Painting A Suncatcher Together

[Suncatcher painted by girls together after a fight. Photo courtesy by Anasua Mitter Basu]

Things have changed, at least for me. I know more women now who I can trust to stand by me than I did before.

But in the corridors of pain, there are corridos of betrayal, of absence, of us, the sisters.


I remember a series of phrases from those times from women who, otherwise, were lovely educated women:

“There is a reason why women shouldn’t be independent”

“Your problem is you are way too ambitious.”

“Ghar ki baat ghar ke andar rehni chahiye.”

“Even I was beaten. But I stayed for my children. One should learn to sacrifice.”

And I wondered why—I was not listened to, supported, validated.

Today I know some. You see, when we make certain choices in life like-- give up career dreams for the sake of household, accept domestic violence for sake of family, hold the man in higher respect than needed—we build an identity around those choices.

Those identities become us. Women are often constructed as powerless. But, more often, than not, we relentlessly seek ways to survive—not just economically, but also psychically. We try to find meaning and location for our existence in this universe. We script a story for ourselves and the story becomes us.

And when those stories, those identities are threatened, we find our life paths questioned at a fundamental level. At the eerie moment, there is a creeping shadow of doubt if life lived so long is finally meaningless, if we are not the whole human that we assumed we were.

Some confront it, step into the sea and allow for unsafety and uncertainty to overwhelm. Others rush back to familiar anchors—their identity, their fortress and launch a war against change. How to accept that I did not have the courage to take the path you took: stand against dowry, walk out of a marriage where there is domestic violence, report rape by close family member.

Or how to come to terms with the fact that the man I admired, whose footsteps I followed to become who I am today, and who I supported through thick and thin, and who I knew to be committing certain indiscretions that I kept letting go because of my admiration for him, is not a man I should have admired so much. That this moment when I turn back and look at my life path, there were so many moments I should have spoken up and I didn’t. And now those silences have become my story, my identity.

Or how to come to terms with the fact that I accepted beatings, public beatings at times, and still went back to the same home with him. That no matter how many times I was beaten up or insulted, I didn’t have the courage to leave his home (what did you say: my home too?). That the only way I survived those episodes is to create a story of the virtuous woman who stays loyal to her husband no matter what. That I want to continue to be known as the virtuous woman.

Or how to come to terms that while many other women gave birth to daughters, I birthed a son and felt very proud doing so. That I felt triumphant, celebrated, special, very very special. How can I now not ask my daughter-in-law to give birth to a son and look down upon her when she births a daughter?

Or how to come to terms that I believed one gives dowry in marriages. And that I wanted to have a grand marriage—wear pretty pretty saris, and a lot of gold ornaments, and lot of silver. And that my dad gave generously. And that I didn’t spend as much time wondering where he got the money from. And when my daughter got married, I gave dowry. Now when my son marries, I should receive dowry. I believed in it na, and now you say dowry is wrong!

How to come to terms with the possibility that the life led may have been a lie, that I perhaps could not muster courage to challenge, the strength to step out? How to forgive myself for not being brave enough, for not being resourceful enough, for allowing my desire to overwhelm my need to be fair to you?

And in that same way, I who has not accepted beatings, who has refused to subscribe to socially given roles also script a story for myself. That of an empowered woman and look down upon you who stays in violent marriages, is happy with domestic responsibilities, who loves performing socially-given roles.

I also demand you be me or you hold me in high respect and admiration—for my story needs you to do that.

Aah sister, when did you and I stop being sisters? When did our stories become more important than love for each other? What can we do to lessen this threat to my and your identity?

Shall we recognize that this is but my story and let your story also lie? Shall we stand together as birds of many feathers, as a bouquet of many flowers and simply honor where our spirit finally rests?

And that in this spirit of knowing that we are not under threat, look at the larger issues of our gender—listen deeply, reflect carefully, and in solidarity enact change within and without us?

That in the spirit of knowing, you my sister, are around the corner, take that step to be uncomfortable, uncertain, yes, unstable? Take steps to loosen our holds on our stories?

Shall we now paint a suncatcher together?