning.

Now, I write this as my new apartment lies like a lava-floor-obstacle-course-pit. I have moved three apartments in two years adding pieces of furniture, potted plants, photographs, memories, art and poetry with every move--life is a tad bit different now and, in this difference lies my growth; in the quality of these experiences and all the learning- I have seen myself evolve as an artist and as a person. I enjoy this transition in its occasional turbulence. But until about three weeks ago, I still felt like an outsider to the city, though not quite to all of its people.

In these live-sketches I do of the city, I learn about Columbus one neighbourhood at a time. I slowly make my way around localities; learn street names, bus routes and food joints. I do this as a traveler, as a resident of the city instead of holding on to tourist-y eyes. It makes me feel like I belong, I suppose with that last pang of being an outsider to the city still tugging away on the inside. About two or three weeks back, I went into a new neighbourhood in this exploration, to sketch a building suggested by someone at the poetry community—as I threw open the question to them on Facebook. I wanted to sketch an old, closed building in the Near East side and I had not been there before. It is an area that is facing gentrification in the city and I thought it imperative to process what was happening in ways I best knew how to. I hopped on and changed two buses and got there. I found the building and stood across the street and later, sat on a patch of grass and began sketching. About ten minutes in, I had a lady demanding questions about why I was on her yard. I hadn’t realized I was trespassing and so, I stumbled with my answers. I told her I came in to draw the building and I didn’t realise I was sitting in her property and began to move away when she asked me why I was doing what I was doing. I have had that question asked a few times in Columbus with hesitation and curiosity but none that demanded answers. The rightful questioning of the woman to know why I am doing what I was doing in her neighbourhood and space was interesting and largely protective. I loved that. As I gave her my reasons for my process, she said I could sit down where I was and keep doing what I was doing. “You do you”, she said. I had someone scream from a car, at the intersection that the building I was drawing was going to be sold, probably to the city. There were no inhibitions or pleasantries in that exchange—they spoke to me like I had to know what was going on. Minutes later, a man pushing his baby in a pram crossed the road and came up to me to talk to me and go through my work. He was an artist, too. It was a pleasant conversation in the middle of a hot day before he left. An asshole from another car scared the crap out of me by jolting me with his loud scream, and laughed in my face; which I have to say is also very reminiscent of India. The woman whose lawn I was sitting on came back to me as I was finishing up and asked me if I wanted water. I told her I had some and appreciated her gesture but I came prepared with enough water that day. I had finished sketching by then and crossed the road and stood outside the bus stop waiting for my bus to take me Downtown from where I’d go to campus, and then on- to my apartment.

As I was standing there, waiting, an elderly gentleman broke my thoughts and meekly demanded—“What did you draw? I saw you drawing. What did you draw? Show me!” I opened my sketchbook and extended it to him as he took it in his hands and thumbed it between his old, wrinkled fingers and said-- “Come in.” He didn’t wait for an answer; he didn’t even think I was going to refuse. It has been two years since anyone asked me to come in to their space like that, especially strangers. I nimbly and yet slowly, opened the door and saw two other men sitting there to whom the elderly gentleman started showing my work to. One of them was in an apron. I looked around and that’s when it hit me—I was in a barber shop. I have listened to conversations surrounding the conversations that begin here, poems about it from my friends and I was there, in a barber shop. The men there were extremely sweet and looked through my sketchbooks as I looked at the space and spoke with them. The space also strangely reminded me of the time as a child. Growing up as a gymnast, I didn’t have a say in my hairstyle; my coach did. His solution to easy training and practice sessions was a closely cropped boy-cut. You know where I got this haircut back in those days, for a good part of about five or seven years? At the local barber shop. I’d go there with my dad and get almost the same haircut he did. That space wasn’t too different from this, in Columbus. The men in Madras at the time welcomed me when I was seven. I never grew up feeling odd in spaces mostly reserved for men because I grew up in those spaces, as a girl, I never felt like an outsider in that barbershop I went to with my father. I hadn’t been to that shop with my dad in almost a decade—and now, I had re-entered one after all these years and it felt perfect, a wave of nostalgia and familiarity washing over my senses. The owner of the shop asked me if I wanted water, too—something no one in Columbus had asked me in my past two years of sketching here across the city. And suddenly I felt like an outsider no more.

I had finally slipped into Columbus: the community, art, poetry, and the city. All of it. I have slipped into  a familiar comfort I had missed the past two years.

I love and thank everyone who has been instrumental in that transition.

All my love,

Hemu 

Culture Diaries: Exploring the Growth of my Identities in Changing Cultural Settings

I have been grasping at the idea of identities, discovering and acknowledging them as mine in the past few years, and it is developing in this ever-growing, amorphous and radiant form with every cleared thought, good conversation and life event. It is going to be almost two years since I moved from Madras to Columbus. It's been one hell of a ride and I am learning every single day what I have going for me and what I don't. This piece though, is simply a personal way-finding of my identities in these two very different cultural settings. It's long and I hope you can bear with me in its length.

A recent introspection ever since I moved here, into what 'home' and 'community' means to me has been unraveling in many ways in modes of inquiry, delivery and affect. I have been asking people what it means to them, what they think it could be, I was a part in conducting an exploratory workshop with two artistic peers on one such hunt on 'home', I am looking at it through my art, I brought it into my own design research thesis work (as I want to work with local communities and on socio-cultural issues in the long run) and spent numerous hours just writing in my journals. It's amazing to see how people have adopted these terms into their lives and what it means to them. For some, it was a place and for some, it was a person or a community that they are a part of. These people and communities are identities, placeholders for what a person is. For some it was a vocation, it was what they do- art, poetry, being a community leader etc. and for others, it was relationships- motherhood, being a spouse etc. I sit here with all their answers in my hands and wonder about what I am really sifting through all these perspectives for, right now. Some part of it is clear already, others would probably emerge.

One large predicament I am in is of being in-between cultures. It's not easy to float in this space, not knowing where you belong or with whom. This might also be happening simply because of my age and this time I am in. I have friends who think this life I am leading in a developed country is amazingly easy and awesome. Well, it's awesome, I'll give you that. But I have to tell you that it's not easy. I have to dispel any thoughts you may have of me leading a rosy life based on my Instagram/FB news-feed. Different aspects of self-concept (by definition- 'an idea of the self constructed from the beliefs one holds about oneself and the responses of others') are churning like concrete in my belly of a giant mixer, it feels like it hasn't yet had the time to set. But I think it is finally setting at the edges at the least, for now. I had these key moments already mapped out in my head (it's been brewing in there for months now) and when I began to research the terms to articulate this discovery, this charting-- it fell right into my lap.

