Me-cut

As I came out of the salon, I was shocked. My stunning, silky shoulder brown length hair were all chopped off. And I was left with a ‘boy cut’ and some curly strands, which lingered over my forehead.

I had told the barber was just told to trim them, but he did this. And now when I look back, I realize how thankful I am to him.

From the next day, a new journey began. Many people, my close friends, some of my teachers and my parents loved the haircut. They said it made me look really smart.

But others had negative comments.

“Oh you look like a boy!”

“You looked so much better in your long hair!”

“They’ll grow back soon, right?”

“Poor girl, don’t worry, you’ll look pretty once they grow back!”

All these comments hit me harder than the positive ones. My confidence really went down initially. I couldn’t peacefully go for evening walks, or even to school. All those comments seemed cruel, and affected my confidence in myself.

But with time, it all changed.

I realized how important it is to believe in yourself.

It has been two years since I got this haircut, but I learn something new from it every single day. I never thought that something as simple as a haircut would teach me so much. The comments, the mocking used to really trouble me earlier, but with time my resilience has fought back. For me, it has never been a haircut. It’s a symbol to represent myself. And it’s a symbol for everything I stand for. Keeping this haircut for such a long time has taught me to fight. It gives me willpower to stand up for myself. Now, when I get those glares, those comments, I just smile. For I don’t care anymore. Infact, all those comments and mocks make me stronger. They give me the boost to stay the person I am, and keep believing in myself. The society wants me to be how they please, but I have learnt over time that its about you. Its about being the you who pleases you, and standing up and fighting for that You.

I am not a rebel, I am just another girl who wants to be herself.

I am not a girl with a ‘boy-cut’, for haircuts don’t have genders. I am just a girl with a ‘me-cut’.  I realize now that those tiny strands that linger over my forehead aren’t strands of hair. They are strands of every little ideal I stand for. They are strands of me. And nobody can grow or cut them. Except me.

Mystory

The clinking sound of footsteps on the iron staircase echoed in my ears, but the sound of my excitement persisted. Those eager murmurs on the first day of third grade made it even louder. A new class, new teacher, new friends, and most importantly, new subjects! Third grade was the first year we got to study History & Civics and Geography.

Before third grade, history had been all about watching TV shows about Jhansi ki Rani or Chandragupta Maurya, with the extravagant sets, sharp swords, powerful dialogues and glorious fights. And the whole idea of studying more about these legends made me very enthusiastic. I knew I wouldn’t just read about them, but my imagination would take me to them, sometimes clad in the same saree as Lakshmibai, other times as Queen Victoria perhaps.

Miss Kelkar walked into the class. Her jet black, long hair was tied elegantly into a lot plait. Her simple blue and purple salwar-kameez complemented her deep brown eyes and little black bindi perfectly. She came in, introduced herself, and told us to remove our history textbooks. I opened my textbook to the first chapter, and it was called ‘What is history?’. We learned basic terms like historian, archaeologist, inscriptions, emperors, etc. And then began a journey back in time, a journey to the past, which I live in the present.

I travelled to so many lands in that one year. Colonial India, Ashoka’s peaceful empire, Shah Jahan’s , stunning Taj Mahal site, all were covered in one year itself. 

Further, I came a veteran traveller to the lands of the past. I bathed in the Great Bath, sat in Tutankhamun’s court, traded along the Silk Route, and even saw the Code of Hammurabi right before my eyes. I attended a session in the diwan-e-aam, walked in the Dandi March with Gandhi, heard Nehru’s Tryst with destiny and even saw the bloody partition of my nation.

I have come a long way from words like historian, archaeologist, inscriptions and emperors. Words such as power, perspective, revolution and society have become a more significant part of history for me.

History evolves. Just like we all do. History also has a future. A future of the past, a future of the rich customs, traditions and culture of the past. We need to revive that past. We need to learn from it. We need to put it into current perspective to understand contemporary issues. The true essence of history isn’t the extravagant palaces or fancy costumes of the past. It is the rather lessons. Lessons from past mistakes, from the rich societies of the past, from how we have become who we are today. History teaches us why some are rich, some poor, some unequally treated and some specially treated. Once we understand the ‘why’, we need to look for the ‘how’ and identify solutions to solve such loopholes in the society. Not just the Indian society, but each and every society in the world faces some or the other social, political or economic issue. I want to study history as a solution, as a source which explains the root cause of the issue.

I want to read the story of the dead and derive morals for the living.

Poison

Stranded in the vast,

Ocean of thoughts,

I am.

The boat of acceptance glares at me.

Attracts me to its comfortable,

Well-supported self.

The relaxation of not trying,

Just accepting,

Attracts me.

But fear overtakes desire,

And turns into a state of fascination,

As I see the thin white paper boat on my left.

Not strong enough to bear the ocean currents alone,

It strives to float somehow.

For its willpower is strong enough to stay there.

I swim to it,

Mesmerized by its simplicity yet strong demeanour.

As I lift it,

I see two golden words written there,

‘Be yourself’,

It says.

And it talks to me.

“Run away from the boat of acceptance,

For it will gulp your uniqueness.

Run behind who you strive to be,

Not who others want you to be.

Be the golden sunlight,

Or the dancing daffodils,

Be the fresh blue sky,

Or the grey clouds.

Be who you want to be.

Embrace your soul,

And don’t let the poison of acceptance contaminate your pure self.”

And since that day on,

I am me,

Uncontaminated by the comfortable acceptance.

His Shadow?

Today, 2nd October, 2019, we celebrate the 150th birth anniversary of Gandhiji. But we often forget one very important person. I would like to dedicate this day and this poem to her:

His white dhoti shines,

His serene eyes talk.

Is he a vision or is he true?

I see him cleaning his spectacles,

And caressing his charkha.

Gandhi is just a name,

He is a symbol,

A symbol of hope,

Of peace,

Of truth.

But who is she?

That pillar of support merely?

Her white saree,

Her strong demeanour,

Her fierce eyes,

All talk to me.

The woman who walked with him,

Who knew all his flaws,

His known,

His hidden,

His soul,

His heart

Evaporates.

Forms his shadow.

She chose so.

She was his strength,

But above all,

She was her strength.

She was his support,

But we all forget,

The support she gave herself.

She doesn’t hide behind him,

She is him.

And she chose so.

She chose to be empowered.

And self-enlightened.