I grew up in surroundings that were built and functioned on heteronormativity. Life felt like living in the shadows of walls constructed to limit my mind and body, catering to the interests of retaining patriarchy. Growing up in Mumbai as a dark-skinned South Indian woman, whose body did not conform to Westernised beauty standards that decided social ‘appeal’ and ‘acceptance’, my life until my mid-20s revolved around finding my femininity, comfort, and acceptance in relationships that only took from my body and soul. I saw the women in my life pick up after every male presence around us. Be it in casual conversations, daily chores and errands, and, most importantly, relationships (not restricted to romantic ones). When I got into my first serious relationship, I remember accepting the fact that my body was to be touched for me to be let known that I was loved. Surviving an intense battle with the ghosts of sexual abuse, living in surroundings that surveilled my chest, breasts, and the value of what lies between my legs, and craving touch to find comfort in healing old wounds, I felt like I was losing autonomy over my own self. I remember times when I would look in the mirror and hyper-focus on the crevices and folds of my body, rather than the ability of my heart to love. Or the colour of my skin, which wasn’t desirable, turned to look like liquid gold under the gaze of the sun. ‘Becoming’ was an alien concept to me, or rather, one that never made sense.
Migration to a different country meant escaping bystanders who never challenged the bruises left on my body or mind and hindered my becoming. Having spent five years in Scotland now, I still question what returning looks like. I remember writing this piece in 2020 during the COVID-19 lockdown while preparing for a new life. As I plan on migrating back to India, I feel the familiar feelings of reflection, grief, and anticipation building in the pits of my belly. Life feels like circling back to the crossroads of a starting point leading to one of many journeys I am yet to embark upon. However, my experience and relationship with self are very different, or more so, have evolved.
Just like this piece has over the years.
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Vaikuntah Mohini
I looked back at someone from my previous life. A memory with which I was deeply in love, and more so, deeply infatuated with. A part of me was reminded of how touch felt at 21, through rose-tinted glasses. The clouds those days looked like luscious strands of silk cotton, with hues of bright orange and violet at places. Years later, sitting in my terrace hideout of the apartment complex where my paternal grandparents lived, I felt their hands caressing my tear-streaked face and a lost memory of them engulfing my arms and breasts in an embrace, ever so slightly?
Strange.
On the other hand, I am reminded of my Muttashi (great-grandmother). Summer nights with her, tucked away in the safety of her bosom, being patted to sleep. I have only a handful of memories with her and, in my fondest, she’d recite fables and stories of the Dark Lord (Krishna). As I write this, I can smell the fresh scents of incense, chandanam (sandalwood paste), and mallipoo (jasmine). Most of all, she smelled like her stories - rich, green, with shades of violet and whimsy - that cradled me into deep slumber.
“You’re a work of art,” they said.
“You’ve
been
sculpted
by
artisans
beyond
our….
R
E
A
C
H..
You are a work of art..
You.. are a .. work … of art..
You..”
Their lips pressed against my ear and the rest of her against my heavy nakedness.
They captured me in moods of noir and palettes of grey
My stride and my every move
They captured my ears,
every falling strand of my hair,
every single stretch mark,
and every single blemish,
not leaving a single physical mould my body took
“Beautiful,” they said.
I wondered. I wondered hard, looking at myself half-wrapped in a heavy duvet, standing in front of the mirror, as I felt their fingers wrap around my neck. What did they see that I didn’t? How could they? What was it?
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My head spun. I saw their sharp gaze meet mine in the reflection before me. These were questions that began to haunt my existence to the driving point of hyper-awareness. I felt my curves turn into strokes of oil paint at times. Or thin lines of charcoal on handmade paper. They, though, had me exactly where he wanted me. They loved subjecting me to these setups and loved staying behind the camera lens, captivating the scene that unfolded before their eyes. Almost seizing it. Seizing me from the faint idea of my own identity. My own skin.
I hated it.
I absolutely detested every moment of it. Every ounce of recognition, or even the beautiful monochromatic hues of pictorial and cinematic mastery. I disliked looking into the mirror, and since then, clicks and brushstrokes have made me uneasy. I had come to the realisation that I was the pin-up doll for one’s creative escapade. Yet I was blissfully captivated in the arms of my lover, just like being nestled to sleep. I still feel the weight of conflicting emotions when I think about them. The familiarity of belonging, yearning, and the ache of being wanted.
We shared the same language,
not our first,
not the second
but the very tongues we were born into
We shared our motherland
last names
And the starlit skies under which Muttashi’s fables were still alive
I often think of the stories my Muttashi narrated. About Kannan, the immaculate lover, finding their way into the hearts and warmth of Gopis under the canopy of moonlit nights; almost like blooming their mortal selves into a lush field of jasmine, almost like existing in a state of infinity. To be infinite, almost fluid-like, practising a sacred and whimsical non-monogamy. Where one cannot be tied down by a single gaze. I felt myself exist in this state of a beautiful lucid dream. So elusive to come back to reality from, leaving one in shivers once woken up.
There is no single identity for a mortal human, and I wish I could shapeshift like mythological creatures rather than drowning in the nakedness of my reflection. She saw me as a version of her own identity. As a lover. A fond memory to be trapped in the cage of a canvas. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t okay with being deemed limited to the confinements of her ‘art’.
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As I further sank in the whimsy
Of the jasmine-scented night
I held their face close to mine
I asked them to set the image
they had of my persona
free of their soul
free of their being
It was tough. Excruciating, even. Yet, in all the chaos of love, lust, and finding a version of my skin I was comfortable with, I felt bittersweet. As her intoxicating touch left, I was on a path of seeing myself, perceiving myself as I am, just as I am. My eyes watched the sun set on the horizon of the Marina stretch at a distance. As twilight fell, eyes never stopped looking for beauty in moonlit nights. My ears still ring with melodies of those old fables.
And in my heart?
They still exist as every single version of those fairytales.
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