'Response of others' in the process of my identity formation has been rather pivotal in figuring out who I am. The aforementioned cultures I am a part of plays a huge role in what I have come to believe, how my interpersonal interactions are formed and the relationships that arise out of it. There are two different cultures I have already been a part of and that which I am having an opportunity to encounter right now.

India, by and large adopts a collectivist culture. A collectivist culture tends to put the needs of the collective ahead of the individual. In these cultures, selfishness is a vice, you work towards gelling in with the society and in helping one another. It relies on interdependence and an expectancy of largesse in your actions: my neighbours took care of me in Madras when my parents were away, I have taken care of the neighbour's kids when their parents were running late, you invite anyone who arrives at your threshold into the house, you share whatever you have. Growing up, there was absolutely no concept of 'mine' in my household. I am not joking about that. Any toy, chocolates, fancy food or gift that came through to my sister or myself were 'ours'. I didn't realise what my parents were inculcating in us as we grew up. Of course, it was also that we were two girls born five years apart with similar body types- we exchanged clothes all the time. My sister just returned from a trip from India, bought me a bunch of stuff I had asked for. I was over at her house the other day and she showed the clothes she had purchased and said 'take it anytime you want'. Perhaps, the sense of ownership has slightly tilted but the idea of interdependence and oneness hasn't.

America on the other hand, which is where I am now adopts an individualistic culture. This culture asserts itself through individual independence, by not wanting to 'bother' or 'burden' someone with health/wealth problems. Emphasis is laid on the individual, on their uniqueness and self-sufficiency. I don't know a thing about my neighbours except for a few of their names. Their doors are always closed. Most people I see eat by themselves, commute by themselves and have a large boundary around them for personal space (I am not here to say I think ill of any of these aspects of this culture, just making observations).

At this juncture in my life when I am still malleable and forming pieces of my self towards a more detailed, organised and acknowledged idea of a personal identity, it is hard to be floating about without any grounding. The concept of personal identity changes from one culture to another. I collect pieces of what people say, do and think out loud in my presence and I am always putting these  pieces together. I wonder why someone would say something to me and why they are comfortable enough or not to tell me something. And then, there is this huge, beautiful part of 'individual' and 'relational' selves that plays a key role in identity formations. In short, individual self (as I understand it) talks about personality traits, attributes and characteristics of a person (Example: cheerful, bold, analytical) whereas the relational self talks to our relations with the significant people in our lives (Example: friend, husband, lover, sister). There is also the concept of 'collective self' (from what I understand) that allows us to reflect on our membership in social groups (Example: Indian, American).

I believe these three aspects are important pieces that we need to ground ourselves in while on the path towards discovery of who we are and  with regard to the formation of our identities. I was recently riding the bus with a peer and we were continuing a conversation that had begun earlier. I told her how I usually befriend bus drivers and chat with them during transit whereas she mentioned how it was going to be nothing beyond a nod or a smile of recognition and familiarity. She's from Australia (which seems to have a similar culture to the States). She mentioned how she wouldn't like people entering her space on the bus, that she was on public transport but would be prone to assuming a setting which pretends that there is no one else there. I find that culture exclusionary, that you drop people who are on the fringes of your everyday life that aren't people close to you. I was sitting there and reflecting on how transit times in India, on the other hand, form deep friendships. My culture (and I use 'my' to refer to what I have been exposed to all these years) is about inclusion. It's about inclusion of your neighbour, your co-passenger, the grocer, the bus-driver, the extended family and their extended families. My mother's best friend (Kasthuri aunty) became her best friend because they have been taking the same bus back home for decades. The collectivist culture seems to have allowed and given space for deeper connections with increased familiarity. Here, I find it stopping at mere recognition. You will find co-passengers in India who take the same means of public transport everyday, at a fixed time talk greatly of their friendships there. Transition is a time for interpersonal connections in the collectivist culture and one of silence in this one. This is not to say that I have not witnessed passengers on the COTA bus not recognise one another. But I have not seen them talk beyond that first line of  'How you doing today?' or 'You don't have your hat on this morning!'. Transit is by and large via individual vehicles in this country and of the people taking public transportation, there appears to be a large sense of exclusion; less acknowledgement of the person sitting in front of you or next to you.

All this was very riddling to me initially. My individual self is that of holding a cheerful demeanour, to be kind/compassionate and to make someone feel included (for I knew from past experiences how it was like to be excluded). I can strike conversations with almost anyone unless they're visibly shutting me down out of a sexist/racist/any other -ist agenda. I know three bus drivers by name, two of whom will know me by name and what I do because we have already discussed that. We have discussed about work shifts, about art in the city, about what we do, about our 'everydays'. One of them, Carl, asked me recently if I am always like this-- always this cheerful with a smile on my face? I told him I have my down-times but I have no reason to frown at someone because I am having a turbulent time on the inside-that's just not right. It warmed me the first time when another one of them, 'Happy' Harold told me that I made his day because I asked his name as I was getting down at my stop. I was elated that day because it dawned on me that people in different cultures still are the same at the basic level- everyone wants to be loved, recognised and most importantly, be seen. It still bothers me that I have no neighbours whose doors I can knock on to give them some food for Tamizh new year or have a cup of tea with. As an individual from a collectivist culture living in an individualistic culture, I am afraid to step on people's toes. What is a sign of inclusion into my personal boundary in my culture is a breach of privacy here. This makes it all the more harder, to navigate through these social situations and relationships.

It's hard because my ways of making someone feel included or make known as important to me is to risk losing them altogether in this culture. Where does one find that line? I feel rather lonely in this country sometimes. I have kind of lost my sense of belonging to any one place because I seem to be losing friendships in India and not really being able to ground some in America because of the vastly different connotations of relationships between these two spaces. My expectations of a relationship/friendship and cultural norms clash. Of the select few that I have come to love and trust, I tell them beforehand that it isn't my intent to breach into their space. I am only trying to connect in ways I know to and if I withdraw, it's only because I am scared of losing them.

When I look at my past and about how I have transitioned in the last decade, I see a pattern and a sense of seeking something on the 'other' side. Growing up in a collectivist culture had me guarded and safe. I was always looked out for- by my parents, siblings, cousins, family, road-sweeper women workers during late nights alone, auto and bus drivers, and most other people on the roads. I was fairly certain in my assumption that I would have someone to help me if there was a predator that I couldn't manage myself, and that gave me a sense of fierce boldness to be authentically myself in public and private spaces. The intimate levels of my personal self has lesser borders as I trust someone but I am never something I am not. It's still a part of me. I believed in not giving up my personal self of identity away for the sake of the society, which paradoxically also curbs you from doing/being/saying something that is tangential to societal norms. I don't believe in conformity. I also ended up reading a lot of Ayn Rand as a teenager and it has taken me a while to see large holes in her theories. I think it would be interesting to discuss this with someone from another cultural setting. It appealed to me at a time when I felt society was suffocating me with its ideal collectivist expectations and norms. Now, with the time to reflect in a different setting- everything changes. I was moving towards establishing a sense of increased individual self of identity when I was in a collectivist culture.

The collectivist culture that I was a part of had assigned most of my individual self itself. I was a tom-boy growing up, rebellious, masculine, an athlete and a gymnast, loud, obnoxious and unafraid. This collectivist culture only managed to pick out what already stood out in the crowd for further reinforcement. I was well-known as a sportswoman. I was associated with toughness and masculinity. My softer sides went largely unknown. I was a trained Carnatic vocalist and I realised only recently that most people didn't know about that side of me. I am a very sensitive person and very few people actually recognised it. My sense of individual self came from the acknowledgement from outside and then, myself. I recently did a Johari personality awareness mapping and most of the people I invited to take part in it were from my relationships in India. 'Bold' was a recurring word. I also realise now that it might not be the chief word any of my American relations would pick out because my own sense of personal identity took a huge turn here. It became all the things people in India missed seeing, it was beyond educational qualifications and professions. In India, one's qualifications became an easy acquisition into one's own identity. I can very easily tell someone that I am an architect and a designer, I don't think twice nor do I doubt it. But for the longest time, I never claimed I was an artist (until a year ago, to be precise).

America allowed me to call myself an artist without fear or doubt. Now, I have to introduce something else before I take that previous statement further and that is about relational self identity. Bear with me for a moment. In India, I was always introduced in relation to someone else. I think that is why I felt like I belonged there. I was introduced as someone's friend, sister, daughter, family, neighbour. No one ever introduced me as a writer or a poet or an artist first. Relationship came first, everything about the individual came next. Come to think of it, I miss that in America. I realise that when I speak of someone here to someone else, of the relations I have acquired here, my first impulse is to speak of our relationship. I always say 'so-and-so', 'they are my friend from _____' and then, 'they are a wonderful poet/artist/designer/musician'. I also realise that most of my American friends don't do that. Their means of introducing me is generally on the front of how they formed this relationship with me (Example: she's my classmate) or what I do (Example: she's an artist/architect/poet) but not that of relationship. If I heard more people introduce me in relation to them as opposed to what I do, I guess the sense of belonging would automatically set in (as that is something I am used to). This is not to say that I don't encounter wonderful people in America-- I do. I love some people very dearly. I have just realised what may still keep me away from them. But if my introductions are about my art and not myself, if someone doesn't explicitly state my relationship with them- it's hard for me to imagine that I am what I think I am to them. This can be viewed as a silly problem space- but it's real. India always allowed me inclusion by emphasising on relational identities.

America on the other hand, has been emphasising on my individual identities. When my friends introduce me here to someone else, they say- 'She's Hemu, she's a visual artist'. Now, I must acknowledge that I have never introduced myself as an artist with the level of confidence that I do right now. I always said 'self-proclaimed artist/poet' (because what if someone came up to me and said 'you call this art?' or 'you call this a good poem?'). By not acknowledging something I could be potentially good at, I found myself searching for who I was all this time. America, this individualistic culture has given me the space to accept who I am- yes, I am an artist. Yes, I am a poet even if I may not be a good one. Yes, I know people have larger problems than I do living in a developed nation but that doesn't mean what I am going through isn't validated. I went on a huge rant one night to a friend  in America because I couldn't comprehend sifting through the scale of what I was feeling. I was losing friends in India because they can't relate to me anymore, that my struggles seem like a speck of dust in relation to their own, and I can see where that is coming from. But to lose the only few important friendships I have built, trusted and loved over the last decade come crashing down was a huge shift for me. I couldn't figure out if I was being an asshole to them all these years by talking about my problems, that what I am feeling now are 'complaints' that need to be seen against a larger picture, whether I am 'creating' these for myself. My friend listened and told me that my thoughts and feelings were validated no matter the scale and I am immensely thankful for that. America has allowed me time for myself: for developing my individual self, to carve out identities for myself that would have been harder in my own collectivist culture of upbringing. I reinvented everything when I came to America, especially my wardrobe. People call me 'feminine' in this country and you have no idea how wonderful it is to be seen the way you want to be seen: I was never considered 'feminine' or 'dressed on-point' in my country. Ever after I started embracing my femininity and established my intellectual assertions as a woman of her own free will, thinking and independence,  my community, friends and family always looked at me as their little girl who doesn't know what she was talking about or just ended up hurting me by not even listening.  

The third part of this essay talks about the realisation of my collective identity. Some days, this country has my knees hugging at my breasts because most connections are single-tiered. It hits me hard because I have taken my sense of community and belonging in Madras for granted, for 20 long years. I always felt at home at Madras, I felt like I belonged there (even though I was excluded in some social groups). I had a very clear sense of collective identity, I was from Annanagar (the locality), from the city of Madras, from the state of Tamilnadu and lastly, from India. Patriotism was a given. My sense of love for where I come from was unadulterated- here's where I have lived all this time, and the place and its people will have my undying love and loyalty. When that was suddenly uprooted, I had stumbled upon a whole new context for comparison, a new level of reflection to see what something really means to me because I, now, have a much larger picture of what it is I am looking at and seeking. Coming to America and seeing real racial problems made me more aware of my own classist society in India. As a person from a middle-class 'upper-caste' household in India, reservations were never for me. I belong to FC (Forward caste) as mentioned in our official papers by virtue of what religious community I was born into. I think I have borderline resented reservation systems. I felt that they had to be based on economic status and not on socio-religious agenda. But now that I have brought myself out of that system and see much bigger problems of the world, I have come to terms with the benefits of that system, acknowledge that my ancestors were oppressors in the past and that I have to live with that aspect of what my community has been in the past and the privileges I still have till date because of the community I was born into. At the same time, India offered me secularism. I don't understand America's large sense of 'other-ing' some communities,  religions and race. I am still learning. My perspective has shifted and I have now, started being a part of a different collective identity. If I had previously called myself an Indian, I also now call myself a 'person of colour'. I am learning every single day about race relations, about privilege and about power. Would I have known about what it means to have lesser socio-cultural privileges had I still been in India? I may have had an intellectual understanding of it but no experiential knowledge and sometimes, the latter teaches one more than the former.

In short, I guess I wanted to evaluate my growth as a person. Yes, I wish I had a different sense of relational identity in America, I wish I meant more to people in terms of being 'someone' to them. But I also learned what it means to embrace who I am without fearing what other people would think of my interpretations of my own identity. I have moved beyond boundaries I had earlier, towards adopting a whole other collective identity. I realise I am un-learning, re-learning, growing and trying to shape my life everyday. Some days it's crazy hard to not even find anyone to talk to. I find myself sitting in my house wondering who I can call and talk to without fear of losing them and eventually end up making more art, writing more or designing more. But there have also been times I have moved beyond that fear and been vulnerable with someone. These identities are changing, they're setting in and I am growing.

In the process of figuring all these out in the past few months, I have had different conversations with many of my friends and acquaintances-- some who are international students like me in America, people working here, immigrants, people from the past with whom I have a whole shared history with and some over here, with whom I establish an immediate sense of collective identity with. My closest relationships are with whom I seem to connect on all these three aspects of one's identity. My friend from college recently sent me the link to a very interesting TED talk by Taiye Selasi. She explores our multiple identities in this world with an intriguing set of three R's: Rituals, Relationships and Restrictions. She speaks to the intent of a question and it made me think of how it all falls together with these aspects of one's identities I have been talking about so far. It's an interesting talk to see if you haven't already!

At last, I have lost some, I have won some. I am changing. It's scary. Not everyone understands that and that's okay. But I am glad I am moving forward and that I have acknowledged pieces of who I am, what I could be and where I stand at this point in my life so far. Life isn't easy at all but it sure as hell is beautiful to understand and learn from this journey.

Thank you for reading all the way till the end.

Much love,
Hemu

P.S: I have interpreted these based on my research of these terms and how it fits with my experiences. If it is jarringly wrong, please do let me know though this is largely a subjective account. I would like to learn.

A picture of me at a place that is closest to Madras- A beach in Florida, shot by my high school friend, Vimal Raj.

The Privilege that Comes with a Penis | Understanding Us (Women) and Your Privilege

You've read much about the Bangalore New Year night's incident: inebriated men passing lewd remarks at the women gathered that night for celebrations, groping and sexual assault. You've probably seen the molestation incident at Kammannahalli caught on CCTV camera. You probably saw the onlooking bystanders who did not intervene- there were about five of them. I counted. They saw, some stopped and came back to stare more and did not do anything. It makes me sick to my stomach. You've probably read that a million times now on social media. Women are coming forward with these attacks, trying to raise their voice loud and clear above a drowning chant of men and other women who refuse to see the original problem of the situation. Sometimes it works, it does create awareness. But, I don't know if it has ever been detailed for some of you. I want to do that today. I want you all to crawl into a woman's skin (I'm writing this in binary as men and women/femme/queer- I welcome the thoughts of trans and other genders- I didn't write this in entire inclusiveness because I don't know your experiences and didn't want to write something wrong that may offend anyone) for a few minutes as you read this post. 

You think sexual assault is horrible, a terrible act. That's a wonderful start for you to acknowledge it. But it's not enough. Those onlookers in the Kammannahalli incident probably agree with me- they agree it's wrong to molest anyone. But again, it's not enough. I would gamble on one of these being chief reasons for not intervening- fear of being attacked themselves, not wanting to be involved in an issue that could become a police case (and in turn, the possibility of their families being put at risk), nonchalance or of a she-asked-for-it-late-this-night mind-set. Some of them are understandable reasons even, but still- they are not enough for you to merely watch when someone needs help. Now, the woman in the video was brave (that's a default setting in women that I have to explain to you later) and fought till she could get herself away from these people but what if she had been overpowered? I hate to ask of men- What if it was your daughter/mother/sister/wife/girlfriend/friend? Other than hitting an emotional nerve at the thought to simply have you imagine the feeling, it makes me sick that I would have to put you through a fabricated hell dragging a loved woman into the picture in order for you to even see a fraction of what I am talking about simply because then, it is again not about the woman. It's still about you- a man, and what runs in your head when someone close to you is hurt. Step away from your privileged role with a penis. This is not about you. This is about us and our everyday battles and wars. 

Now, some of you wonder why I would have to sound so crude in saying 'penis' instead of a man. I am sorry, but I am not really sorry. It is true. You have the privilege to be a man simply because of your penis. At the least, a cis man, of the heterosexual orientation. You have a privilege. You have a voice louder than a few people from other categories combined because we are historically still there. We live in a patriarchal world. I am writing things down this crudely because I want you to reflect on this. I don't know who this is reaching.I don't know if it reaches beyond my echo chambers but to the masses that I know to read and agree with this (as I see on my newsfeed), I want you to see even further. 

A friend had recently posted about her experience with a stalker on her blog, racing thoughts of what to do, how to react and simply- the kind of fear every woman is acquainted with. Only yesterday, I was one of the two/three women at a poetry night to read poems surrounding sexual assault and molestation. I know of women in my family and my friends circles who have been victims of abuse and domestic violence. This is just what hit me in the span of three or four days. If I have to account every time a man touched me inappropriately, I could give you a book. Almost every woman would, especially if she is from India.

Now, you all know this to a good deal. Let's dig a little deeper. 

Men: Assume you want to go from point A to B and you don't have private transportation. Say, you'd have to take the bus. What would you do and what would go through your mind? I want you think about it for a second before you read any further. 

Done? What was it? Say it out loud, please. Great. 

Alright. Do you want to know what we go through? It starts at home with our parents asking us to be careful. An average Indian woman's mother would have asked me (an average Indian woman) to adjust my dupatta if it looks like my breasts are garnering attention; I am asked to be safe (I really don't know what that means- it's out of my control). I go out to the road, I wonder if my clothes are in order. Is my cleavage visible? Are my bra straps peeping? Is that guy across the road a threat? Why is he staring at me like that? Is it my dupatta? There is the bus stop. I hope I am not attracting too much attention. Would that neighbour aunty think I am promiscuous because I am wearing extra kaajal today? Here comes the bus. Oh boy! It looks crowded. Do I wait for the next one? But I'd be late. All the seats for women are taken. I could wear my backpack and keep the men away but I'd be yelled at for taking up too much space. There is the stalker boy. Why doesn't he give up? I can feel someone's groin against my back-wait-is it just a lunchbox? Maybe. No. It's a hand- definitely a hand. Here is this woman making an eye contact with me- she knows. She understands. Maybe if I moved a little? No, that would mean two men at my back. One of them looks harmless though. But are they, really? Why is this bus jerking so much! There is my stop. Let me get past this crowd. Did that guy just touch my waist? Get out. Get out. Ah, air. Let's get to college. Oh, great- I have some sneering, lewd comments. How does that guy know my name? Is he following me? Shit, he's following me. There are not many people on this road either. Wait, oh, I am okay. He wasn't following me. There is destination B. Breathe. 

(In fact, I wrote to a publication about this 6 years ago- An Open Letter to those Opportunist Uncles who Sexually Abuse women on Buses).  

Now, tell me. Was that tiring to read? Yes? That's how we feel every single day. Don't get me wrong, we are not fragile, defenseless women. If a man would try to touch me brazenly, I would now raise my voice. I would try to hit him and defend myself. But more than the physical strain I would ever have to go through, coping with issues of trusting men at all comes to the foreground. I have been sexually molested several times- starting from when I was in Grade 2 or 3 (that is the earliest I remember) and here is the thing- it's not just that preying man on the road. My Grade 3 memory is with a family member! These people are within families- extended and otherwise- people that your parents trust you with. One of my closest friends and I are conversing about this fatigue just as I write this and with her permission I am telling you her story: She was inappropriately touched by her grandfather. She is still uncomfortable about getting physical with her own boyfriend of several years- her heart says yes but the body screams no. She is one of the strongest and well-read people I know with a clear voice but no one but for me and a few others perhaps, know about this-not even her mother, whose father was responsible for this. Can you imagine how deep a disgust has to be if we can all feel it in our mouth after decades? I've been sexually harassed by opportunistic uncles on the bus, a bus conductor, stalkers when I was in school, a coach I loved with all my life- you have to understand how much energy I need to summon in order to write all this so publicly. When I read my poem yesterday at a poetry night I consider to be a safe space, a piece that took me 9 years to write, I saw in the eyes of some women that they felt what I was talking about. It's a kind of experience almost most of you men will never go through (I am not dismissing the innumerable cases of men who have been molested and raped though. Again, our society doesn't validate their trauma either. They ask them to buck up and be a man). 

Do this, my dear men reading this. I know you are against sexual assault and victim blaming. I do. But have you ever sat down to talk to your lady friend or sister about what goes on in her head? I bet you have listened to these experiences but have you asked them to tell you in detail, to trust you enough to tell you how it hit them mentally? Do any of these incidents after decades still have a hold on them; weigh in on their everyday decisions? ASK your wife or your girlfriend. Go on. I would ask you to be prepared to listen to the disgust, though. 

Is this post one of those big rants? I would partially agree. But would you learn more about your own stance against sexual assault towards a greater understanding- I would be inclined to say yes. Learn more about consent. Learn more about empathy. I am trying not to hug my own 4 year old niece without her permission- consent is everything. I hug only when she is okay with it. We have a lot of experiences and one kind of physical contact that you deem harmless may in fact, scare a woman to no ends because of her experiences. I read an article online that summed up what rape anxiety is-I need for you to read it. Almost every woman you come in contact with has definitely experienced this. Do you understand how real this situation is? Do you understand how tiring it is to be un-trusting and on-guard all the time?

A lot of mothers tell their daughters: ALL men want one thing. Now, I have my qualms about that statement. I would like to think it is not true. I was talking to the previously mentioned friend about this and this is what she said: "That's the problem you know. Remember the uncles you wrote about, in the buses. They are someone's father. Someone's husband. They are men that care very much for their families and this families care very much for them. Love them. Just the way we do our fathers. What goes wrong? Why can't they be trusted? It makes me realise that it's all men. And the futility of that. All men! How does one fight that?[sic]"

What can I say to that? These are merely some difficult conversations and thoughts we have to have every day. I am not saying I don't trust men. I'm actually on the other end. I try and trust people on the outset, with my own boundaries. I try to let not scarring incidents change my trust in men. But it's something I have to dedicate myself to do- I have to spend time and energy on something I would very easily get blamed for- as a victim. Victim-blaming is way too real. My relatives have implied that of me. Your parents are doing the same when they say 'This is why she shouldn't go out late in the night!' A lot of this is care and concern but it's stifling and suffocating. I can't have a regular life because a boy on the streets can't control his sexual urges? I can't wear comfortable clothes, I have to avoid crowded buses, I can't hang out with male friends, I can't watch a late-night cinema, I can't stand around tea-shops, I can't do this and I can't do that- all of this is for absolutely no fault of mine. I have a curfew because I might get raped. Do you realise how fucked up that narrative is? 

This issue has been misinterpreted in many ways. The #NotAllMen hashtag in response to the Bangalore's incident is a disgrace. Am I supposed to give you an award for not molesting someone? These hashtags are virtual good-for-nothings. What happens to us is real. The trauma and the hurt is real. If a woman cries when she sees something like this happen, like when you remember Nirbhaya's incident (remember this?), it is because we know this. We can feel it in our bodies- it's a lot of disgust.  And I don't even want to start on marital rape which is still not considered a crime in India!

For starters, we want you to acknowledge this situation we are in. Let's agree that there is still a chauvinistic, patriarchal setting in the country that blames the victim and not the perpetrator under the guise of cultural values and belief systems. Read about it more. Ask people. I want you to understand this inside out to the point where you feel like you can't bear to hear of the details anymore. Then, I want you to use your privilege for good. Next time your parents say that the girl in the shorts was asking for it, tell them they are wrong. The next time one of your peers tells you that a woman is over-reacting, call them out. There is nothing manly about standing there and not saying anything about it. The next time a woman tells you how tiring it is- listen. If you see someone being attacked on the streets- help them. Let's all call out on misogyny and making all this sound normal. It's not! Movies are constantly showing the lead actor as a stalker who pursues a woman until she says yes. (If you know and understand Tamizh- see this. It's nicely-explained to some extent) I would assume that the man who hacked a woman (who refused to fall in love with him) to death at the Nungambakkam Railway Station is one such follower. Let's use social media to boycott such movies and raise opinions. What else can you do beyond sharing FB posts and outrage on Twitter? I would love to hear from you. 

My dear men reading this, I am not saying you're all like this. No. But I am saying that most of you do not really know how much trauma lies under this because you're privileged. You're privileged if you can go out at 2 AM for a run without being worried about being sexually harassed. Now, you may be afraid of being robbed- have you been afraid of being touched without consent? Especially in a country like India where this is happening, it's growing and it's scary. The response to these things are a list of victim-blaming and chauvinistic tones coming from people in power, politicians. Why don't we have a sex-offenders registry in India yet? If I can report every single man who touched me inappropriately, if there is a fear in the system, I would readily do it. (We are going to have a sex-offenders registry in India, hopefully soon) But a lot more of what we have are men and women in positions of power that say 'boys will be boys'. That, I hope never becomes something you teach your kids, even as something that could be interpreted in a matter-of-fact way. It's a shame! 

I have to stop this for this is something that I can keep going on about. All I am saying is you are privileged in more ways than you know, as men. I want you to see to the maximum possible extents that you can, what it is that women have to face every day. Ask them. Make this a breakfast table topic. Learn, educate yourselves. Tell others who might not be on social media, not in your echo chamber. If you don't tell your parents who victim-blame a woman that they were wrong to be wearing what they were, or drinking, or out at 10 PM, you are still helping the oppressor. 
You are still a part of the problem. 

Be the change you wish to see. 

Much love to you for reading all this! 

Hemu 

Also watch other videos that shed light on the things we have discussed here and the like :

That Day After Everyday

It's Your Fault 

Image Source: A still from the short film 'That Day After Everyday' by Anurag Kashyap. The image doesn't belong to me.

Image Source: A still from the short film 'That Day After Everyday' by Anurag Kashyap. The image doesn't belong to me. 

Being Bullied Passively in School : Ten Years Later

I was loved, growing up. Family, friends, an army of brothers: I know I was loved, in a very conventional sense of relationships and situations. But what I remember more than that love is that I was also slighted at almost every turn. As a result of that, I never felt loved. There is this difference between knowing you are being loved and feeling loved, and that is lost in many a friendship and relationships.

The thought of school yards drag with it happy memories in the mud. I have friendships from Kindergarten that I still cherish and hold dear, and they are also the very same people who have hurt me without their own knowledge. Back then, I thought it was enough to be just loved, that the banter that accompanied it comes with friendship and intimate relationships. But at 14 years of age, I experienced a gaping hole like none other in the presence of the very people I grew up with, for a good decade. Almost all of them don't know about it, even now. It took me my higher secondary education, five years of college, and becoming 22 before I realised that love was not enough, that the assumed 'friendly banter' is not acceptable and the fact that I have, indeed been passively bullied for a good part of my formative years. I vocalised this to two of my friends (from school) about two years ago: one of whom was subject to something similar in our school-life and another (who has been through their fair share of experiences) who looked a little stunned to know how much of what they thought was not a big deal has affected us in our respective lives.

I was always the person targeted as the 'entertainment' in many groups of people from my school life. I was a fairly popular kid for an interesting mix of reasons: being one of the best sports-persons in school, my loquaciousness and my uninhibited strength to ask silly questions about the things I don't understand. While each of these sound to be independently good aspects of my personality (which I believe they are), it was also what was made fun of at every point. I was (and still am) a tomboy. I talk a lot and in those formative years at school when you are still trying to make sense of life and finding out who you are, trying to accept and wishfully want to be accepted, being passively bullied fell together with me. I understand how my talkativeness could be annoying to someone but it was not like I always blabber incomprehensible gibberish. Every time I had something to say, I was shut off before I was heard, I was laughed at before I finished the sentence and sometimes, left alone to finish saying what I wanted to say because I have even had people walk away from conversations with me. I have been asked to shut up. I have been asked to stop 'lecturing' someone when I would merely be trying to tell someone about my thoughts on a particular matter. My voice was loud, but it was not heard and I want to tell you how much that hurts, even now. These experiences from school form a great part of our lives, it chisels us to be who we are. I think I am finally at that place where I can publicly say this, without anger or sounding accusatory.

When you are not heard, when you are not seen for anything but as being the person who is prodded to ask questions in a classroom by the other students so that the class could potentially waste time in a boring course, when your talents are not quite acknowledged, or when you're visible only for the times of entertainment for someone else: you learn to build walls. You learn to build walls to keep everyone at a distance, dole out unconditional love for a select few and stay safe with yourself.My own friends have been passive bullies, and they have left me with huge insecurities about myself. I find myself apologizing frequently when I talk to people because I have been made to feel like I am not worth someone's time in the past. I speak quickly so I can speak without being cut off. I learnt to focus on art, writing, reading books, being involved in sports and by default, being in the company of dogs. These skills I built were overlooked for a good deal of time. Even now, when someone compliments my writing or art, it doesn't go into me beyond my skin. These things don't seem to travel far but they definitely do cut deep.

While I am not an anxious or an anti-social person on the surface, I am left over-thinking a lot of things and conversations. I make acquaintances with people easily. I am easy to talk to. I believe this in itself turned up to be a part of myself because I know how it feels like when you're assumed invisible or looked through. My empathy can definitely improve, but I learnt a lot more quickly (in comparison to my peers) to be kind, to give someone the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, my intention is not to pull the rug from under my friendships but to bring to the forefront, how these interactions have impacted me. I don't hold any resentment for any of my friends who have hurt me: they did not even realise that what they were doing is actually passively bullying someone. Their intent was good perhaps, but their actions directed by peer pressure and the weight of growing up to fit certain slots put me through rough times. For that reason, I decided not to ever treat someone unkindly. I would talk to everyone in my class, there were no outcasts nor uncool kids in my sight. I played with everyone, interacted with everyone and tried reaching out to people in ways I could. But to this day, it's hard for me to accept an outreached arm at me. I don't accept love easily. I don't call someone my close friend easily. I don't share what is on my mind with someone unless I know to trust them fully. I am always on the edge on the inside of my soul. I am almost always expecting someone to bid me goodbye or ask me to shut up. That, perhaps is the baggage I carry with me from school- like a backpack. I have not been able to set it down since.

I have been discussing this several times with a good friend from my school who went through something similar. Classmates and my friends used to assume what this person is made up of. They have told me of similar and other issues that presses them until this day. They are in a great position in life, they worked a good job and are now abroad, in a prestigious university. But the insecurity and scars from childhood into adulthood has not faded away. They are still too haunting. I wonder how different this situation would have been had we had counselors in school and more awareness about such concepts. It still exists in a majority of schools, where I am from. Teachers were not sensitized to pick any of these up. I have my first two favourite professors now: when I am now pursuing my Masters degree and that is because they are sensitive and pick up things quickly, they ask me and we have conversations. We need some changes in our own systems of education.

One thing that kind of seems visible in confrontations I have had recently on this front is the fact that me being hurt about something almost seemed incomprehensible to the other because they were 'only joking'. 'We love you, we were only joking', they'd say. You don't get to decide if someone else is hurt or not, that is simply not an option or a decision of yours to make! Please remember to be kind, please remember to check-in with someone you think you may have offended in any conversation. We all grow up. I am not the person I was ten years ago. My interactions have to, thus, change with time. Sadly, when I do position myself strongly now, it hurts the very people I am trying to tell that have been hurting me all this time. But, I guess that's inevitable right now.

Being subject to such instances and mildly self-troubling formative years has left me a person most people don't recognise. When I am truly trust you, I speak to you in a different way of which only a few know. I urge you you to be generous with your kindness. You never know when you make someone's day. For, when I have been subject to all this and in seventh grade, I got out of an English exam to have one of my own friends who has been their share of insensitive tell me that the composition passage reminded them of me. It said and I still remember 'Creative people are not afraid to ask silly doubts'. It was a reinforcement of sorts. I never stopped asking questions or being talkative despite what I went through. It hurt, but I tried and pushed through because I didn't want someone else to define who I am, as a person. Please remember that any relationship needs both love and respect. It can't survive on just one of these.

All this only made me stronger. I learnt to take care of myself. I learnt to be independent. I developed skills that were in part coping mechanisms and a good part, passion. The last few times I confronted someone close to me about this, they were hurt/offended. I had to spell out that it's not okay to hurt someone even though you love them dearly. You don't love someone and hurt them for being who they are or what you think they are. It has been as hard for me as much as it is for them, and I hope they understand that. My intention isn't to hurt anyone but speak up because this is an important message to put out for one to see. I had a draft of this almost two years ago and I'm only getting around to publishing this now, because this time around, I have to let go. I have to write this down and let this go.

This time, I am still loud and will make sure I am heard.

Please be kind to one another.

Hemu

Source: Pixabay 

I Stand a Cyclical Step Away from Being Everything Else

I am tucked away in a niche on the highest floor of the campus library where no one can find me. No one can directly see me or at the least, I can’t see anyone but for the tree tops slowing changing colours in the fall of the summer, now gone by. I am amidst everything that is me: changing colours, a dot of an existence in the infinite and everything transient. I am also everything that isn’t me: gable roofs, sweaters and a partial slice of these surroundings. I am removed right now. I am listening to Chopin’s nocturnes as the sun shines outside the curtain wall spread of glass and wondering how being stuck in such a turbulent and delightful place can be expressed in words. I am going to try anyway.

I am bi-lingual. I am actually tri-lingual, so to speak. I am quadruple-lingual if I consider pieces of other languages I know enough to have a conversation with a Tea Master for a cup of chai across almost any state in my country and yet, I need my American friend to say ‘vanilla’ for me because my accent is somehow incongruous to the barista who can’t understand when I say ‘vanilla’. Vann-nila Milkshake, I say.  How do you read an Indian woman saying ‘vanilla’? The word itself seems weird to me now that I have repeated it over and over again. But do you know what is comforting? Vennila. வெண்ணிலா, is the bright, white moon. The bright moon under which I sing and write, that which is everything comforting to me, that which is midnight stories from my mother, books I read under dim lights on the terrace and a constant companion. We hear what we want to. We listen to our own projections and inner-most calling, cravings and demons.  Every time I hear words, I don’t see just one meaning. I see its mermaid sisters in other languages, swimming by hand-in-hand. I seem to have gills for pores and wings for fins. I am familiar. I am unfamiliar. I hold them all in my fist and I can easily switch between at the least three languages within the fraction of a second and yet, I am not understood when I say ‘vanilla’.  What then, is my proficiency with these languages?  I’d go one step further, what is proficiency itself? What does it mean?

I urge you to listen to Chopin’s nocturnes in broad daylight. Throw yourself in my shoes, out of context, out of everything comfortably known. There is nothing as vibrant and melancholic as these compositions. What do you hear when you listen to a solo piano piece? What language pops up in your head? You’re surely thinking, aren’t you? What language do you think in?  What language do you think in when you close your eyes and see your mother’s face? When are those times your parents call you by your full name? What are the words that accompany the oddness of being referred to by our entire name by the ones we love, and if it is a language that you know, go deeper. Do you know the language or the inward surge that comes with it? If you had to tell the story of that inwardly gut, a wrenching pain or an excruciatingly beautiful joy, what are your words going to be?  We are a race that vastly identifies itself with linguistics, one’s mother tongue and inflections of a language’s voice and yet, for most things that strike us, we speak in silence, in pauses and in breathing; in being understood and experienced.

I talk to you from this place. The whole globe is cyclical and I am at the edge of one of the poles. Should I slip, I fall straight south. With a single step upward, I go down.  I am walking a tightrope on the horizon. With each step, I am seeking a balance. I am slack-lining; dipping up and down, trying not to fall. I am looking for a word in English that comes closest to கண்ணம்மா. I am amazed at how the word ख्वाब sounds in my mouth and its lyricism in poetry. One of my closest friends in this country said I was an effervescent personality whereas an angry ex-roommate called me a 'bad person' and that is interesting, someone else's words/descriptions of me: I like that added to the many pieces of who I am. I like these little bits of donated words to make me anew and changing but I am also everything I grew up with and devoured ,by myself. I grew up with கண்ணம்மா, with கண்ணா resounding in my ears. I can’t quite read anything as quickly in my own language as I can in English. I am auditorily attuned to the nuances of my language; it’s a meadow with rivers and the sounds, words come with memory, with nostalgia, with my mother’s face, my grandmother's smile and hot playgrounds. There is comforting familiarity in knowing what I am hearing and what it means to the one saying it, in my mother tongue. And yet, I can read English better than any other language I know. I know what I am looking for. Both of these languages now, hold me at an arm’s distance in one way or another. I am in-between languages, I am in the middle of explaining myself to people on either sides. I am no one story. I am too many of them and based on which side you ask me to tell you the story from, my narrative is going to change.

I want to layer my stories with the words you don’t know when I tell them. I want to know what you think they are and what I think they are and what they really do mean. I can’t translate for you what I viscerally understand. I read an interesting article with the term Shaman in Spanish (by a bi-lingual writer) and I am automatically thinking of the same word in Urdu. Oddly enough, these words mean close to the same thing in both these languages- one connecting the spirit and visible worlds. What do you think connects me and you? What connects a Spaniard and an Indian speaking a language that is a mix of Hindi and Farsi? How did these words travel? Like me, I’d like to think that language is cyclical too. It is stuck between familiarity and unfamiliarity. A language is one step away from falling into another and becoming one or something new. I am all these missteps; I am something new, something old and a confluence.

My friend, in a conversation yesterday, told me that all art is political. This turned up at a time when I independently wonder of the personal and the political in my art, writing and stance. Everything I write, say, make, or sketch is a manifestation on some level, a piece of my socio-cultural-linguistic environs. You are partaking in a bygone memory or incident that shaped me, now, across time. It is in the way I say ‘vanilla’, it’s the way I draw the moon, it’s the way I write a poem about my mother’s and my மூக்குத்தி and how I have embraced what it means to me now… to see her in myself as I move away from her, into being someone else. What do you think மூக்குத்தி is, anyway? I implore you to trace the form of these words that you may not understand. Try to write these words you see and write what you think they mean. They have a story that is me and you have one, too. Do you think these stories can fall together, find some link, a tear to share or a smile? Stories are what make and break us. Micro-narratives stitching up a whole picture full of holes: tears sewn up with the sun shining through them.  

I seem to belong and flit between everything I know and don’t know. I fall freely everywhere. I belong nowhere. I talk to you from my land of in-between's where everything is a simultaneous existence, one cyclical step away from being something else. I am everything you know and everything you don’t.

வாஞ்சை கதைகள் தரவா?

Hemu 

Art  ©  Hemalatha Venkataraman: Please do not reproduce without permission

References:

Borderland: Gloria Anzldua (A book that I actually started reading when I told someone I consider my mentor that I feel like I am in-between worlds)

Sommers- I Stand Writing

Living in the Land of In-Betweens

Today marks a year of being away from my family in India, having embarked on a fiercely turbulent and beautiful period in my life: full of learning, leaving and living. It's been a year since I moved to this country to pursue my higher education. I can safely say I've grown and learnt more outside school than within classrooms as a student or teaching one as an instructor.

Leaving the streets I grew up in full of mongrels that know me, extended family living a stone's throw away, best friends on the next street, wrestling with brothers, standing about predominantly male occupied spaces like that roadside tea shop where the Tea Master knows exactly how you take your tea but never feeling threatened by any of them, and never feeling lost: this has been a crazy ride albeit momentous. Cultural shocks were always in the little things for me: neighbours whose living room I've never seen, the people who walked away after 'How you doing?' as I was knee deep in replies and, the absence of street dogs and terraces. Not knowing anything was one of the best things that happened to me and I thoroughly enjoy cracking jokes inside my own head, the intricacies of my language playing in my head, and meeting new people.

Is it all sunshine? No. Living with my parents all this time was a choice I didn't question or think twice about. It was a natural state of affairs. Living like that, I never questioned what home meant. If someone from my own city asked me where my home was, I would give them the name of my neighbourhood. If I was in a different state in my country, I would say 'Tamilnadu'. There are so many layers and social constructs to this sense of home that I never introspected upon. All these variations of answers thus far to 'where is your home' were never unsettling and never did not feel right. They were all culturally and socially understood. Now, in the midst of these versions, I have zoomed out into thinking about those terms across mere geographical entities and into a question of who I am and into a deeper sense of what the term could come to mean.

There are things I miss about India in this country and that is easily a cultural condition. The sense of a community here is constrained in my world simply because I have only been exposed to one version of what community means. I wonder now, if I miss knowing people on the road I happen to walk on. One of my best friends was forever skeptical to go on walks with me because I usually am familiar with the people on the streets (and their dogs) and I kept stopping to say hi to all of them, and that irritated her to no end. There should have been some sort of familiarity here by this point, I reckon but I am not sure if I have located any. On the other hand, I enjoy slinking away into the background and not being known or recognised. I live in-between ends like these two, swinging between sides and not feeling comfortable staying on either end. There are aspects of living in India that I adore, enmeshed parts of my life here that I am grateful for and enjoy; but neither of them fit anymore. Rather, I don't fit into either of these societies completely. I can't stay in one because I have been in the other, they're different moulds. This has led to living in a land of living in-between worlds. I could call it that or a feeling of not belonging in either of these places. All that said and done, this is not necessarily a bad condition either.

None of this is associated with sadness in its entirety. These are phases of growing and coming to terms with certain aspects of life that was buried underneath layers of a false sense of security at various points. Right now, to truly be in turbulence is interesting as it helps me let go of weights that make me feel put otherwise. I can now cast some over my shoulders and move a step on (just threw out some toxic atmosphere I had to live with for the last year, there is that progress). I have a wonderful local poetry community to be a part of since the start of my Spring and numerous acquaintances from there to be thankful for. My vulnerability has always been a calculated venture, a fort from my own past but aspects of it see tiny differences. My summer months have turned around to have me encounter some really interesting experiences. I learnt to be vulnerable on a slack-line with a great person, garnered some wonderful friendships (well, three to be precise) that has its own period of waxing and waning, forever plummeting and flying. These relatively newfound but truly close and important relationships have their own roadblocks that I am trying to break through in ways I best know how to. I wonder how they are going to turn out, but here is to hoping only for the best.

The land of in-between is every man's subjective land, I assume. We all battle with our own sources of discomfort, freedom and independence. I recently had a conversation with one of my childhood friends who is also abroad and she admitted to feeling the same way, though her version varied a little from how I feel at this juncture. We are all lost here. We are all trying to grapple away at the fray ends of the first thing that feels like home, like familiarity and relationships that remind us of our loved ones back home before it manifests into itself. These new experiences shape me as I encounter them and I'm learning of the many ways in which someone loves and prioritizes another.

It's been a year since I arrived at Columbus. I'm not precisely sure of what I learnt in the last year but that every moment has been a form of growth even if it comes with sadness or pain, every relationship a lesson, and also that I am three truly honest and genuine friends richer with whom I can talk about anything.

Also, home is no longer a place.

Home after all this, is a feeling. Whether I shall find it and acknowledge it the way I envisage it, however, is not something I know of. I can't control that.

Until then, from the land of in-betweens,

Hemu